I watched a guy get a hand job on a crowded street today

via Shutterstock

via Shutterstock


 

Today, on my way to get a sandwich from the same place I go every day because this neighborhood is neglect of quick lunch spots, I’m almost positive I witnessed a man getting a hand job on a crowded street.

A woman stood in front of him, shoulder pressed to his chest, hand before his crotch with her body turned slightly as if part of the act but not fully committed. An unwilling participant is a fair statement to make had the police arrived and polled each passerby as to what he or she saw or did not see. People shuffled by, unaware, at least fifty by my rough head count. The questioning could take hours.

“Her hand moved rapidly officer and his head bowed down, watched, back bent forward in a position very similar to a solo masturbatory performance. His face, visibly scarred from constant drug use or just completely unaware of a Proactiv kiosk in the area, looked just as shocked as mine as to what was going down. What was literally going down.” — eyewitness going to the same lunch spot for the eighth straight day.

An email this morning inquired if any employees were interested in standing desks. I declined. I prefer the feel of a prisoner in a short walled cubicle cell than hamster on a treadmill. Unless I can get an actual treadmill desk, that I’ll take, and on day one I punch the speed up to 9 and see how much work I can get done before vomiting on my wireless mouse.

The sandwiches are passable. The bread is infused with green olives. Seamless is always an option but the delivery of sustenance leaves pissing as the sole reason to pull my body away from my desk during the work day. That’s sad.

So I go out for lunch. To get some fresh air. Grab some food. Witness a woman tug off another junkie for a fix, or money, or maybe even a bite of the same sandwich I’m holding in my hand that I probably wouldn’t trade for a street hand job because it’s pretty tasty and her strokes look inefficient and this thing cost $11 and I’d never pay that much for a hand job. Maybe $9.

Maybe I was mistaken.

And so I turn around, to be sure, and there’s his knob head peeking out from her hand and does anyone want a sandwich cause I’m probably not going to eat it.

Meet Chris for lunch or maybe just follow him on Twitter.