An escape from violence

‘I’ll fuck you in the face and steal your bike.’

or

‘I’ll steal your bike and fuck you in the face.’

I don’t remember what he wanted to do first, but neither sounded appealing. I like my bike, battered and rusty; but quiet, devoid of the shiny lustre that it once paraded.

I am indifferent to my face, it’s mine. I’ve known no other and that seems like good enough reason to guard it from a sexual predator in the streets.

This guy, loaded with his cans of lager and disregard for appropriate drinking hours, wanted my bike, so he must have liked it. Maybe he needed to get somewhere in a hurry, the bike would have been an obvious solution. My face? I am not sure. What inspires someone to want to have sex with another’s face? Is it lust? Appreciation? Power? I don’t know how he could exert power over a man wearing a chunky woollen cardigan, but there is much I don’t understand about humanity. Maybe I reminded him of a former school teacher who had disciplined or shamed him. Maybe I reminded him of a librarian that charged him a hefty fine when his books were late. I don’t know who else stereotypically wears cardigans, but I am sure the possibilities of why he directed his wrath at me are endless.

I stopped my bike. Curiosity perhaps. Uncertainty. I wanted to know that he meant me, that I was his special target of intoxicated tyranny. I was. He saw my braking as an invitation to attack. He bellowed his battle cry once more: ‘I’ll steal your bike and fuck you in the face.’

Ah, I would have done it the other way around.

I rode off. A little frightened. My face unfucked.

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