Juicy
What is it about my particular part of Perth that encourages inveterate butt fondling?
I was standing in the checkout queue at my local produce market. In front of me was a woman in her thirties, lightly dressed in cheap summer clothes. Over one shoulder blade she had an immense tattoo of a tropical flower in bright pinks and yellows, giving the impression that she'd recently gone out in the rain wearing a lurid Hawaiian shirt that wasn't colour-fast.
Her partner was an ordinary man for this end of town; a little overweight, a little overtattooed, and a little underwashed, with a receding chin and puffy eyes. But apparently in her mind he was some sort of red hot sex monkey, because she was pawing at him like a dog scrabbling at the side of a garbage bin filled with bacon scraps. Specifically, she was lasciviously groping his butt, as if she was trying to find a pair of this season's Jimmy Choos that he’d hidden down the back of his pants.
No, I'm not exaggerating. I don't mean that she had her hand negligently resting on his lower back. I mean cupping, stroking, squeezing, and, to my horror, even a hint of crack action. I had to avert my eyes and grip my shopping basket tightly, lest I be overtaken by the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her while shouting SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP WOMAN LEAVE HIS POOR ARSE ALONE!
Occasionally she would pause her rigorous butt fondling regime to run her hand across his shoulders, or down his spine, or through his hair, but she was primarily a booty girl and concentrated her attentions on that particular region. For his part he showed no sign of noticing at all, treating her as if she were doing nothing more than standing idly next to him.
Every once in a while I come across these women who apparently believe that if they cease intimate physical contact with their man for more than two seconds he will evaporate, leaving nothing behind but a pile of dirty clothes and a haunting whiff of Brut. Alternately, maybe they fear that without constant low-level sexual contact he will lose control, push them aside, leap over a bin filled with discounted pears and ravish the girl restocking the seafood freezer... or, more realistically, that he will wake up from his sensualised doze and think, "Wait a minute, why am I partnered with this lank-haired slattern?" and break up with her on the spot.
What can one do in these situations? Is there a card one can hand out?
I was standing in the checkout queue at my local produce market. In front of me was a woman in her thirties, lightly dressed in cheap summer clothes. Over one shoulder blade she had an immense tattoo of a tropical flower in bright pinks and yellows, giving the impression that she'd recently gone out in the rain wearing a lurid Hawaiian shirt that wasn't colour-fast.
Her partner was an ordinary man for this end of town; a little overweight, a little overtattooed, and a little underwashed, with a receding chin and puffy eyes. But apparently in her mind he was some sort of red hot sex monkey, because she was pawing at him like a dog scrabbling at the side of a garbage bin filled with bacon scraps. Specifically, she was lasciviously groping his butt, as if she was trying to find a pair of this season's Jimmy Choos that he’d hidden down the back of his pants.
No, I'm not exaggerating. I don't mean that she had her hand negligently resting on his lower back. I mean cupping, stroking, squeezing, and, to my horror, even a hint of crack action. I had to avert my eyes and grip my shopping basket tightly, lest I be overtaken by the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her while shouting SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP WOMAN LEAVE HIS POOR ARSE ALONE!
Occasionally she would pause her rigorous butt fondling regime to run her hand across his shoulders, or down his spine, or through his hair, but she was primarily a booty girl and concentrated her attentions on that particular region. For his part he showed no sign of noticing at all, treating her as if she were doing nothing more than standing idly next to him.
Every once in a while I come across these women who apparently believe that if they cease intimate physical contact with their man for more than two seconds he will evaporate, leaving nothing behind but a pile of dirty clothes and a haunting whiff of Brut. Alternately, maybe they fear that without constant low-level sexual contact he will lose control, push them aside, leap over a bin filled with discounted pears and ravish the girl restocking the seafood freezer... or, more realistically, that he will wake up from his sensualised doze and think, "Wait a minute, why am I partnered with this lank-haired slattern?" and break up with her on the spot.
What can one do in these situations? Is there a card one can hand out?
posted by Blandwagon at 12:16 PM
3 Comments:
That's one classy supermarket you frequent. Are you going to tell us where it is so we can go there for some viewing sport? Jaymez
It's particularly bad when they're doing all this while looking at YOU, suggesting 'hey, look what you're missing out on!'
At least she didn't start fingering the trouser flute.
"... and, to my horror, even a hint of crack action."
I gagged a little when I read that bit.
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