“It was disgusting,” she grimaces to show what she means as plainly as possible. “His hand did not feel like that of a man—it was … slimy.” I shake my head in disbelief. “I almost slapped him,” she continues, “but there were too many people crowded around us.” I shake my head again. “Forget it,” she grins and waves her hand happily, “this happened many years ago.” She is talking about a man from Motovun who grabbed her by the ass as she was walking into a café. I know him well. Very well, in fact. We were talking about his slimy ways when ass-grabbing came up out of the blue. “You know,” I mumble at last, “not only that I have never done anything like that, but it has never crossed my mind, either.” It takes me a while to realize that I am sort of apologizing to her. It is as though I feel guilty for something disgusting another man has done to her. Actually, it is as though I am apologizing to all women for everything disgusting men have ever done to them.