the terrible flirt and her rescuer

She said "Did you note
this sweet-ass cheek,
half-assedly bared
and smackable? Or,"
(she straightened
up, turned 'round)
"What about this tit
- hey! hey!" I backed
away, not scandalized
a bit, exactly, but
a little concerned.
"It's okay! I'm just
- sorry, a little too
forward, I guess. I don't
mean to disturb, or test
your boundaries, or
anything." Her face
pled a case of some
kind. "I'm a terrible
flirt," she concluded,
lamely. "I reassure you,"
I reassured. She brightened
and eased, and smiling,
began to hitch up her skirt
in front. "Hey! Hey!" I said,
"You don't have to do that."
Neither solemn nor preachy,
but with tidings of joy,
I reported: "The patriarchy
was defeated forever this
morning. Women" (such as you,
I thought) (case in point!)
"no longer have to obsessively
offer themselves objectively
in subjection to the approving
gaze of males (hetero, not
gays) grazing contentedly
through pastures of willing
women flaunting their sexuality
like so many pieces of meat
do." "Oh, thank God!" she relaxed,
exclaiming and smiling, and
giving me a look
that was hard to decipher,
took off.