To the gentleman on the train with his hand on my ass...

To the gentleman on the train with his hand on my ass,

Let me make this perfectly clear.

Just because my ass exists does not mean that, even though we're packed like sardines into this subway car, I want you to touch it. Just because my pants are red and tight does not invite you to test their fabric. Simply because I'm completely helpless and not about to shout out to a packed subway car "GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY ASS" doesn't mean that you're free to feel me up.

That's MY ass, and if you were a decent human being (let alone even remotely a gentleman), you'd find something to do with your hands that kept them above your waist -- or at the very least, mine. Mickey and pals find a way to make it work in pictures at Disney, you can find a way to do it for the seven and a half minutes it takes us to get to Grand Central.

Why can't you be like this kindly gentleman next to me, reading a paper with both hands?
How about the guy over there, using both hands to hold onto a pole... and no, NOT THAT POLE.
Or what about your pockets? They're nice, spacious, friendly. Why not check them out??

Because, see, I'm not above calling you out to everyone on this train. Your hand on my ass makes my whole body shake with fear and loathing and more fear and a ton of frustration. And I continue to shake for the entire walk to my office, because you have violated me in such a subtle and evil way. Did you do it on purpose? Maybe not, I have no idea. Did you do it because you could? Probably. Do I want you to do it?

Not in the fucking least.

Love and kisses,

Kate