I Was Masturbated At

Selbstbefriedigung
Egon Schiele

Last night, while walking through the financial district of NYC after having drinks with some friends, I was masturbated at. Looking back, it was almost like fate had pushed me towards this chain of events because I almost didn’t leave the house that night in the first place. I have the tendency to hermit myself, and I had just gone out the evening prior to see a show at the Bowery Ballroom, so the idea of going out on back to back nights seemed like a new habit of raging. I actually had an inner brain movie about it and though something along the lines of, “is this my life now? Just going out all the time?” I decided to go for it and keep my plans to have a brainstorming sesh with my blog group over drinks, which went well, but then everything went into the shit can on the way home. I’m pretty sure that the subway runs flawlessly unless I’m on it, and this night proved no different when the R train stopped running at Canal. My suitcase of eccentricities contains my unwillingness to ever learn more than one way to and from any given place, so when presented with a road-block, I usually just conclude that the hardest and most illogical solution is the best one. I exited the subway station at Canal, and started walking the 30-minute walk that would get me to home base. And by home base, I mean the Staten Island Ferry. (I can feel your judgment right now, and I don’t appreciate it).

It was a nice night out and the walk went quickly. Before I knew it I was just past Wall Street, so I stopped to get some chicken and rice at the Halal stand to eat on the boat. I waited for damn near ever for my food, but what are you gonna do? With street meat in hand (foreshadowing), I continue down the final stretch and then I started hearing a strange noise. It was a noise that, up until this night, I had never heard before (check bio) and it sounded like a moist smack smacking. (I could literally barf just thinking about what I’m about to tell you. Plus I just used the word moist.) I turn to my right, and like a flashing billboard for everything bad and not cool in the world, I see a black man’s penis. Apparently some guy thought an awesome way to spend a Wednesday night was to hang out in the dark, pants down with wiener in hand, and wait for some girl to walk by so he can make a loud production out of touching his privates. Upon first glimpse of his pee-hole, and I swear that I actually did see it, because it was pointed right at me, I yelled “ewwww,” which only made him groan and slap slap louder. I ran the rest of the way to the ferry, texting my trauma to everyone I knew as I went, and felt very much violated. This whole scenario reminded me of scenes from a show like Buffy the Vampire Slayer or something, where you know that the hell mouth has opened up and shit’s about to get real because the townies are lighting fires in trash cans and walking around with no shirts on. Once you see someone masturbating at you in the street, global warming and bad vibes in Israel drop to bullet points #2 and #3.

This morning I woke up feeling a little bit less like I wanted to take my own life. I was glad to go to work and find my happy place again. I am showing signs of long-term psychological fuckitude though because while sitting in front of my job having a pre-time clock cigarette, I overheard a construction worker say something to his friend like, “when that happens, I just slide down,” and I was beyond certain that he was discussing how he goes about masturbating in-between cars. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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