Last night, I was reading at the bar, when the man sitting next to me said hi. He was drawing in sharpie on a tiny drawing pad. I asked what he was drawing – he said it was just a good way to unwind.

We struck up a conversation. I was already kind of drunk, and, even when I’m not, I’ll pretty much talk to anybody. I know I talked about having been a wrestler. He told me he was a football player, and I know I told him that I was surprised to hear that, because he was “teeny tiny.”

At some point, I went out for a cigarette, and asked if he wanted to join me. He agreed. When we got outside, I realized he was really short. Like, 5’4 or less, I think. Basically, I barely had to even crane my neck to look in his face.

There’s nothing wrong with being a short guy. I feel for short guys. They’ve got it rough. But short men zero in on me – like, oh, shit, here’s someone I can tower over! And it makes me feel weird. They love to talk about how much taller than me they are. It feels like I’m some sort of fetish object.

When I finished my cigarette and we went back inside, we sat back down at the bar and continued talking. And then he started putting his hands on me. A lingering hand on my knee. An arm around my back.

NOT. OK.

I should have smacked him, but I sort of freeze up in those situations. I do not like it when strangers put their hands on me, and I also get scared and overwhelmed and don’t know what to do.

The first three times, I tried to ignore it. Then I finally said I had to go home. He asked for my number, and I told him I was seeing someone (easy way out, I know, but not a flat out lie), but maybe we could be friends. I think he told me he was always game for something on the side, but maybe I misunderstood. I was pretty drunk.

Let’s give the guy the benefit of the doubt and hope that I just misunderstood. We can pretend/hope/pray that decent men do exist, right?

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