Our NYC correspondent #demandABBY gets her progressive panties in a twist.

I was taking the L train to Bedford to get a tall non-fat skim soy extra hot sugar-free caramel grass-fed Nicaraguan slow-drip coffee from my favorite gluten-free fair trade café when I was groped–again? #amirite ladies?–by what I thought was a dime-a-dozen misogynistic immigrant. That was when I realized I was wrong. This wasn’t just any Pablo.

When I looked up, I saw beautiful blonde wisps of prepubescent Bieber bangs delicately draped across impeccably smooth, lightly tanned skin, directing my gaze onto determined, ice blue eyes that winked at me with aggressive determination. I realized my conflict when I noticed the “Make America Great Again” screen-printed red shirt falling pleasantly over impeccable pecs, just tight enough to reveal his washboard abs that triggered fantasies of my delicate female fingers outlining them softly.

 

 

Wait, what?? I instantly thought back to all of the magazine articles, “13 Reasons You Can Never Change Your Man” and “Why You’re Better Off Accepting Him How He Is” and the likes. Maybe I can’t change him, so what if I just fucked him? The thrill of sleeping with the enemy–literally–made me wet on the subway. No wait, it’s just that a seat opened up and someone had spilled their apple juice, staining my yoga pants. Great.

 

I sat there, three stops away, now eye level with his crotch, when I noticed a delicious bulge. He’s still looking at me at this point, and I knew I had to get his number.

 

“Nice shirt,” I said without thinking. Nice shirt!? Basically the only thing I didn’t like about him was the text on his shirt and I had to bring up the elephant in the room.

He was startled. He didn’t want to talk to me, he didn’t want to hear any compliments–he just groped my ass 20 seconds ago. He panicked and grabbed my chest. My eyes rolled back, aroused, and I grabbed his wrists, clutching them so their grasp wouldn’t leave my breasts. OMG this is starting to sound like porn and I missed my stop.

At that moment, I realized I had to get his number. “Give me your digits, you powerful man,” I said, hoping he would respond better to language that suited his lifestyle. He grabbed my phone from my Lululemon sports bra and started putting it in. I immediately recognized is 501 area code from Arkansas and thought to myself how I might sneak this hot fresh-off-the-Greyhound hunk into my Gramercy apartment without my 7 roommates finding out.

What do I do, do I call him? I got off at Grand Street and pounded the streets of Brooklyn, pining after my new boo, obviously in town for the White Women’s Lives Matter rally up on 5th Avenue. Help, dear readers. I fell in love with a neo-Nazi.

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