Is This How Women Always Feel?
A quick story about how I got groped at McDonald’s
Last night, I went out with my lady friend. After a couple of drinks, we decided to go get food. I got a slice of pizza; she wanted McDonald’s.
While we waited for her 10-piece McNuggets and fries, it was hard not to notice the clientele in McDonald’s at that late hour: a few homeless people with whatever money they could scrounge up throughout the day, some boozed-up 20-somethings (including us), and a handful of randos.
Her food was taking alarmingly long for a fast food establishment, so I grabbed her receipt and stepped to the counter. “Excuse me,” I said to one of the cashiers, “Did you guys accidentally skip this order?” The cashier looked at the orders she had just fulfilled and her eyebrows shot up.
As she put together the nuggets and fries, the other cashier called for the next person in line. A well-dressed dude was behind me holding a briefcase. He was probably in his early- to mid-30s, wearing slacks, a button down, and a blazer. Looked like a typical dude.
When the cashier first called “Next,” I felt the toe of the man’s left shoe caress my left heel, but I thought nothing of it. Maybe he didn’t realize how close he was standing. Some people are just awkward.
As she called “Next customer” again, I felt the man’s briefcase lightly brush across my ass several times. Back and forth. Surely this was no accident, so now I was uncomfortable, to say the least.
The man motioned to me to place my order, but I showed him the receipt in my hand and told him to go ahead. He asked, “Are you sure?” I nodded.
He passed behind me as if we were both shimmying through a narrow cave, this time rubbing his crotch across my ass in an unnecessarily slow fashion. He asked again, “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
I assured him, “No, we already ordered and I’m just waiting for food.” I added, “Also, if you could stop rubbing up against me, that’d be great.”
His reaction was hysterical and haunting all in one: “Well, I don’t mind it.”
Clearly, this dude had seen something he’d liked.
As uncomfortable as he’d made me, I took the whole experience as a compliment at first. I tried to spin it into a positive. I guess this means I’m hot, right? It’s flattering, right? My ass must’ve looked spectacular.
But on my drive to work this morning, I thought more about it. I felt dirty. I felt angry. Another human wanting to fuck me is flattering, sure. But he doesn’t get to do that. Nobody gets to touch me without my permission or make me feel like any less of a person.
And the one aspect of this entire situation that’s glaring for me is that I never once blamed myself. I never once thought it was my fault, or something I’d done to deserve that type of treatment — from a stranger or anyone.
And I sure as hell never stopped to wonder, What was I wearing? Maybe I was asking for it…