Leave my ass alone

Leave my ass alone

Seriously:  what is it with men and women’s asses?  I have to think it’s not just me.  My mother completely commiserated with me about this very issue not too long ago.  My mother who is a woman of a certain age and married for 48 years to my Alzheimer dad – he still can’t keep his hands off her ass.

Last night I exploded.  Enough already.  The Boyfriend Candidate doesn’t grab my ass in some sexual, erotic or even remotely intimate way.  It’s more like a lift and jiggle or a grab and shake or even a poke like you would a water bed to see the ripple effect.  I loathe it.  I’m not some thing, some object, here for perverse entertainment.  I’m certainly not a bowl of Jell-o setting in the fridge waiting for the test poke.

My mother tells me that when she hears Dad walking into a room behind her, she tenses and tries to turn before he can get to her ass.  I know this feeling.  She’s been coping for almost fifty years and can’t get him to stop.  And she can be mean.

I finally told the Boyfriend Candidate last night, “How would you like it if I grabbed and jiggled your package just to watch it flop around?” And I demonstrated in case he didn’t get the picture.  He accused me of hurting him.  Duh.  That’s my point.  There is hurt with this kind of objectification by the person you adore (but seem to be adoring less as each instance occurs).  I was confident I made my point.

Until an hour ago.  He scared the hell out of me by doing a peeping Tom thing in my office window.  I screamed and started crying.  I was precariously close to peeing myself.  He came in and was obviously concerned the joke had gone too far.  He opened his arms, tenderly embraced me, wiped away my tears, and jiggled my ass.


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