There’s a hand on my boob.

I’m sitting at a stop light and there’s a strangers hand on my tit.

A small part of me wonders if this is an elaborate joke, or an alternate timeline because surely this guy doesn’t think this is a good idea really. Surely?

“So um, what are you doing?”

“Oh my god I’m soo sorry about the abrupt braking, that guy just pulled out! I didn’t want the seatbelt to jerk you about”

“So.. why is your hand still there?”

The boob grabber and I had met approximately 9 minutes before this event and had been talking online for a mere two days prior. For the purpose of this story, let’s call him Handsy Lawyer — *not real name.

Handsy Lawyer and I had both swiped each other on Tinder so we had clarified that we both found each other attractive in a passable sense, and had moved onto general awkward chit chat.

He was polite and respectful, almost surprisingly so for a lawyer, and seemed genuinely interested in the adventures and happenings in my life. Asked intelligent questions, listened to responses, and gave a few flirty yet not creepy compliments regarding my glasses and smile.

“I’d really love to have dinner with you, if you’d like? I prefer that to a bar because It’s usually too loud to actually talk”.

Going against all my better judgement, I said sure. I normally choose a beer or a coffee for a first date because

1. It can be cut short if they are in fact gross or weird or crazy.


2. I don’t feel weird doing the whole ‘who pays’ thing, because I don’t have to feel bad for letting them pay, or I don’t have to shell out a lot if I pay for them.

I would come to regret this decision.

He insisted on picking me up for the date because it was easier than me catching the bus, and because I am a cheap bitch I agreed. I requested to get picked up from a cafe by my house to be on the safe side, don’t let people know where you live on the first date people!

Handsy Lawyer pulled up in a tidy car, and looked slightly better than his profile pictures. He was wearing a shirt, tight dress pants, and brogues with no socks. How very Wellington.

Greeted with a hug, I was actually thinking that this could actually work?! Had the stars finally aligned and was I given a real life actual dating option?

It wasn’t until the abrupt sudden squealing of brakes and a firm hand to the lady bits, did I realise that I was most certainly fucked.

The “accidental braking” proceeded to happen TWO MORE TIMES. At this point I was carefully planning out how I could castrate a man with a Glade air freshener (the only thing near me) and if maybe he was actually deaf and hadn’t heard my distinct and aggressive swears.

Almost at the restaurant by now, there was a moment of awkward silence as we sat at some lights. I was plotting my escape out the window when I felt a large hand on my upper thigh.

“You know, you are so beautiful. I’m so excited for this date!”

“ Thanks. Can you stop touching me now”

“Ha ha ha god you’re cute”

I knew right then and there that I would end up in jail that night.

I must have either been in a mood for punishment, or I just really wanted to go to that restaurant, but I found myself seated at a table with the worlds creepiest man.

Trying to at least enjoy my food, I looked at the menu and got really excited about ordering a fuck tonne of carbs and stuffing my face until I could get the hell away from him.

A less than enthused waitress comes up and just as I’m about to order my glorious fries, Handsy Lawyer pipes up.

“Can we both have the steak thanks? Also a bottle of red”

Omg. Do. Not. Ever. Order. For. Me.

Do not fuck with me and my food alright? I was seething with rage because I DONT EVEN LIKE RED and who the hell has the audacity to order for a woman these days?

I was on the brink of an actual meltdown.

Handsy Lawyer was a talker. Since we met on Tinder, it seemed logical to just talk about that for a bit and he proceeded to tell me about all the women who were ‘crazy’ and how he never found anything lasting with women on tinder. After he fucked them of course.

He was ‘such a nice guy’, he had trouble with women, he explained. Women only wanted him for his Baby Lawyer status and all he wanted was to settle down with a nice girl and have a family.

“Why arent you drinking? Afraid you might do something naughty? Ha ha ha”

“I don’t drink red wine.”

“I’m sure you just haven’t had the GOOD stuff. Drink this. Trust me, I know wines.”

Mate, this wine could taste like a thousand angels sprinkling rainbows all over my tongue, and I would still not touch a drop because you said so.

There was a point in the night where I started to just not give any fucks, and talk about awkward or weird things but that didn’t seem to phase him. I talked about narcissistic lawyers (“not me though, I’m humble as ha ha”), feminism, and women buying sex toys (“My ladies never need that shit. Thats just the sign of a shit man lol”).

Then, I felt a foot.

A bare foot. Going up my leg.

He had taken his shitty brogue off and was attempting to maneuver his stank ass foot up my dress.

And this was my cue to bail out. I had given it my best effort and had resisted the urge to do grievous harm to his dangly parts.

“Dude I am 100% not okay with this, I’m leaving”

“It’s only a bit of flirting, don’t be weird ha ha”

I don’t think I have ever ran out of a restaurant that fast in my entire life, fairly sure all the patrons and staff were thinking I was about to mess myself or vomit. Which is not far off.

Handsy Lawyer was either a complete idiot or a sucker for hatred because he continued to message me for three days afterwards, completely ignoring the fact that I had explicitly told him to fuck off and fuck himself.

The incessant messages stopped finally, when I sent him a picture of a dinosaur themed dildo with the caption “Would literally rather fuck myself with this than talk to you.”

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