I am so very tired of being touched. I hate the fact that I can't lean my elbows on a bar without some dicksmack caressing my butt as he walks by. I dread squeezing through a crowded dance floor, because I already know that parts of me will be handled, poked, or pinched.

And it happened way too much Saturday night. My evening kicked off with dancing at a new club. For once, a decent place to dance. The DJ was great, but the room was smoky and small. As per usual, I was felt up several times before we left. This happens so often that I don't even bother to mention it to Neal or bring it up anymore. It just makes us both angry, and there's no constructive end to discussing it. So right or wrong, I've stopped talking about it.

We leave the club, and head to the bar we usually end up in on weekends. People were actually mostly leaving me alone, until halfway through my first pool game. I was hitting shots like crazy, and I was on a roll. Until I bent over the table to make a long shot, and felt a hand start at the top of my ass and slide down till it was almost touching between my legs. Right there, in public. Like he was caressing a silky pillow or a piece of fruit or anything other than a woman just trying to school some dude at pool and have a fun night out with her boyfriend and some friends. That fucker instantly made me feel like less of a person, and more of an object. I was angry that I let his ignorant ass make me feel so bad, but I couldn't help it. I might as well been the edge of the pool table to him. It was about the 14th time that night it happened. And it was too incredibly crude and vile and blatant to let go.

I didn't yell at him. I learned long ago that yelling just makes it funny and somehow, more excusable. I didn't want to turn this into a story that he could tell his friends over a doobie late at night, that crazy bitch who freaked out when I grabbed her butt, and dude, did you see how red her face was? Man, that's some funny shit, right?

So I tried to disarm him. I just thought that maybe if I showed him that there's a human being attached to this ass, maybe THAT would make him think twice before he did it again. It's a long shot, but this has worked before.

I missed my shot, turned around, made eye contact, and smiled coldly. I walked over and told him he looked familiar, that I thought I'd maybe met him there last weekend. (This wasn't a lie, by the way.) He told me "no," but I kept talking to him, just hoping that for one second, I could make him feel and think and regret touching me like that. He just stared at me stupidly and looked like he wished he could run away. "Good," I thought. "At least I'm getting some reaction."

Then, his pigfucker friend strolled over and stood in front of me. He looked me right in the eye, lifted his chin, and said, "I was the one that grabbed you. I did it." And he smiled slowly and proudly.

And I turned on my heel and fucking walked away. He shocked me. The bastard had not only just disarmed ME, but he had taken any weapons I had against this kind of behavior and flung them down and stomped on them. And the little shit grinned proudly while he did it.

My pool game was shot. I let the kid beat me just to get it over with. And then I went home and cried about it a little. Neal held me and hugged me and reassured me over and over that I wasn't a moron to get upset over this.

I mean, it's just a touch, right? An innocent little feel. But, man. It was just too many for me in one night, OK? I can only brush off so many infractions on my body before I lose my shit a little. I lost it a little this weekend.

I called Maggie on Sunday, and eventually the conversation twisted around to what had happened the night before. It was hard to talk about. Not just because it was a shitty situation, but because there's no big life message or lesson to be learned there. Usually, when I discuss a problem with a friend, we assess my options and discuss until we've settled on the best one. Guess what? In the problem of "Strangers Grabbing Jamie's Ass," there are no solutions.

I listened to myself talk to Maggie, and there were a few things that bothered me. My knee-jerk reaction is consistently to change MY behavior. Maybe I should dress differently or gain weight or just stay home. It is so wrong that my brain takes me in that direction. There is not reason for me to change. I don't care if I'm wearing a bikini to a sports bar, no one has the right to touch me like that. Especially not a stranger. My actions aren't even relavent. But I'm ashamed to say that my instincts told me to look at my own behavior. I kept catching myself blaming me and telling myself to stop it. I'm sure it was a fun conversation for Maggie.

I also asked her if this happens to her frequently. She said it used to, but it's stopped. She thinks it's because she's gotten to know most of the people around town, and this seems to be more of a problem with sneaky strangers than it is with acquaintences. Unfortunately, I live in a tourist town, where the night crowds are endlessly diverse and constantly changing. I'm never going to know enough people to make a difference. Damn it.

Neal thinks I should have handled it differently. He thinks I should have gotten upset or gotten a bouncer or gotten HIM. There's a few things wrong with this. I already told you that getting mad doesn't work. It doesn't help the situation when the groper regards you as a hysterical bitch who can't take a fucking joke. I'm trying to avoid being someone's funny anecdote during a conversation about dumb women.

The idea of Neal hurt or bleeding or in any sort of violent situation makes me sick to my stomach. The thought of him being in a mess like that because of a situation involving me makes me feel much, much worse. I'm not saying he can't take care of himself, because he can. When Grabby McCopfeel confessed, one of the hundreds of thoughts that streamed through my mind was to tell Neal, and let him say something. But that thought was followed by the image of McCopfeel and his group of friends pounding on Neal, and that picture cancelled that option pretty fast.

I know I could have gone to a bouncer. But you know what? Even though I hadn't done anything wrong, I was embarrassed as hell. I was. This person had touched me in a way that only one person in the entire world is allowed to touch me, and even that person can't just feel arbitrarily. So I felt like I was caught naked or something. I don't know. I do know that the last thing I wanted to do was fetch a bouncer and have to tell the story to someone I hardly know, and possibly repeat it to various other bar employees and strangers so the situation could be addressed fairly.

So I lost my pool game, went home, and cried. All because some fuck decided he wanted to see what I felt like, and he just reached out and did it. I'm not sure that I've ever felt this objectified.

When I was thinking about what to write here, I considered addressing it to potential gropers and harrassers, with a little message that maybe it would make someone think before they grab or let them know that there's a person behind the rack that they feel like they have the right to violate. But I'm not going to kid myself. My words don't reach THAT many people, and even if someone who cops feels DID read this, I don't have any authority or influence to change someone's mind or create a societal push.

So I'm just telling you guys what happened, and why I'm upset. I feel unsettled about the whole thing, mostly because there ISN'T a solution. I don't really know where to go from here.