S.R.Claridge writes Mystery and Romantic Suspense novels. Her work has been said to have the energy of Dan Brown, the mystery of Mary Higgins Clark and the humor of Janet Evanovich. Claridge novels will take you to the edge of your seat, keep you guessing until the very end and ultimately warm your heart. It is on the pages of every S.R.Claridge novel that Mystery and Sensual Suspense collide.

For more information on bookings, interviews and upcoming releases, please visit the author website and Facebook fan page.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Ass-Grabbing Gestapo

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. ~

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