Last night I ventured to the neighborhood upscale cigar bar, where I found my two smoking buddies, Risa and Liz. The following skism between my perceptions and reality occurred.
| What I thought happened | Reality | |
|
The women were sitting side by side in
leather easy chairs, both facing the football game. A gentleman had
pulled up a chair to face them. Judging my how closely he was huddled with Liz, they were clearly friends. The women introduced me. He told one
mind-numbingly lame dirty joke after another. I zoned out. "I don't think Liz's husband John here is going to much like that," Risa said, trying to draw me back into the conversation. I would not be drawn back in. "I hardly know her," I shrugged at the guy. "Have at her." |
They didn't know the guy. He had fixated on Liz's chest from the moment he walked in, and she had been playing whack-a-mole with his hands ever since. Not once, not twice, but three times, he slid his hand up her miniskirt and felt her up. That's what he was doing when Liz's knight in shining armor told the creep to "have at her." |
|
"THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" they screamed in unison as soon as he left. Even the appalled wait staff scolded me. It was my finest hour.
By the by, reasonable though the question is, it's probably best to wait a while before asking a woman why she didn't stop her molester herself.
I might be kind of stupid.