Rude Boy

So there we are.

In the parking lot of The Jack Rose.

We met for drinks and spent about an hour chatting.

We walked to my car and he kissed me goodnight.

It wasn’t bad. Not fabulous, but it also didn’t suck.

I turned around to get in my car and that’s when it happened.

He punched me in my ass.

“What was that for?” I asked, a little freaked out.

“Smack dat ass,” he replied, telling me nothing except that he was a Rude Boy.

I barely know him.

He is not INVITED to smack my ass, let alone punch it.

I was offended.

I have a feeling he wanted to SLAP it but then felt awkward about it but didn’t manage to stop himself in time.

Hence, THE PUNCH.

I’m telling you this because ONCE AGAIN, I found myself in a situation where I am forced to remain composed when inside I’m raging.

You don’t touch me with WITHOUT my permission.

One drink, an hour of conversation, and one passably decent kiss DOES NOT MEAN YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO SMACK ME.

Just to cap things off, I went home and climbed in bed.

He sent me a text:

“Take off you pants right now”

It’s gonna be a cold day in hell before I take my pants off for you.

Ironically, he’s a policeman in the Air Force, so he should know all about crossing the boundary between acceptable behavior and sexual battery.

Rude Boy.