The Crotchgrabber: On a shockingly casual case of sexual assault.
http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/the-crotchgrabber
On a spring day in recent memory, I was strolling up Ninth Avenue alone, after leaving a bistro lunch with a gentleman caller and my soon-to-finish-N.Y.U. son. It was sunny but not yet steaming. Businessmen had their ties tugged loose or suit jackets slung over their shoulders. There were floral frocks and filmy blouses among the adorably pierced and punked-out goths of Hells Kitchen. I could almost feel the financial yoke of my sons college tuition slipping off my neck.
Then an approaching guy chatting equably with a tall friend dodged at me to grab my crotch. I dont mean brushed by it maybe accidentally; I mean he grabbed between my legs with a meaty claw, big as a waffle iron. He also called me the C-word with breath that stank of beer. Then he passed on into a sandwich shop with his buddy.
He wore a royal-blue plaid short-sleeve shirt you might find in a J. Crew ad, nicely hemmed jean shorts, and pricey sneakers. He was half my age and twice my weight and had the wide, muscled form cultivated by Equinox aficionados. Translation: he wasnt dope sick or a flat-out loon.
In case you havent been on the receiving end of this sort of assault, you should know the primal physiological response it evokesin this woman, anyway. The stomach drops, as if youve been shoved backward from a skyscraper and are flailing through space. Time dismantles. There are more frames per second, and peoples facial features become very specific. This guy had a squashed-down forehead, wide-set eyes, and heavy but neatly waxed brows.
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