By Scarlette Quille
A few Saturdays ago I went out for drinks with a couple of friends. We went to a local establishment in Sandpoint, one that serves hard liquor and has outdoor seating. It was about 70 degrees out, full sunshine. In North Idaho, 70 degrees in May is considered a heat wave. Locals were out in full force that evening sweating through their T-shirts and complaining of heat stroke. The local intolerance to “heat” has always amused me, as I spent a good portion of my life in Boise, and no one bats an eye at the heat in the southern part of our states until it’s well above 90 degrees. Give those southerners two inches of snow, and the whole city will shut down. Same state, different song I suppose.
There were about 23 people on the deck. Statistically speaking, the average customer age was 36.7 years old. Eight of the customers were smoking, and every one of those people was drinking a cocktail of sorts. If I am being honest, I can’t say that the two small children with their mother were definitely drinking cocktails. However, the children seemed content to bask in second-hand smoke whilst participating in the surrounding bar patrons’ various conversations. I will leave it up to you on whether or not that is a normal childhood activity. However, I will say in their mother’s defense, they are not the only children I have seen at a bar in Sandpoint. Love it or hate it, it is a very typical scenario for a sunny Saturday night out in Sandpoint.
Typical wouldn’t be worth writing a story about though, would it?
It was at this point when a group of two men and one woman in their 20s stepped onto the deck, looking as though they had been enjoying spring break in Cabo. The men had on typical clothing. But the woman was wearing an outfit I can only describe as cut-off denim diaper thong and a tube top. This outfit would not be unusual in a ‘90s rap video, or perhaps even at the beach. But it was very out of place in a family bar in North Idaho. As the woman sauntered up the stairs, the two children put down their drinks to watch a finely toned set of exposed buttocks jiggle past them almost grazing their mother’s lit cigarette. Every single person watched as the half- naked woman pranced by and then leaned over the bar to get her drinks. For a moment no one spoke. It was such an unnerving site that women forgot to reprimand their partners for staring, and no one really knew how to react.
On the one hand, she did have a glorious ass. I mean, it was perfect. I hadn’t seen anything like it in real life. Asses like that only exist in the filtered storybook land of Instagram. Speculation began as to whether we’d walk into a bar wearing a thong and a tube top if we had an ass like that. I imagine that the other tables were talking about similar things — that is if they were not actively engaged in pointing, staring and secretly trying to take pictures of her ass with their cell phones.
This is the point in the story when things really went south for me as someone who considers themselves feminist. I don’t know whether to be disgusted, amazed, supportive or tell the patrons to stop. I mean she didn’t really seem to mind the objectification, so who was I to judge? It would be easy to just mind my own business and avert my eyes. Except, that when she sat down, her diaper thong disappeared into the upper level of her crack, and then her butt cheeks were just sitting their facing the rest of the bar. BARE ASS CHEEKS, just sweating all over the public seating, right alongside people who are trying to have a nice drink and smoke with their kids. Isn’t there such a thing as a health code? It seems like there should be some sort of rule against exposed genitalia in places where people are eating. You have to wear shoes and a shirt to dine in most establishments, so covering your ass seems to fall in line with those basic expectations. This disturbed me, as I am a germophobe and have a difficult time not imaging how many communicable diseases I expose myself to every time I venture into public.
I found myself pondering things like, “If she was to have something like crabs, every person who sat in her seat the rest of the night would clearly be exposed.” I’m not going to say they would contract them, as I’m not sure what the shelf life of crabs are, but I think you can safely catch what I’m laying down. Then I felt guilty for giving her imaginary crabs.
On the other hand, if she was a man or a heavy woman wearing the same clothes, she would have been asked to leave — no question. My opinion is that an ass is an ass; it doesn’t matter whose it is. My opinion isn’t about body shaming, or monitoring someone’s outfit, it’s about general hygiene and communicable disease control. People don’t walk around in their underwear for a reason, and it’s not because society is oppressive. In fact, most people don’t like to eat french fries in close proximity to a stranger’s exposed ass. It’s called common courtesy. Five years ago, she would have been asked to put some pants on. Now the bartender is so afraid of being publicly flogged on social media for “shaming” the woman into wearing an appropriate ass covering, he would rather just let the patron rub her anus all over the patio furniture and get the Clorox out when she leaves.
I’m thinking we need to put some new signs up around town in the places that serve food specifically: “Shirts, shoes and covered asses required.”
And just a rule of thumb or general yardstick for any of you who enjoy wearing the short shorts: If you sit down and you can feel the restaurant chair sticking to your bare ass as the seam of your shorts cuts uncomfortably into your genitalia, YOUR SHORTS ARE TOO SHORT.
Happy Summer ya’ll,
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