The other night a dude grabbed me by the pussy.

No joke.

Fantz

I was standing, talking to a friend as I signed out from my bar tab when he reached under my dress, between my legs and swiped my privates as he walked out the door. (I had leggings on, but there’s no damn excuse.) He gave me a sinful smirk, coupled with a head gesture that translated to, “Come with me.” It all happened within seconds, I could barely react.

I wish I slapped his stupid glasses right off his face.

But I didn’t because I’m Christy. Instead, I reprimanded him like a puppy who was tearing apart a shoe. I put my finger up in the air and shouted, “No!” Really loudly. Fellow bar patrons high-fived me, but I snuck out the back door, disgusted, and hauled ass home.

I should have told the bartender, I should tell the bar’s owner, I should have that jerkoff 86ed forever. But instead, I’ll write about it and hope I never see him again.

He was a biker, leather-clad with whatever tough-guy gangbanger patch on the back, and I didn’t want to get into a squabble, lest crime-ring outlaws come cracking their knuckles at an almost middle-aged journalist.

But mainly, I didn’t want to get murdered or raped.

What is this, 17th century Puritanism? Nope, it just good ol’ 2019, the era of The Donald. (So, twinsies.)

What a dick, though. He was roughly my age, and I crossed paths with him by saying one word to him that night, “Hello.” We were both outside smoking. Since we’re living in a society, I usually exchange pleasantries, smiles and small talk with my fellow human beings. But apparently my “Hello” meant I wanted to go home with him and rub his chunky bike thighs into road rash.  (If only he knew how kind I was to elderly homies in the grocery store — homies, whom I have zero intention of bending over their canes and paddling their asses in the tortilla aisle screaming, “Who’s your mother?”)

Dude eye-banged me much of the short-lived night. I did not engage. In fact, I actively disengaged and sat where I couldn’t see him, avoiding eye contact.

He was a big burly dude who apparently thrives on revving up a hunk of metal between his nutsack. Why does that give him permission to be inappropriate? I don’t have many qualms with bikers, I know a handful — many upstanding citizens who spend their free time doing charity work — but this guy was staining the cauldron.

Next time I see him, I’d like to punch the glasses off of him so hard he has to go collect them from Nevada.

But I won’t. I’ll slink out the back door and run off to a different establishment. Because I’m Christy and I hate conflict. Maybe one day he’ll trip over a kitten and eat asphalt while his glasses slice up his eyeballs.

Nah, I hate wishing harm on people. Better yet, I hope he finds camaraderie among respectable men so he can absorb human-like qualities of treating others with civility.

I am not looking at you, Mr. Trump.

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