If I was the first one there and could do anything useful, I like to believe I would not be too squeamish to jump out of my car to help. But if a crowd is already there, including people trained to handle such emergencies, I'd stay out of the way. And I wouldn't look. If I want to be disgusted to death, I'll go to New York and get somebody to throw up on my shoes in the subway. Then there are your garden-variety flashers.
Most women know that part of their thrill is our reaction.
If we don't appear to notice, it takes all the fun out of it for them. These are all the reasons I did not go to the corner of Fifth and Walnut streets Wednesday morning to see Hustler magazine publisher Larry Flynt. Sanitized and sanctified by Hollywood, he has come back to spit in our eye. Or probably another version would be that he has come to lift the veil of oppression from the eyes of poor Cincinnatians starved for the sight of a naked woman in handcuffs. But I didn't have to look.