7 August 2010
I sucked in my stomach as the train doors close in front of me, almost threatening to decapitate my nose. In crowded places like a train, I often wondered how it is possible to respect another’s personal space. I’ve taken the train in Tokyo which is equally dense; however I’ve never felt violated despite the rumors of the chikan. Therefore in confined crowded spaces like this, I am often on alert and keep my hands protecting either my breast; or my ass (you've got to sacrifice one).
At Orchard station, a Malay girl and her friend squeezed in just in time. She was a little shorter than me, and looked rather pretty. To my visual advantage, she was wearing a low neckline racer-back top. I could see that she was wearing a lacy black bra, and I’d say it’s a C cup. My hands were pressed against my own chest (as there wasn’t room to move), and as the doors beep shut, she pressed her body against me to avoid her just-as-big ass being decapitated. As the train chugged along, there we were in an awkward position: my palms touching my own chest, the back of my forearms rubbing her cleavage.
She looked at me apologetically, and mumbled sorry. I was appalled and told her I should say sorry instead.
Would it be the same, if I was a man?
I sucked in my stomach as the train doors close in front of me, almost threatening to decapitate my nose. In crowded places like a train, I often wondered how it is possible to respect another’s personal space. I’ve taken the train in Tokyo which is equally dense; however I’ve never felt violated despite the rumors of the chikan. Therefore in confined crowded spaces like this, I am often on alert and keep my hands protecting either my breast; or my ass (you've got to sacrifice one).
At Orchard station, a Malay girl and her friend squeezed in just in time. She was a little shorter than me, and looked rather pretty. To my visual advantage, she was wearing a low neckline racer-back top. I could see that she was wearing a lacy black bra, and I’d say it’s a C cup. My hands were pressed against my own chest (as there wasn’t room to move), and as the doors beep shut, she pressed her body against me to avoid her just-as-big ass being decapitated. As the train chugged along, there we were in an awkward position: my palms touching my own chest, the back of my forearms rubbing her cleavage.
She looked at me apologetically, and mumbled sorry. I was appalled and told her I should say sorry instead.
Would it be the same, if I was a man?
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