It feels strange to admit this now, but when I first felt the stranger's hand on my ass, I didn't even care. We were packed onto a rush-hour train along with what felt like everybody in the city. My body was being squashed up against the grubby metal doors, my face almost touching the little window as the gloomy November morning rushed by. I'd barely slept all weekend because I'd been finishing a presentation that my boss was going to take all of the credit for. I just didn't have the energy left over to deal with some guy who may or may not have been a creep.
After about ten seconds of plausibly deniable touching, he got a little bolder. Yes, we were packed in like sardines, and yes, the train was jostling us around occasionally, but that didn't explain the fact that he was now gently, but unmistakably, cupping my ass. I reached back to swat his hand away but it didn't budge. "Great," I thought. "There goes the last chance that this is a misunderstanding."
I tried to figure out what to do. I thought about screaming at the top of my lungs, publicly exposing him for the creep that he was, but to be honest I didn't have the guts. Everything that's wrong with the world can be summed up by the fact that I was afraid to embarrass the guy who was molesting me. Still, I'd always assumed I'd be more of a badass when push came to shove. We were wedged together so tightly that I couldn't even turn my body away from him, so I settled for craning my neck awkwardly and giving him the most intimidating over-the-shoulder glare I could manage. He continued to squeeze my ass as we made eye contact.
I'm not sure what kind of man I expected to be sexually assaulting me during my commute, but this guy definitely wasn't it. For starters he was good-looking, in a clean-shaven, Ivy League kind of way. Younger than me, but clearly doing well for himself. His suit, which must have cost at least a thousand dollars, was tailored precisely enough to hint at the lean, muscular body underneath. His thick, brown hair was just the right amount of wavy to make me wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through it. If he'd asked for my number before randomly feeling me up, I'd probably have given it to him.
But way beyond any of that, the most unexpected thing about him was the look of utter terror on his face. He looked as if he was trapped in the middle of a nightmare. His breathing was ragged, his skin was pale, his eyes were practically bulging out of his head.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered.
He scanned the carriage to make sure we weren't attracting the attention of the other passengers but he needn't have worried; our bodies were too close together for anyone to see what was happening.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" I hissed under my breath.
