So the other day I’m fumbling through Copley Place when I get stuck behind this couple in their mid-40s. All is good except for two things: They’re walking so slowly, they’re practically standing still [and, thus, hampering my "on the go" lifestyle].
Also, the guy has his hand secured snugly inside the back pocket of the woman’s jeans.
Ass man that I am, I have never understood the allure of the “let me walk around with my hand in the back pocket of my girl’s jeans” maneuver.
The biggest reason: it’s not very comfortable. I love ass, but I also love comfort. And when I’m walking through the golf course, meandering down a windswept alley, going to the casino, or trolling the liquor aisle at Wal-Mart, it’s all about comfort.
If the hands are inserted into said pocket quickly, say during a spontaneous kiss or while pausing to whisper sweet inanities like, “You rock” or “Let’s go dress up as pirates and fuck each other retarded,” then I can understand… my hands are roaming your backside and sliding them into your pockets seems amusing in a “gee whiz” kinda way.
But to walk for any great distance with a hand in someone’s back pocket? Unacceptable. Unless you’re lollygagging around Woodstock during Jimi Hendrix’ performance. Then it’s perfectly okay.
As fate would have it, a few hours later, I witnessed an even greater offense: A hookerish-chick in her early 20s walking with some thick-necked lug in a Gold’s Gym sweatshirt who’s simply gripping her ass as they amble along.
And I mean gripping. No back pockets, hell not even a beltloop to slide a couple fingers through; just his beefy mitt on her rather bitchin’ ass.
I’m watching this madness asking myself, “What’s the message here?” Is he that enamored of her backside that he has to get his feel on 24/7? Or, more likely, is it a not-so-subtle message to all us pencil-necks: “When I’m not pounding iron or quaffing protein shakes, I’m tapping THIS SPECTACULAR ASS! And YOU’RE NOT!”
Either way, it’s a wonder I even leave the house any more.