The Pervert of Princess Street

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I’ve always been fascinated by sexual deviants. Take exhibitionists. What do they gain from flashing unsuspecting onlookers? We all know the answer: thrills. Certainly a power trip from seeing how they shock, disgust, frighten, or enrage their victims. My question is, how did they get that way? Were they born like that, or did something happen to them along the way that twisted the wiring of their brains? Do they feel ashamed afterwards, or, on the contrary, proud of what they’ve done? To me, it seems like a hilarious and at the same time pathetic way to derive a sense of triumph from life, but what the hell, I’m all for the diversity of the species.

When I was 16, I was riding my bike to my grandmother’s house — yes, really, just like Little Red Riding Hood — when I came across a man who took his dick out of his pants just as I was about to pass by him. It was truly an alarming experience since we were on a two-lane bike path that traversed the city, thick trees on either side obscuring the view. A complete trap; just the kind of place where girls are kidnapped and their naked bodies later discovered weeks later.

From my bike, I could sense some kind of bad news coming as I approached this blond-haired man in jeans and a jean jacket, mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes and making him that much more menacing. I saw him focus all his attention towards me, his hands on the waistband of his jeans… and then, just as I came up in front of him, he pulled his pants down just enough to expose his junk. I don’t remember if it was erect or not. I just remember how my heart jolted into my throat and my stomach turned as I whizzed by.

And then the fury hit. I felt violated. Reflexively, I turned around and screamed, “Fuck you, asshole!!!”

“Shut up, cunt,” he shouted back. Ahh, America. Good times.

I pedaled as fast as I could till I got to my grandma’s house, where she and my mother were waiting for me. I told them what had happened and they took me right to the police station and filed a report. The cops took me to a room where a lineup of some five freshly-arrested men were standing against a wall behind one-way glass. No, they didn’t have to pull down their pants, though it is a funny joke that most everyone likes to make when they hear this story. They just stood there sullenly as I checked them out one by one. None of them were my harasser.

I returned home disappointed. I wanted it to turn out like in the crime series: I’d recognize the criminal beyond any doubt and the full weight of the law would come down on him, his penis and his balls. Months in prison, yeah, that would be lovely. What can I say? I’m American. We’re obsessed with sure and easy justice.

That was my first experience with a pervert in my path but not at all my last. As it happens, just last night I enjoyed, along with my girlfriends, the funniest open-fly attack of my life. The fact that I was out on the town with my dearfriends in a busy neighborhood in the city center, everyone in a great mood, iPhones in our hands and at the ready, certainly were influencing factors.

Everyone enjoyed the experience; especially, of course, the Pervert of Princess Street, whom I’ve now found out through various comments on Instagram, is quite famous throughout the city. It was a victimless crime. And we gave him his moment of triumph not just with our loudly horrified reaction, but also because we filmed it. His gift to us, in turn, was these hilarious videos. So everyone was happy. My psychological scars from the creepy, Jeffrey Dahmer lookalike perv on the wooded bike path in Milwaukee, Wisconsin have been cured. Life is beautiful.

(Below is the censored, YouTube version because the image is one of those that you cannot un-see once it’s been burned into your brain; if you wish to see the original in all its glory, click here, perverts.)

[And now The Making Of, because we are true cineastes, with all the accompanying pretensions:]

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