Despite what my appreciation for the musical stylings of one Mr. Usher Raymond IV might suggest, I do not want to make love in this club. I don’t even want to make friends in this club. I already have friends with me – friends I intend to use as human shields and/or surrogate boyfriends to provide myself with some modicum of protection and personal space this evening. I appreciate that the preponderance of insufficiently covered breasts has probably thrown your testosterone production into overdrive, but I’m sorry to inform you that this isn’t a candy store. You can’t just grab fistfuls of whatever looks good.
But I belittle you, Men of Clubs, for most of you are certainly more strategic than that. You prowl the dance floor like lions on the Serengeti, waiting for me to get really into whatever Ke$ha jam is playing at the moment, then without breaking your stride, grab my arm and attempt to pull me along behind you, never doubting for a second that I will follow. When I break free, you give it a good 20 minutes or so then try again. Are you hoping that during that time period I will have gotten drunker and changed my “no” to a “yes?” How charmingly rape-y of you.
Later I encounter you again at the bar, where, despite my four prior rejections, you offer to buy me a drink. I politely decline though, because just as I did not want to be holdin’ you on the dance floor, I also do not want to be beholden to you for a beverage or anything else. Your generosity might be better received by one of the underage girls who will otherwise have to get her drink on by slurping down her older friends’ two dollar cranberry vodkas in the bathroom.
Do be warned, though, for while I will try to maintain a good attitude and enjoy my night out with my friends, over time my patience will wane. I will become a little less friendly every time you grab me from behind, every time you tell me you own the club and order me to dance with you, every time you physically block my passage, causing me to hip-check you out of the way. I’m a lady in the street and Darren frickin’ McCarty in the club.
Perhaps you think me unkind. I can hardly be offended by guys wanting to dance with me at a club, of all places. And to those few gems among you who have asked me with your words and not your hands, I applaud you and absolve you of the general label of “skeevy” I have bestowed upon your bretheren. Never mind the fact that “do you want to dance?” actually means “would you care to rub your ass rhythmically on my genitals?” At least you ASKED. But no, no thank you.
Best of luck,