9:19 p.m. - September 14, 2004
I'm such a pussy that even I get sexually harassed
This morning on the train I was groped by a woman. She sat down next to me, smiled, gave her name, and leaned against my shoulder. Asked if I was going to work - I nodded, wondering what was going on - and she said I was very good looking and leaned some more. I wondered if she was crazy, drunk, or a prankster. I had no idea what to do so I gripped my book harder and moved away when she put her hand on the outside of my thigh and squeezed. Squeezed! I moved my elbow and arm down to force her hand away when she dived in and squeezed my nuts. On a train, morning rush hour, her hand covered by my backback. She was hanging on me like a girlfriend or crack addict seeking her fix. These kinds of events are not something for which I've planned a response. I blushed, I crushed her hand between my legs and pressed down on the backback, and she squeezed and gave me the beginnings of an over-the-pants-handjob. Cause a scene, jump up, let her continue? I jabbed her side with my elbow and she removed her hand and a few minutes later exited the train.
I wish I were more grounded and could laugh this off, have known how to respond, be able to grin and say she wanted me and whoop it up with a buddy. Strut a little. But in truth I was scared because I was caught off guard, didn't have a plan for rush-hour gropers. And I hate that about me, hate with a passion these uncertainties and worries, the automatic thought that somehow I was the butt of a joke or worse. Yes, of course I realize (hope) she was high or drunk or a prostitute or something, anything, as long as there was a reason other than she wanted a laugh with comrades at my expense.
And if she wanted to pickpocket, she was looking in the wrong area.
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