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A few months after the “double standards” occurrence, I was again at the same club and speaking with two ladies. Something in the conversation prompted a third to disclose that she was municipal police (and although the club was not in that city, municipal police in this state have extended jurisdiction for the entire county in which the city partially lies, which did include the county of this particular club). No fan of cops (and definitely not white cops), I excused myself from the conversation and went on my way. Over the course of the evening—and it should be noted, as she consumed more and more alcohol—it seemed as though she were on a mission to prove to me that she was not the I’m-right-you’re-wrong, thump-your-skull type. Eventually, and with all possible irony, I said, “girl, quit trying to get up my skirt!” She responded that she would get up my skirt if she wished and then reached under my mini and grabbed my junk. It took me a few months to resolve my feelings about this. On the one hand, I found it funny; on the other hand, I found it objectionable; on still another hand I found it somewhat flattering. At the same time it suddenly became very real to me what American women have had to deal with (and still deal with?). I might be in an insulated geography, and as far as I know this conduct does not routinely befall women around me, but that is by no means indicative of the entire world. In my own lifetime I have heard stories of airline attendants’ being constantly groped, pinched, and catcalled by male passengers. But what really, really bothered me about my insignificant event was that she was 5-0 and that what she did was a crime (specifically, misdemeanor “physical harassment,” which in this state simply means subjecting a person to hostile physical contact). Had any other female been so forward…we might have hooked up (and who can forget such famous scenes from Crocodile Dundee). But here was a po-po doing the very thing for which she would arrest a man had the roles been reversed. And this is where my sense of violation really rested, that is, in the hypocrisy of it. My sense of violation was a moral one. Part of me wanted to hold her accountable while the other part of me felt it appropriate to overlook the inebriated indiscretion. My indecision simmered on my back-burner for a few months until I decided to just let it stay in the past. It wasn’t really that big of a deal. And this, too, opened my eyes to the mental deliberations that women experience throughout their lives. It really was an eye-opening and sobering experience.