I confront the pervert on the bus.

If I were to say I've encountered countless perverts on buses, it would be at least eight hundred, if not a thousand. Why? Because my home is in the suburbs. From elementary school to high school, I have to walk (a few minutes) to the bus stop, take a 35-minute bus ride, and then walk for another 20 minutes (or take one bus stop and walk for 5 minutes) to get to school.
I vaguely remember it was the spring of the second semester of third grade. I was taking the bus home, but the only difference was when I got off. I saw a short man gripping my genitals tightly with his sharp fingers (almost tearing my pants). Just a moment before, I was laughing and joking with my classmates, completely oblivious. I jumped off the bus, and at that moment... There was no sadness, melancholy, or frustration, just confusion. What was this man doing? Why was he bothering me? I wasn't happy; it didn't seem like a good thing.
Thinking back to that time, I was already 145 cm tall, and my breasts had developed, full like flower buds. In my memory, there was that man's hand that insisted on placing on my chest, even though it was winter and I was wearing a thick, faux-fur coat. The train was so crowded I couldn't move, and I hated that disgusting feeling of suffocation. I hate that man's hand in my memory.
First, I realized the hypocrisy of men; second, I finally understood the importance of public... There's no way to avoid a bus pervert, because you can't escape; thirdly, I finally understood that good people create my downfall, and I create those who are downfall; if someone offends me, I will punish them!
In junior high: My stance against bus perverts had completely transformed from confusion to hatred. Spitting, stomping on them, and kicking them backward were things I often did. I
don't really remember any specific ones, except for one white pair of pants that has always remained in some corner of my memory. That time, I thought someone was pressed tightly against my buttocks. I moved forward, but he still pressed against me. I glanced down, trying to see where his feet were so I could kick them, but... The white pants I tested were snow-white, clinging tightly to my back.
So I kicked them hard with the sole of my dirty shoe. Instantly, the white pants disappeared. I felt incredibly smug, imagining the shoe print on the white pants and their unfortunate death, and I was extremely happy, like Ah Q. By
the second year of junior high, I was already 162 cm tall, and my courage seemed to be growing as well. But more importantly, none of the perverts on the bus I spat on, kicked, or even cursed at ever retaliated against me. Why were these grown men afraid of me? Because they felt guilty and in the wrong, which further emboldened me. His arrogance even became a habit—if someone accidentally bumped into me on the bus, I would shift my position. If a pervert followed me and repeated these actions, I would turn around and stare at him intently—like Sakuragi Hanamichi's "I'll kill you with my eyes wide open." When I was in a bad mood, I would add viciously, "You motherfucker, do you want to die?!"
By the time I was about to graduate from junior high, I no longer hated bus perverts; I only felt disdain. Why would a man seek pleasure here?
Because he couldn't make a lot of money, couldn't find mistresses, or use nicknames. (Back then, mistresses weren't common); because he lacked the ability to become a big-time thug, he could only act like a small-time thug on the bus; because he was timid, otherwise why would he have slunk away after I scolded him; I was even confused at the time, wondering if these people were all henpecked or pathetic men who couldn't find wives... High school: I was silent, I exploded. In high school, it would be more accurate to say I witnessed bus perverts than to say I encountered them.
After years of testing, I have learned to protect myself. Taking the bus at least twice a day is when I am most focused, and after getting on the bus, I observe the people around me in the shortest possible time. I would observe a woman's gender, age, orientation, and gaze, and find the place where I felt most comfortable. This kind of life improved my ability to read people's expressions and feelings, and instilled in me a distrust and unease towards men that I still feel to this day.
Many times it was strange—a pervert would press his "gun" against a woman's buttocks, like when I got on the bus, and I would keep glancing sideways at him, but the woman wouldn't move, even when the bus was nearly empty, she would still remain still, letting him harass her. I would guess that she must be too tired from work that day and didn't want to argue with a pervert; sometimes I would feel sorry for her, thinking she should be like me. To call him a pervert; in short, I don't really understand.
There was another time, which shouldn't be considered harassment, but more like an accident. When getting off the bus, people often crowd around the door, and I was one of them. Suddenly, I felt a student about my height standing behind me. I could feel his penis moving on my soft buttocks. I mischievously and intentionally positioned my buttocks against his penis, and I felt a strong throbbing… The door opened, and I got off. [The rest of the text appears to be a jumbled collection of characters and symbols, possibly from different sources, and doesn't form coherent sentences. A direct translation isn't meaningful without further context.] In the north, it gets dark early. Around 7 pm, the sky was only a faint orange-red, and the dim streetlights stood beside the bus stop sign. A man in a trench coat walked towards me from across the street.
He walked straight towards me, and I just stared at him (actually, I could only see his trench coat clearly because my vision had decreased from 1.5 to 0.6, and the poor lighting made it impossible to see anything).
Once, I encountered a pervert on the bus, but he seemed to enjoy it; I guess I'm really getting old.
Another time, quite by chance, I saw a group of boys get on the bus. One of them, who seemed to be from my kindergarten, squeezed next to me and faced me. He had clearly forgotten about me. To my surprise, he put his fingers between my legs. Although there was a barrier... Despite the thick cotton pants, I still felt it. I tried to get rid of his hand, but he blocked my way with his leg. He even chatted loudly with his friends while touching me. I lowered my head, feeling utterly humiliated and helpless. Before getting off the bus, the boy even grabbed my groin hard... Another person I remember vividly is a middle-aged man in his forties, whom I thought was my grandfather when I was little. That "old man" always put his hand on mine when shaking hands, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get away. Finally, I crawled to the door and grabbed the upright door, but I was still pinned down by a hateful hand. I angrily searched for the owner of this hand, and sure enough, it was the old man. He was wearing a Zhongshan suit, glasses, and was gentle and refined. After getting off the bus, I mustered all my strength, held my breath, and spat at him. Of course, I didn't spit anywhere, but on him. I felt much better afterward, and my mood improved a little. That deceased old man had a profound impact on my life.
When I got very close, I finally saw that under the trench coat was flesh-colored—he wasn't wearing anything. Suddenly, I felt a surge of curiosity about the penis of an adult man, wanting to examine it closely.
However, I only saw a dark blob (I wish I had a flashlight—it's funny), and still couldn't see clearly. The man in the trench coat stopped in front of me, a hint of disappointment on his face. At that moment, I think I remained remarkably calm; I was only curious, without any fear or apprehension, let alone screaming. The man in the trench coat walked past me and continued walking. I followed him for about ten steps, still curious, when he suddenly stopped… I suddenly realized that it was incredibly inappropriate for a seventeen or eighteen-year-old girl like myself to be following a naked man in a trench coat. So I went back to the bus stop and waited for the bus.
Getting back to the point, that experience a little over a month before the college entrance exam is something I will never forget. Not because of hatred, but because… It was the end.
The college entrance exam was just ten days away, and my energy was incredibly crucial. Every day I carried a heavy backpack, endless homework, and I could even fall asleep leaning against the wardrobe at night. The pressure was almost unbearable. That day, I was walking down the street when a bus came along, offering a one-stop ride and saving me the 10-minute walk.
I was overjoyed. I squeezed onto the bus with many classmates, and a tall, imposing man stood face-to-face with me. I knew he wasn't a good guy, but there was nothing I could do; it was too crowded, and I was about to get off, so I endured it.
The bus swayed and slowed down, and then this unpleasant man unzipped my jeans, trying to put his hand inside. I was both angry and anxious, quickly blocking his hand and zipping up my jeans.
The bus stopped, and I wanted to get off, but he thought I was trying to get rid of him and blocked my way. Yes, he was strong and tall; I couldn't overpower this unpleasant man. The feelings I had at that moment were indescribable—a mix of despair and a surge of anger.
Hehe, let's digress a bit and talk about "the public transport station exhibitionist."
I was thinking: Damn it, I only rode one stop and I ran into a thug! You won't let me get off? Fine! I'm not getting off today!!!
Coincidentally, on the same bus, there was a boy from the next class I knew (his father and my mother were colleagues), so I asked him in an unusually calm, even gentle tone, "*Yang, do you have a knife?" Who knew he really did (maybe if he didn't, I wouldn't have been so impulsive, after all, I'm a kid who values my life), and it was a pretty big, powerful knife, gleaming coldly in the darkness. When he gave it to me, he instructed, "Don't tell your mom, don't let my dad know." I gripped the knife tightly, my hilt feeling like it would fall off. Ten years of suppressed humiliation, ten years of melancholy, ten years of pent-up anger completely erupted at that moment. My voice was incredibly loud, like a shrew yelling in the street, shouting out everything I wanted to say.
The so-called intimidation radius used to be at most 0.4 meters (after all, even perverts have their pride), but this time the radius was a full 10 meters. I went hysterical, screaming and cursing at the top of my lungs, shouting out everything I could and knew. Many classmates were scared to the front of the car by me (or the knife). I held the knife to the tall man.
He didn't say a word, turned his back to me, and I cursed, "Fuck your mother! You wolf in sheep's clothing, acting like a thug! You're not looking at me now, but you touched my dick earlier..." He turned around, seemingly wanting to say something, and I cursed, "You motherfucker, you dare to speak?! Fuck your mother, if you dare to say a word today, I'll stab you to death!" I held the knife to his lower back, and he subconsciously took a step forward, really didn't say anything, and even gave others a very aggrieved look, which made me even angrier.
Anyway, I cursed for two or three stops, and I don't even know what I said anymore. The pervert got off the bus, and I was still yelling at him from the bus: "You just wait, if I see you again, I'll castrate you! I'll fuck your mother..." When I got home, I was still in an extremely agitated state. I told my parents about the job, and of course, about the knife. My dad said it was a military dagger, a controlled weapon. My mom wrapped it in several layers of newspaper and told me to return it to Yang the next day. My dad gave me a dagger he'd sharpened in his youth, telling me to carry it with me... The next morning, my deskmate excitedly asked me, "I heard you ran into some thugs yesterday." "Yeah, bad luck." The fat guy in front of me turned around and said, "I heard you said something really classic yesterday..." "Really? I don't even remember what I said. What was it?" The fat guy said, "You really forgot? They said you cursed yesterday, 'You have a dick, what dick are you showing off?'" A burst of laughter followed... Thinking back, it really was classic, "You have a dick, what dick are you showing off?" I kept it in my "book of memories."
Later, I went to university in the south, almost never took the bus, and never encountered any perverts.
"I'll give you a ride!" This threat always worked; perverts would often abandon me and look for other targets.
Now, I work in a city in southern China, taking the company bus to and from work every day, and I'm perfectly at peace.

URL 1:https://www.sexlove5.com/htmlBlog/51305.html

URL 2:/Blog.aspx?id=51305&aspx=1

Previous Page : A short story (1-4)

Next Page : Mature woman in stockings met at a social gathering

增加

comment Open a new window to view comments

Contact Information

I confront the pervert on the bus.

comment Open a new window to view comments