Hats off to Prudie for finding a new twist on the wedding letter. Second one in, after the brainy kid. Atheist groomsman is uncomfortable about being a part of his Pentecostal brother's upcoming nuptials, but not for the reason you might expect. The best man is a longstanding family friend who, twelve years ago, murdered his own sister. He was a juvenile at the time and only did four years, but the letter writer and his mother both suspect that his very public religious reawakening is just a mask worn by the same evil little psychopath. Since everyone's so enraptured by this guy's redemption, it'd be impolite to ever mention or remember the sister he killed, so it's like her existence has been totally erased. He's like fuck this guy, and I don't know what to tell him. Prudie says he should hold his nose and go through with it, limiting his interactions with Mr. Best Man.
Next one up is a subject near and dear to my heart — the perplexing case of a man trying to understand his own interactions with women. This guy was at a street festival and wound up spending his time at the performance rubbing his elbow around and around the boobs of the complete stranger standing next to him. After beating off to the memory about ten times, he writes in to Prudence, confused. Was their encounter consensual, or is he one of those notorious public space gropers? Prudie absolves him of guilt, but warns him that this was like a unicorn event in his life and that he should never ever go out trying to replicate it. Well, hold on to your hats, Penthouse Forum, because I never thought something like that would happen to me, but listen to my story of what went down just two nights ago! [This whole post turned out WAY longer than I intended.]
I went to a show on Saturday and had a good time. Other people were enjoying themselves too, and there was a small crowd in front of the stage bopping along to the music. There I was, minding my own business, when I became aware of a very pretty young woman standing to my left. We were packed together fairly close in the crowd, but not that close, so I noticed when she lightly pressed her arm against mine and maintained contact. I'm big into preserving my personal space and usually do a pretty good job of telegraphing this, but I was a few drinks in and maybe feeling less uptight than usual.
The whole situation would have been completely different for a woman, I'm sure. Physical contact out of nowhere likely isn't much of a surprise or a mystery, and an arm isn't nearly the worst thing they might find brushing up against them. So it's always more of an open question of whether or not what I'm reading as a come-on is, in reality, a fiction created by a horny brain.
A lot has changed for me since grade school, but some things have not, so my technique in this area is pretty consistent with how I first went to hold hands across the movie armrest. Slowly, by awkward stages, we slid together, her standing in front. It's funny — things never went beyond PG-13, but the whole anonymous person in a crowd thing is not a regular deal for me, so my heart was pounding and my throat was way dry. It was a fun way to enjoy the rest of the show, but I didn't wind up getting her number, or her name. The people I was with had the usual sort of emergencies to attend to, and I ended up leaving kind of abruptly. It was a surprisingly nice experience, and I had the impression I was better off quitting while I was ahead.
Anyway, I touched a tit, he touched a tit, and that's worth high-fiving over. The end.