The pick up lines endured on any given night in Newport could be a blog in itself. But, universe, this one might be my favorite.

I’ll set the stage.

I’m sitting at the bar. Alone. (By choice, thank you.) A random guy asks if he can sit next to me. Standard… “Sure,” I say.

We chat about nothing. I don’t look at him. Then the unthinkable happens.

He puts his hand on my leg–my upper thigh–and squeezes.

It took every. single. ounce. of energy to not knock him out as quickly as he thought it acceptable to touch me. And then he says this: “Sorry there, love, I just wanted to see if you had any texture there.” While I don’t even know what this means, I know I’m extremely offended (and that takes A LOT).

I ordered a shot of whiskey, took it before the bartender could put it down, and told him to get his fucking hands off me before I used my textured legs to kick his fucking ass.