Café con Lechery

An old friend reminded me tonight of a rather disturbing thing that happened to me in a Starbucks when I was a teenager. I had been waiting innocently at the bar for my coffee, and I’d asked the barista for whipped cream on top of my drink. Overhearing my request, an older man who was also waiting for his drink leaned over to me and said, with a lecherous arch of his eyebrow and a twinkle in his eye, “So, you like your fat whipped?”

That’s right: he was trying to confirm whether or not I did, indeed, “like my fat whipped.” I’m pretty sure that the reason I had blocked this memory out until tonight was because WHAT WHO SAYS THAT. I mean, think about it. In one measly little sentence, this peculiar creep managed to be sexually inappropriate, socially inappropriate AND to make a reference to my FAT, for Christ’s sake! I’m pretty sure the words, “Well, I never!” came out of my mouth in response, mostly because I talk like an old-timey schoolmarm when I feel threatened.

Retrospectively, though? Thanks for the laugh, you greasy pervert, you. Thanks for the laugh.