Cars drove by as infrequently as they do at 2:30 in the morning. The walk around the block only takes about forty-five minutes, and I was already almost back home. Sweat was coming out of my pores by the bucket; as expected with the black sweatpants, black jacket, and the quick pace. I was just enjoying the quietude, attempting emptiness while trapped in the busy SoCal suburbia. My escapist-like stroll was ordinary one second and notable the very next.
A bar sits near the corner of the street I live on. A half hour past closing time, and I could hear voices from about fifty feet towards, right outside the place. The stragglers, I thought — smoking cigarettes and finishing the beers they had snuck out while they decided who would risk the DUI. As I approached the bar, the voices got louder. The company would soon become a blur; I always walk fast. Some ten feet away, the company was in my view, a trio of them — one guy and two girls; him standing and one of the girls sitting on the back of a car.
The noise was coming from the other girl, who was also standing. “I swear,” she screams, imagining some scenario that was happening elsewhere, “I will slit your fucking throat!” She cackles, her friends chuckle, and then I notice the wonderful white cleavage that’s squeezed tightly into a black dress. She’s thick and tallish but not morbidly obese.
I walk by, my eyes glancing at the large animated hooters. The blur of drunken bodies would come and go within a second. “How’s it going?” I nod to them. The guy says, “What’s up, man?” with a smile. “Hey!” the loud woman says. Then, like a football player taking off from the line, the woman lunges at me. With no time to react, she gets her arms around my shoulders, our legs tripping over each other, and we spin wildly, ending up a few feet closer to the street. I manage to catch my footing and stand mostly vertical as she continues to hold onto me. We are lucky that we did not both fall onto the sidewalk.
“Mind the glasses!” I say exasperatedly, clutching the spectacles that had come off. “What do you think of my tits?” she asks, grabbing the back of my head and forcing my face down into her cleavage. I quickly pull my face back up. She didn’t let go of my torso. I put my glasses on and look at her in the eyes. The smell of alcohol is overwhelming. “Oh my god,” she says. “You are so cute.” She again grabs my head and forces my face into her cleavage. “Why don’t you want to rub your face in my tits?” she asks.
I didn’t punch her. But nor was I exactly just letting her get away with this. Remaining in a state of disbelief, I think my face lay in her breasts for a whole three seconds. At last I got my wits about me and took control. I plant my feet firmly in the ground, knees straight, and grab her shoulders. Then I push her back until the hold had finally broke.
I stand there and watch her as she walks slowly and embarrassingly back to her friends. “Someone else might have called that sexual harassment,” I say to the group before walking off. She didn’t turn around or say anything else. Nobody did.
No: it wasn’t harassment. It was assault. And I was upset about it, despite what might be assumed otherwise because of my well-known love of large balloons. For one thing, I was almost tackled to the floor, with my glasses just barely surviving the ordeal. For another, what if this was an attempted robbery? I’m pushed into a large set of breasts while her friend comes over and puts a gun to my back, asking for cash. Simple shakedowns like that are the easiest to execute.
If she had only come over and asked me what I had thought of her tits, I might’ve been enticed to humor her. Many men would probably appreciate more advances from the opposite sex. Someone might argue that the same could be said if a man had gone up to a random woman and asked: “What do you think of my dick?” But that’s tucked away, while the flesh melons are in a glass display, ready for a quarter to be put in the machine and the little hand looking to grab a prize. Thus, there’s less harm in asking with regards to those other body parts.
I’ve told this story to several of my female friends, and all of them agree that it was assault, but added that such occurrences are fairly common for the average attractive female. I do not disbelieve them. This was the first time I had ever been handled with this kind of force by a woman (or a man, for that matter), making such an inappropriate advancement. I’ll live. Still, I wasn’t thrilled by the behavior of this befuddled, big-breasted woman — even as I lament not being solicited more often than I am.
The author of Indictments from the Convicted is trying to become rich, if only so that he may buy his yacht and secede from civilization. To help him achieve this, buy his damn book. OR, consider making a contribution to his Patreon. OR, check out his column on Medium. OR, check out some of his other essays — including studies on the American Police State, Genital Mutilation, Clintonism, and his seminal argument In Favor of Hatred.
