Oh- hello there, perverts! I bet you were expecting some really juicy stuff to pop up on this page because you were trolling the interwebs for something dirty. Sorry suckas! It’s just my blog. But now that you’re here let’s talk about you and your problem.  Why you do that “eeww” do that you do so well. Why don’t you have a seat over there? I’m about to get all Chris Hanson on your ass. I’m talking about perverts. Sickos. Creeps. Deviant behavior. Now, I’ve known and loved a lot of “pervs” in my life. Hell, I count myself among them. I love inappropriate humor. I tell dirty jokes. If you’ve been lucky enough to spend any time with me, you would know the things I say and do sometimes would make Ron Jeremy blush. But that is for a laugh. I’m not talking about joking around with people you know and trust. I’m talking about actual “paraphilia” as the doctor-types call it. Go look it up, dumbass.

The first incident happened near my childhood friend’s house. I’ll call her Channin. It was a long, hot Louisiana summer in the late 70’s.  I was wearing my totally far-out rainbow swimsuit with the matching terry-cloth romper. Channin was probably wearing the exact same thing, or maybe a Bicentennial ensemble. You know- “Spirit of ’76” and all that. Remember when that was a major fashion moment? I digress. As we walked along the sidewalk guzzling Pixie Stix, a car pulled up with the passenger window down. The man inside leaned over and asked for directions. We stepped forward onto the grass and tried to assist him. While Channin struggled to remember the names of the nearby streets, the man looked at me intently. It was probably a full minute more before I noticed the nasty magazine open there on the seat and the fact that his penis was completely exposed. Channin stood there, staring, cemented to the spot. Backing away, I grabbed her hand and quickly began walking in the opposite direction. He drove away slowly. We ran back to her house screaming, “Gross!… Oh barf! Gross!”  We found Channin’s mother in the kitchen with her carton of Benson and Hedges, cutoffs and a towel wrapped around her wet hair. As we breathlessly recalled what just happened, her mother took a long drag from her cigarette and muttered, “Goddamn perverts,” and walked out of the room. That was it. I don’t remember ever talking about it again. That was the 70’s.

Fast forward ten years and I’m sitting at a stop light in my dad’s totally bitchin’ 300 ZX. No doubt looking at myself in the vanity mirror. Slathering on a top coat of my Merle Norman teal eyeliner, I notice the car next to me rolling down his window. Hey, he’s kinda cute. But.. what..is he.. doing?? Yep. He was masturbating. He had a smug smile on his face while he whacked. Thankfully the light turned green and I punched the gas. Relieved to get away from him, I just started laughing. He quickly caught up to me and pulled along side. My laughter seemed to enrage him. He beat it angrily and stayed right beside me, glaring and whacking. I flipped the Furious Fapper the bird and made a sharp left. I drove straight home while Janet Jackson’s “Nasty” played in the tape deck. I never told anyone. That was the 80’s.

There were others. Flasher in the mall parking lot, construction workers cat-calling, a random boob-grabber on the streets of New Orleans, etc. Ask any woman and I bet she’ll tell you a similar tale. Some much worse. Some that can never be laughed about. I’ve been lucky.

 

But here is the Perv de Resistance:

There was a beautiful old Art Deco-style movie theater near our first house in Houston. Sadly it shut down, but was later converted into a book store. (No- not a dirty bookstore, you pervs!) I could spend hours there. One weekday night, Current Legal Spouse and his latest bromance were going to a Rockets game. I was working late anyway and decided to stop by the bookstore on my way home. It was after 7 and not many people were around. Because this was originally a theater, this bookstore was fantastic in that it had several levels, a balcony and strange little aisles. I made my way upstairs to browse. I was in an aisle alone flipping through a book. I noticed someone pass out of the corner of my eye but I didn’t look up. I was reading. I don’t know how much time passed because I was so engrossed in the book. Suddenly I felt a strange sensation on the bottom of my ass. Something touching me, between my legs from behind. I immediately thought it was a toddler so I turned slowly. No. It wasn’t a toddler. It was a grown man, Hispanic-looking with a sturdy build, on all fours with his nose jammed in between my ass cheeks. He was sniffing my ass. On all fours. In a bookstore. Grown-ass man. Sniffing me.

Something in me snapped. I was so enraged, so violated- I did not hesitate. I knocked him upside the head with the book I was holding. Hard. I forgot to mention this was a weighty, twelve inch, hard bound 500 page tome (about etiquette, of all things. ETIQUETTE!) He fell over like a tipped cow and covered his head. I stood over him, shaking. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!”  I screeched, and hit him again. Harder. He started crawling away from me down the aisle whispering repeatedly, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I took a step forward and kicked him in the stomach.

He then got up and ran. I threw the book down and stood there for a moment. I looked over the balcony and a few people were looking up. No one came to inquire what the ruckus was. And it was a ruckus. Did they think that was a lovers quarrel? I didn’t care. I didn’t even want to talk to anyone, let alone report it, I just wanted out of there. I drove home to an empty house and remembered that Current Legal Spouse was at the basketball game. I called him anyway. All I could hear was "Get Ready for This" thumping through my phone.

This must be why I hate sports! I can’t hear that song without clenching my butt cheeks. I hung up the phone and locked the doors. In the safety of my bedroom I took off my pants and considered burning them. But they were a really nice, silk lined gabardine. I decided to just have them dry cleaned. If I burn them, the pervert wins. Thank the Lord I was wearing pants that day and not a skirt. That fucker could have been on all fours sniffing my ass for a full five minutes! I don’t know how long he was back there. The more I thought about it the madder I got. I was glad I hit him. It felt good. I called some friends and after a few awkward minutes we began to laugh. I could laugh about it. He sniffed the wrong ass that night. I doled out some Perverted Justice. Thelma and Louise style.

Granted, my ass probably does smell terrific. I can’t be sure because I’m not that limber but I’ve never had any complaints. I like to imagine the scent is a heady mixture of roses and bundt cake. But that doesn’t give some stranger the right to sniff it. You have to earn that right. 

I was proud of myself because I figure creeps like that must get off on the typical horrified reaction. That’s part of the thrill. You know- scream, look terrified, run away. Sorry to disappoint - but here comes a book to your brain!!

I went to work the next day and told my story. I was a hero. I think I retold it ten times that day. We all wondered if that bookstore had captured the event on security cameras. They probably watch it every year at the annual Christmas party. YOU’RE WELCOME.

Now that I have children of my own it’s hard to know how much information to give without scaring them into never leaving the house. The things I described above would be on the evening news these days. Even though no one actually ever hurt me (physically) just the thought of someone exposing themselves to my children sends me into a white-hot rage. My main message is if someone is near you (stranger or not) and something doesn’t feel right, walk away. Fast if you can, and if you can’t… FIGHT. Fight back with every ounce of strength you’ve got. Kick, bite, scratch, pee, poop or pummel ’em with a book.

I’m not sure I will ever understand the mind of a true pervert but I like to believe that because of me, there is one less at the old bookstore tonight. See ya later, masturbator

This post has been republished from RachRiot.com, with permission, by the author.

Rachael Pavlik is RachRiot. Writer, mother, Pilates avoider. Beloved by tens of readers, some she’s not even related to. Co-author of the New York Times Best-Selling anthology, I Just Want To Pee Alone, she is a regular contributor to Scary Mommy. Her writing has also appeared on Today Parents, Moms Who Drink and Swear, In The Powder Room, Houston Family magazine, Babble, and Aiming Low. She lives in Houston, Texas with her Current Legal Spouse and two above-average children. Laugh at her blog, stalk her on Facebook, and star her on Twitter.

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