I Was a Sexual Predator

When they stormed the high walls I slipped my arm along the back of the seat, timing my questing fingers to the explosion of the black powder cannons. As the rebellious hordes raced through the streets and alleys I dangled my fingers lower and gradually cupped her right breast. She remained focused on the sounds and sights of the siege on the Technicolor screen. Suddenly there was a breakthrough from below and I reached with the other hand to slip under her dress and stroke the inside of her thigh. She rushed two defensive hands to her lap and repulsed my flanking maneuver. I retreated but immediately attempted to make a new breakthrough below. Again a flurry of hands repulsed me. I sat back, regrouped, and accepted a conciliatory kiss. My hand never left her breast.

My buddy, the ex-rodeo bum, and I went to the movies one evening. It was his choice since he had the car and a driver’s license. The film was a rather forgettable historical epic titled 55 Days at Peking. The house must have been packed because we ended up sitting next to a group of girls and I discovered a very cute girl about my age in the seat immediately to my right.

After the lights went dark and the movie ran long enough to be officially boring, I began squeezing the hand on the armrest I shared with the seat next to me. I proceeded to make unasked for and possibly unwanted sexual advances for the rest of the film. I was a sexual predator.

But she did eventually turn towards me and invited many many long and sloppy kisses.

Still, I look back on that evening over fifty years ago and I can only admit that on that evening I was a white-privileged male sexual predator.

After the movie we all went our separate ways. I never learned her name and never saw her again. Probably the worst thing about the entire incident was that my friend was super impressed by my apparent score with the ladies, as he put it, and I accepted his praise with a puffed up ego and three tacos down at the Jack-In-the-Box on the way home.