A man with his hand down his pants

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A few hours ago I was sitting here at Starbucks. There was a man to my left. We were outdoors, and he was speaking on his cell phone.

I was watching him only because he was in my sight range. He was nothing to look at. I don’t mean that cruelly. He was just a guy. Panama Jack shirt, baggy jeans, grayish hair, glasses.

Then, without warning, he slipped his right hand down the back of his pants and started rubbing and scratching his ass. Now, to be fair, I too have rubbed and scratched my ass. But not at a Starbucks in Southern California, or New York, or anywhere. When I scratch and rub my ass, it’s almost always in the privacy of my own home. Because that’s a reliably private place to scratch and rub ass.

This man, though, decided he should share the moment. So now I’m writing about it.

Ah, the Internet.

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