Regarding gropers -- and what we should do

[mainer]

It happend to author Mary Karr. Here's what she did about it.

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 Hell’s Kitchen. I could almost feel the financial yoke of my son’s college tuition slipping off my neck.

Then an approaching guy chatting equably with a tall friend dodged at me to grab my crotch. I don’t 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 wasn’t dope sick or a flat-out loon.

In case you haven’t been on the receiving end of this sort of assault, you should know the primal physiological response it evokes—in this woman, anyway. The stomach drops, as if you’ve been shoved backward from a skyscraper and are flailing through space. Time dismantles. There are more frames per second, and people’s facial features become very specific. This guy had a squashed-down forehead, wide-set eyes, and heavy but neatly waxed brows.

http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/the-crotchgrabber

[frogmarch]

1. Here's what I did.

years ago at a family get-together, Mr. froggy's sister's vile husband grabbed my crotch from behind while I was adjusting my baby's bib as he sat in a highchair at the dining room table.

I spun around and walloped the creep as hard as could with my closest-to-him arm and sent him flying against and through the swinging door to the kitchen, where he landed, stunned, at the feet of his wife who was putting mashed potatoes into a bowl.

His wife, who kept spooning potatoes, calmly said to him, "What'd you do now?" He said nothing, and neither did I nor anyone else. We didn't have to. She knew him all too well. Why she still puts up with him is beyond me. I've heard he hasn't changed. Mr. froggy didn't know about it till I told him afterwards at home. Lucky for his brother-in-law I waited.

The crotch-grab happened many years ago but Mr. froggy and I still refuse to be in the same room with him - unless we have no choice, like at family funerals.

[mainer]

2. Wow. Good for you.

Sounds like you have superb reflexes.

I'd like to think that you taught him a lesson, but it sounds like it didn't do a thing. Maybe he needed a few more wallops from a few more women.