It’s been a stressful week. You have one thought on your mind—just dance, gonna be okay! Thank you Mother Monster for those few words of wisdom. Onward to the dance floor! You traipse through a repulsive mess of sweaty bodies. You ignore the girl being penetrated through her jeans by the dude she just met who is now driving his pelvis full force into her ass while she clings tightly to the stage… Okay, let’s be realistic, no one ignores that.
You stop and watch, eyes wide, jaw dropped and discuss with your super-mature friends how his thing must be broken by now… Either that or his lipstick dick is too small to be affected. You concur that he’s never having kids. You press onward, passing the 60-year-old man who inappropriately touches himself while looking up the dresses of the recently-turned-21 hussies dry humping on the stage. I always wondered why they don’t wear cuter underwear. Then again, look how they’re dancing. They have no shame.
Last, you pass the pack of chiseled men in Affliction shirts who don’t dance but rather flock with hungry eyes to watch the most interesting, best looking group of girls (us, duh) get their groove on. You hold your comments though—you know your one friend appreciates the fact that the one with the rhinestones is almost as tan as she is. Impressive!
Finally, that perfect spot where you have room to do yo thang reveals itself in all its glory. You wore your hair down so you could whip it back and forth, even though you’ve got nothing on that little shit Willow Smith. You purposely bought a purse with a chest strap so you can work the floor to your full potential without resembling an amputee because you’re using one arm to carry that bag of useless garbage. Girls in position, drink in hand, you let the music consume you.
Now, not only do you probably have a choreographed dance sequence for just about every song the DJ drops, but you’re damn good at doing it. ALONE. So here is the issue that never fails to present itself every time my stilettos hit that floor. Just when I have all eyes on me after getting low, low, low, low in my non-Apple Bottom jeans, the unwelcome approaches begin.
Allow me to elaborate: You’re in it. Your body is pulsating to the rhythm, hands all over yourself because you know you’re the “it girl” on the floor right now. This is what you needed. Your job sucks, you’re running on little sleep, but that Red Bull you chugged was enough to give you that extra surge you needed to just release it all and leave it on the dance floor, if only for this moment. Just then you feel a presence behind you. You look to your left, you look to your right. All your girls are accounted for and they’re all giving you THE look.
Immediately you tense your muscles and scrunch up your face in disgust to prepare yourself, and then it happens. Some freak show grabs your hips from behind and thrusts his boner against your backside. For all you men out there, can I ask a simple question? When did it become so difficult to ask me to dance (even though I’m going to kindly reject your ass anyway) that you just had to resort to the dance floor assault of rubbing your boner on me and hoping I’d wanna make love in this club? Unless you are Usher himself… NO.
This approach, while highly common, is NEVER acceptable my book. EVER. Don’t try it on me or on any one of my friends because I will embarrass the hell out of you in this place. I will very dramatically make an example out of you for all of the other disgusting hopefuls waiting for their turn. I will next your idiot ass with my arms up in “X” formation. Yes, I just said that.
While it may not sound like it, I am actually a very nice person and I enjoy going out and meeting new and interesting people. But I didn’t hit the floor to be impregnated. So please fellas, if you see my group of ridiculously good-looking bitches out on the floor and you wanna get in on that shit, JUST ASK. I can’t promise we’ll accept, but I can almost guarantee we won’t. At least you’ll earn my reward of quiet, unnoticed rejection. Best of luck to you.