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You might remember me from yesterday's ride uptown-- I was the petite brunette wearing a red dress and flip flops, you were the short, grizzled Hispanic man who leapt into the too-crowded car just as the doors were closing, pressing yourself full-length against my back.
Sir, I realize that the rush hour trains are crowded, and that everyone has moments on the subway where they feel like a sardine. But please, don't fool yourself into thinking that a girl won't notice the difference between the unpleasant-but-necessary contact that occurs between commuters on a daily basis... and the contact that occurs when a NASTY, SWEATY LITTLE MAN PRESSES HIS DISGUSTING HARD-ON AGAINST THE ASS OF A STRANGER. For Christ's sake!!!
I understand that some erections are a force of nature not to be denied or avoided. But you certainly had several options at your disposal, none of which involved rubbing your denim-covered trouser-trash against my behind. For instance, knowing that you tend to pop a boner when crushed up against other human beings, you might want to avoid shoving your way onto crowded subway cars. Commuters throughout-- not just the ones you bump with your lump-- will be grateful. And, if you really MUST catch that particular train, then have the decency not to nestle your genitals against the buttocks of an unknown. Turn to the side, turn toward the door, put your hands over it, I don't care.
But you know, sir, I think you knew your options. I don't think this WAS an accident; It was the humping that gave it away. Don't kid yourself-- two nudges was all it took. I know deliberate crotch-to-ass contact when I feel it, and you're certainly not taking the Subtlety Prize. I know it, and you know it, and I know that you know that I knew it, because when I whirled, crowded subway car and all, to both elbow you as hard as possible in the sternum and deliver my best "You've got to be fucking kidding me" glare, you turned an absolutely mind-boggling shade of crimson. You were SO BUSTED, sir.
I hope I broke something with my elbow punch, because I think I may have heard a cracking sound. Or maybe that was the sound of your junk, deflating? My only regret is that I didn't follow you when you exited at 42nd Street (I think you left 'cause you couldn't take anymore of my glare), pointing at you and shrieking, "That man touched me inappropriately! He touched meeeeeeee! AAAAAAAGH!" But trust me, if I ever see you again, that's what I'll do. In the meantime, I only hope that some gay man who has a thing for sweaty little sleazebags jumps onto the train behind you, and rubs his rock-hard johnson against your slimy ass all the way to wherever you live. And I hope you cry.
The girl in the red dress