At first she didn’t like me, wouldn’t listen to a word I said. She didn’t want to come with us, wanted to stay right there at the shelter. The folks who run the soup kitchen thought otherwise. They had a hundred homeless people hungry for lunch and had work to do; no time to play footsies with an intoxicated thirty-seven year old.
I finally talked her out of the shelter and toward the rescue. She staggered and slurred but refused to let me touch or help her walk. I kept my distance. She made it outside where there were no walls to hold her up should she stumble. Once down the ramp it was nothing but us and the street, the rescue fifty feet away. I moved closer so she wouldn’t fall.
She made a fist with her left hand and swung at me. I easily stopped the punch by holding her arm. With her right hand she grabbed my ass and gave it a good squeeze.
I don’t know who laughed harder, me, her, or the crowd of homeless people watching the spectacle. We laughed all the way to the hospital. When we arrived, she sat on a stretcher and cried.
Some would argue that I had been sexually assaulted.
I will argue that in this crazy world we live in, a little ass grab is no big deal when you are a big man and the person doing the ass grabbing is a small, intoxicated woman.
But what if the tables were turned? What if I big, intoxicated man grabbing the ass of a small woman?
I felt no fear. The woman would not have been able to harm me on her best day.
But an intoxicated big man could very well have his way with a small woman. She might be able to fend him off, or get away, but the fear of the possibility of being overwhelmed is what is real.
I guess I’m sexist, can’t help it; the three women in my life are all under 100 pounds.
I wouldn’t be laughing if somebody snuck in a little ass grab.
Not even a chuckle, or grin.