This morning, I was standing line at one of my local coffee shops, when I suddenly felt someone/something grab my ass. I looked down and saw that a male toddler (afflicted with what appeared to be some kind of an open sore on his upper lip) had wrapped one arm around my leg, and had the other hand holding on to my left buttock for dear life. Where was this boy’s mother/nanny/minder? Who knows, they just let the little monsters run wild in Park Slope. I said out loud, “Hey. Stop that. Hey, please don’t do that. Hey, let go!” The kid didn’t pay any attention, and the woman in line in front of me turned and looked at me like *I* was the criminal for not wanting this dirty little child’s hand on my ass.
Now, I know that there’s clearly something wrong with me, because I’m pushing thirty and this little scene doesn’t make me want to procreate. In fact, it has the opposite effect, and that’s probably sign enough that I should just get out of the neighborhood, figure out what part of town rhe spinsters live in and just set up shop for the duration. But I’d just like to point out that if this kid was ten years older, and he had come up to me in a coffee shop with puss oozing out of his lip and had grabbed a handful of my ass, I would have been able to have had him arrested, and not only would I NOT be a mean old lady, I’d be a victim. A survivor.
Too bad for me, when it comes to sexual assault, we seem to have a double standard for perpetrators under the age of four.