It’s a simple guideline to follow, fellas. When you’re out at a club or local watering hole, you can appreciate a lady’s appearance without invading her personal space. It’s cute that toddlers have to touch anything they can get their hands on, but at our age, it’s more like grounds for harassment.
Take this past Friday, for example. A girlfriend and I had a singles’ night out in the Adams Morgan neighborhood (you will soon understand why this is an ‘oh, lordy’ detail), and experienced a variety of pick-ups. Most were at least amusing, an attractive handful entirely encouraged… but there are always those few that cross a line.
There are the guys on the dancefloor that walk right up behind and grind against you, like it’s perfectly acceptable behavior. I’m pretty sure that even monkeys like to know who is forcibly assaulting them, and violent rejection is A-okay in the primate kingdom. Turn on Animal Planet– you’ll quickly see a female chimpanzee knock an unwanted suitor out of a tree. At the clubs, I particularly like it when they look put out, or even offended, when I turn around and tell them to keep it moving if they want to stay intact.
Apparently, the simple act of going out in public on a weekend sets up a neon sign over your head that screams “Anything goes!” There are also the slightly less bold/felonious types that think it’s a great idea to run their hands down your arm or the small of your back to get your attention, as if we love it when strangers stroke our bodies. Of course it is, that’s why we were all raised to be prostitutes.
Oh wait, my mother taught me to NOT sell my body when I grow up? That’s RIGHT… So don’t touch me.
Don’t get me wrong, I have a pretty high threshold for bullshit-tolerance. I know I’m in a nightclub, and I know alcohol is flowing like the Potomac, but give me a break. I have no problem with pick-up lines. [They’re actually welcome, because I think they’re absolutely hysterical. If you can make me laugh with just one sentence, I’ll probably be up for having a drink.] I can even handle questionable flattery most of the time, like a complete stranger telling me I have a great ass/rack/whatever floats your boat. It’s just the touching without even putting in the effort to try and woo that bothers me. If it helps to have something to relate me to, think of me like the Smithsonian– look, but don’t touch. Because if you DO try to touch, you’ll be tackled by a security guard. And it will probably hurt.
Among the myriad of come-ons we experienced Friday, there was one that stands out. I split from my friend while she was dancing to go get a new drink. The dancefloor bar at this club is a more confined spot, and as I walked up the stairs, I noticed I’d be the only female in the area. Oh, lordy. While waiting for the bartender to finish pulling a pint, a guy next to me leans over a little and tells me pretty loudly that I’m the finest girl he’s seen all night.
Great line, buddy.
He and his friend are both pretty good-looking, even if he seems a bit older. Yes, I’ll specify that they were black, though that doesn’t impact me much. [I’m an equal-opportunity dater, and they were verrry good-looking.] No, I comment on it because the next thing he continues to praise is that along with an amazing figure, my ass looked damn perfect in my dress. Definitely not something I hear too often. As he kept going on and on about my various appearances that floored him [in the end, he decided I looked like a classy movie star], his friend kept shooting me apologetic looks. Hey, I’m peachy keen with compliments when they’re hands-off. As the guy took my thanks to mean encouragement, he tried to slide an arm around my waist. His friend checked that movement and shook his head smiling, “I don’t think that’s a good idea with this girl, man. She’s a knock-out that might knock you out.”
I laughed and shrugged off the comment, telling them to flirt with a girl a bit more before trying to touch her. Before leaving with my drink, I did tell the friend he seemed like a good guy, and I would have actually talked to him if it weren’t for his plastered friend. Maybe next time.
In short, gentlemen: Accost at your own risk, or just learn some damn manners.
For those new to DC, expect this in the Adams Morgan neighborhood: