Oh, Bollocks.

Yesterday started off like any other. Around mid-morning, however, the day became exceptionally amazing, in that J surprised me with a ticket to Chicago, for BlogHer. I hadn’t been planning on going this year for a number of reasons, but I was so touched, and things fell so rapidly—and miraculously—into place immediately thereafter that I pretty much had no choice but so accept my husband’s amazing gift. So, yeah. I’ll be there. (Come say hi, okay?)

I was annoyingly gleeful on account of this turn of events, and all but skipped my way uptown after work, stopping off to pick up some fabric…notions (?) for the dress I’m having made for my brother’s wedding. And as fun and incredible as the morning was, here’s where the day takes a turn for the worse. And by “worse” I mean “scrotum-filled.”

I was on the subway, and was writing an email to Miss Whoorl. The subway, you see, is where I do much of my email correspondence, as it makes me look extremely busy, and thus acts as a deterrent towards the advances of hobos or the ubiquitous breakdancing panhandler children. I was able to snag a seat, but the train quickly grew crowded, and a gentleman took a spot standing in front of me. The train emptied out, and I became dimly aware that there were plenty of seats, and yet the man was still standing in front of me. "How curious," I thought, and went back to concentrating on my email. The train hit a bump, and I, startled, glanced up from my email to find myself eye-to-ball with THE MAN’S JUNK. He was wearing a long windbreaker, but the sudden movement of the train caused it to temporarily drift, thus exposing his open fly. And, you know, balls. I sent the email off, and hurriedly began a frantic one to my husband:



However, lest he think that I was making a big deal over nothing, I took a picture to better illustrate my plight. And YES, I realize that sort of makes me totally gross, too, but I took it from a side angle so you couldn't REALLY see the horror with which I was, again, eye-to-ball, AND I did cover up the Offending Area.



(Like my little caption balloon? I HIGHLY recommend the Photogene app.)

I was shocked. Speechless. I was...well, the email, I think, really shows you the full range of emotions with which I was grappling. Was this a total error? Was this completely intentional? I was frozen with indecision as to what I should say or do.

Well.

See how the right side of his windbreaker is really much longer than the left? Yeah. It was then I noticed that he was...um, touching hisself, through the pocket of the windbreaker.

I looked around the totally silent train, and, filled with rage--and also, nausea--said the lovely words no one ever really thinks they'll need to say to another person in public:

"EXCUSE ME. SIR, CAN YOU PLEASE STOP J*RKING OFF IN FRONT OF MY FACE?"

The funny thing is, he was totally unaffected. I mean, the ENTIRE train car looked at him with a mixture of shock and disgust, and he DIDN'T EVEN ZIP UP. He took a few steps away from me, and just kind of looked heavenward, like I was talking to some OTHER publicly m@sturbating pervert, or something.

It being New York, no one really wanted to deal with him, myself included, so I just tried to get a picture of his face to send to the NYPD (they have a task force for this kind of thing). It's a blurry profile shot, but I don't really care, I just want as many people to see him as possible:



People, I am FILLED with questions. I mean, aside from the big one--why did I call a pervert "sir"?--I am kind of curious about the act in general. It takes--pardon the pun--a lot of balls to do something like this. How did he decide to go through with it? At what point does your life become so sad that you wake up one morning and think "You know what? I think I'm gonna just go for it today, and start m@sturbating on the subway. Let's see where it goes." Do you think people won't notice? Or do you WANT them to notice? Are you planning on FINISHING THE JOB THERE? OH DEAR GOD.

Frankly, the whole thing is both horrifying and exhausting to think about, and as such, I'm just going to turn things over to Andy & Co., while I shower for the 758th time.