I was going to write a lengthy rant about buses this evening, however creepylesbo has beaten me to the punch with her excellent post about the horrors of public transport on a Mischief Of Magpies. Well done that woman. Anyway I have suffered yet another ordeal this evening. I was sat on the bus, reading a P.G Wodehouse, chuckling happily to myself when I became aware that someone was poking my arse. Being an optimistic sort I thought he'd accidentally put his hand through the gap in the seat and sat further forward to avoid any more unwanted contact. Unfortunately he 'accidentally' poked and tickled my arse another couple of times, so I got up and moved seats. So did he. My heart sank to my boots. Mercifully he only stayed on for another two stops and I was only subjected to one more assault before he got off.
At this point you may be wondering why I didn't say something to him or complain to the driver. The fact is I was embarrassed. Take a moment to absorb the full absurdity of that short sentence. Quite why I should feel embarrassed by being molested I don't know but I always do when these things happen. It's always the same. I was walking home many years ago when two chaps decided that, with it being a dark night, it would be a hoot to follow me down the road, calling me a prostitute and threatening to 'rape fuck' out of me. When another gentlemen spotted them and intervened I was embarrassed. Similarly every time I get flashed I'm embarrassed. It's ludicrous!
I hate embarrassment. It's so limiting. These fucking perverted weirdos could be eating spunk laced dinners and getting gang raped in Barlinnie if I wasn't so embarrassed by their behaviour. If any psychologists are reading this, I'd be delighted if you'd explain what is wrong with me.