The Groping Incident

I’m not sure if he was drunk or just pretending to be wasted. He certainly could maneuver his bicycle all right. He almost ran it into me; my tiny frame teetering down the downtown sidewalk on ridiculous little heels (sexy as hell but heels that could kill someone via stabbing or me if I fell off them).  I could read the headlines tomorrow: “Girl in Sassy Shoes Smashed by Bicycle”.  It’s not how I would choose to go out, but I suppose there are worse ways to go.

“Wherrre yooou goingg?” he sputtered out after barely missing me. He leaps off the bike, parking it right there in the middle of the sidewalk.  He reaches out to touch me, perhaps to see if I’m actually there and not just a figment of intoxication.

“I’m going to eat dinner. Where are YOU going?” I retort back as though all five feet of me is scary to anyone. Ever. (A girl can dream).

I march off inside to my gorgeous friend’s gorgeous birthday dinner at one of the nicer and more gorgeous restaurants in town. As I wait at the bar, in weaves the drunk cyclist, still wearing his headlamp.

I watch as he walks in a line up the bar, maneuvering his hand over the thigh, hips, shoulder, of any woman with the misfortune to be seated in his path. He gropes all of them.

I call Carrie, the sassalicious bartendress, over. Point out the guy with the headlamp. He’s clearly good a blending in…

And out the door he goes. Back on the bicycle to the next block and the next line of women with thighs.

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