It was 1993. I was living in Montpellier, France as an exchange student when I was 21. My American friend Soonie and I had gone out in the centre-ville and were walking back home to our host family's houses at 3 a.m. We lived in a quiet, quasi-suburban neighborhood, the kind of place where nothing happened. As we chatted in English, walking down the narrow street that led to the hill to our homes, I noticed footsteps behind us. In a case like that, it is natural for me to maneuver so I can see who's behind me, at least in my peripheral vision. So I whispered to Soonie to move over to the side so we could get this person in front of us.
He was a guy not far from our age, dressed in the normal manner. That was a relief. He stopped next to a car in the row of parked cars. I heard the jingle of change. He didn't unlock the car door, though: he dropped his pants.
Soonie walked away.
I aimed four front snap kicks into his testicles with my Ferragamo loafers.
Soonie burst out laughing. I realized it would be smart to run. He didn't follow us. Probably hard to after you've been kicked in the balls four times with pointy shoes.
Posted 22nd March 2007 by J
