My husband and I go to Chicago at least twice a year because we love the city and I so that I can conduct research before I begin writing the next book in the Just Call Me Angel series, which is set in Chicago. We were standing on the Navy Pier,
watching our kids ride the swings for the umpteenth time. We were standing below them, waving each time
they flew around overhead. Adherent to
the name “Windy City,” the breeze coming off of the lake was chilly and my
husband wrapped his arms around me to keep me warm. I was wearing a red sun dress and as he
snuggled me close, he let his right hand rest just below the small of my back,
against my bottom. Now, let me point out
that he was not obnoxiously grabbing my ass nor fondling me in public. His hand was simply resting there as he held
me. Quite honestly, I didn’t even notice
it was on my butt. That’s how non-sexual
his touch was.
So, you can only imagine my surprise when this woman tugs on
arm and says to me, “He needs to take his hand off your backside. You’re in public.” She was clearly appalled.
I smiled politely and apologized. “I’m sorry.
I didn’t even realize it was there,” I said, and reached back and pulled
his hand further up so it was now resting on the small of my back.
She huffed and walked away and it got me thinking. (Beware:
Rant Ahead)
Who the hell did she think she was? The ass-grabbing Gestapo? I could understand if he was stroking or
rubbing or even patting my butt in public, but he wasn’t. There was nothing inappropriate or graphic or
sexual in our contact whatsoever. I was
cold, he held me close to keep me warm.
Period. No kissing. No thrusting.
I didn’t drop to my knees to indulge in indescribable acts of pleasure
right there on the Pier. For heaven’s
sake! What gave her the right to tell me
where my husband could put his hands? She obviously hadn’t been laid in a long
time! Seriously, people, if something
that non-offensive offends you, look away and keep walking; because, trust me,
the problem lies with you. I was polite
to her, though she certainly didn’t deserve it.
I should have taken his hands and placed them squarely on my breasts, or
pushed my bottom into his groin, bent over in front of him and screamed, “Oh,
yes! Yes! Harder!
Faster!” If she wanted something to complain about I’d have been more
than willing to oblige.
If I could go back and do it over, I’d smile at her, as I
reach over, grab my husband’s manliness and say, “If he can’t touch my ass,
then I’ll just stroke his assets for a while…is this better?”
Yes, next time I encounter an uptight, hasn’t-been-laid-in-years,
mean old sphinx, I’m going to flash my tits or do something really offensive. Why?
Because I can’t stand people who go out of their way to stick their judgmental,
little, condemning noses into other people’s business. You want to judge me, I’ll gladly give you
something to judge and it will start with me bending over and you kissing my
big, white ass.
I mean, after all, if I flash my tits they're no longer concerned about my ass, right? Tit flashing sounds like the perfect solution to stop the ass-grabbing gestapo. ~
I mean, after all, if I flash my tits they're no longer concerned about my ass, right? Tit flashing sounds like the perfect solution to stop the ass-grabbing gestapo. ~
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