NOT INTENDED FOR CHILDREN*
Throughout our lives, Michelle and I have taken walks together. We’ve walked through shit, and we’ve walked in sunshine. We have had all of our best talks about shit and sunshine on these walks.
This is the story of the night when we walked into a true pervert, and it’s a Valentine’s dedication to my sister who is the best person to talk about it with when you have shit on your shoes.
I had always thought of Michelle as sort of playing Robin to my Batman. Just a side-kick. A tagalong. A “Mom says I get to come” pain in the ass side-kick. I’ve often wondered if Batman feels that way about Robin. Does Commissioner Gordon make Batman drag Robin along with him wherever he goes? If so, that’s gotta be embarrassing for him. You know The Joker probably teases him mercilessly about it, too. It’s The Joker for chrissake! He can’t be reasoned with! It’s not like Batman can simply say, “Robin having to hang around all the time when I’m going to friend’s houses or fighting an arch nemesis is a rather touchy subject for me, Joker, and I’d appreciate it if you’d just lay off it and attend to the matter at hand, which was you attempting to blow up Gotham City or gas it or whatever.” The Joker would just love it if he said that shit! He’d get that maniacal laughter thing going, and you couldn’t shut him up for days or weeks.
But, I digress. Point is, there was a long span of time in my life when I mistook my sister for a Robin in yellow tights. But, she is not the side-kick type.
She is Catwoman.
I realized that about her when she was twelve and I was sixteen.
It was summertime, and we were walking toward home. The heat back then wasn’t that laying-on-top-of-you-so-that-you-can’t-breath kind of heat that I seem to notice so much more often nowadays, it was a friendlier sort of go-sit-in-the-shade kind of heat. But, even so, it was hot, so of course, we were both wearing shorts.**
Enter the pervert.
He pulled up to the curb next to us in what may have been a white car and asked us for directions to a place two blocks away. We didn’t approach the car at first. But, the perve kept talking and we let our guard down a little and got closer to hear him. We were both looking at his face until he turned his head toward his lap and said, “Look.”
We finally noticed he had a very small, very flaccid penis that he was punishing rather harshly.***
I remember feeling shocked and disgusted and scared that he was going to let go of it and grab one of us. I had never seen a penis before that day. I hadn’t. So, maybe you should go ahead and add “very disappointed with seeing a penis and finding out that’s what they sometimes look like” to that list of how I felt.
While this isn’t particularly important to the story, I feel a strong need to share that the man had no pubic hair! NONE. It never occurred to me until this moment just how fucking weird that is. I remembered it, but it never stuck out in my memory. It must have gotten downplayed in my memory bank due to that other odd thing about him.
The billboard in my mind reads something like this:
ONE NIGHT ONLY!
HE ABUSES HIS VIENNA SAUSAGE TO UPSET LITTLE GIRLS AND GET HIS TWISTED THRILLS!
COME ONE, COME ONE! TO THE GROSSEST SHOW ON EARTH!
By the way, he has no pubic hair!… Hey, Is that right?…Yeah. I’m sure about that. He has no pubic hair. Well, what do ya know. That’s kinda weird.
Anyway, back to the story. I gave the scumbag the reaction he wanted. I stammered gasps and behaved no better than a dumbassed Oh-Rhett-Whateva-
Will-I-Do Scarlett O’Hara.
But, my Catwoman sister never missed a beat. She showed no surprise. No disgust. And, believe you me, that had to have been difficult.
What she did was get mad. She let out a battle cry, and that battle cry was, “Is that all you got?”
It doesn’t seem like much. Just five words, right? But, that girl used the word “all” like it had six syllables so that it took her a good three seconds to say it.
Her meaning was clear to me, and maybe even to him.
“You dickless bastard. Who cares about you? Certainly not us. Do the world a favor and disappear.”
And he did. The car lurched away with the pervert in it, and we both ran home.
We never saw him again.
But, the memory stays with me, and I treasure it. Strange as that is, I really do. Sure it bothers me that freaks like that exist, but I loved Michelle’s response to him.
Her five words were, for me, the antidote to the venom that was this icky little man.
That night in the eighties my little sister was Joan Jett and Pat Benatar and Blondie. She was fuckin’ punk rock, and I knew I’d never want her to go back to playing Robin to my Batman. She deserved better.
She deserved to be my equal.
No, she was more than my equal. She was my Punk Rock Catwoman Perve Deriding Bitch Hero and she shall always remain as such.
*If the last post that had a warning on it was PG-13 then this one is R. I apologize for that. I watch what my kid reads but I know some parents can’t always do the same. For that reason, I hope those same parents have blocks on their children’s computers. That said, I do try to keep it G or PG here most of the time. But, frankly, I couldn’t tell this story properly if I kept it squeaky clean, and it demanded to be told.
**I’ve told you we were in shorts and that we were young girls. So, if you’d like to take a moment to remove your sanity and put yourself in the “They were asking for it” camp, you may do so now. The rest of us will wait.
***On hindsight, I very much wonder, since this was supposed to be how he got his kicks, why he had virtually no erection. It could be that it took us too long to notice his tiny protrusion and he found this a turn-off. Or, maybe guys like him get the erection after they get the reaction they want. The reaction they want, a policeman told us later that night, is for the victim to show surprise and shock.