People touch me. Frequently.
I’m not talking about people I know touching me. I’m just talking about people. Random, don’t know them from Adam PEOPLE. The public at large, for reasons that are beyond my comprehension, feel very entitled to touch me.
And I’m also not talking about putting an arm around me or giving me a friendly hug. I’m talking about TOUCHING me with pervy intent. And typically doing so without even an introduction or buying me a drink or saying “I like your face, let’s make out”…they just roll up out of the clear blue & get all handsy. It’s been a persistent problem for me since I hit puberty & it’s gotten worse & worse over time. I’m over it. Consider this me putting all of the planet earth on notice (that’s how the internet works, right?). Enough is enough. I want the following funny & awkward (fawkward?) tales of woe to be the last of this icky garbage, you hear me? This post is part one of a 3 part series outlining how intense this problem has been in my life thus far.
So gather round children! Enjoy one of the greatest hits from my lifetime of being publicly molested by randos!
The Runaway Bride -or – You Can Find me in “Da Club”.
I LOVE HALLOWEEN. Love it. It’s my favorite holiday. I’ve dressed up
as something almost every year of my life & college was no different. My senior year of college, the only fraternity I liked put on a Halloween party at the one nightclub near my college. I thought “Halloween, Sig Taus, AND dancing?! Yes please!” I was all over it.
But I was wrong. Oh so very wrong.
You see, when I say nightclub, you’re probably imagining something very different from the reality of this place. Julians was a bar with a dance floor in one room, a DJ, & mirrors on some of the walls. That’s it. Oh, and it was on a street well known for hookers & drug dealers. (Classy joint, no?)
Also, I’d never been to a club at this point. I’d barely even been to a bar.
Me & my 21 year old “I aint never rode a plane” naïveté thought going to the club was like going to a bar that just happened to have more room for dancing. I didn’t know yet that, in many ways, the club is much more closely related to the meat market than the local pub.
But, since I was young & simple, I was just super excited about Halloween without care one about how creepy this place might be. I threw together the cheapest, quickest costume I could think of & went on my way.
Now, the costume I chose was cute, but in no way was it slutty. It wasn’t even particularly sexy or attractive. I went as a runaway bride – white dress, veil, running shoes, sweatbands. Easy peasy & a cheap joke…best I could do at the time. But based on the dance floor exchange I had with a gentleman (word used liberally & with heavy sarcasm), you’d think I’d walked up in there looking like a stripper.
So picture it! Little 21 year old blondie Allison (used to be blonde…I know, its shocking) dancing away in my little costume, minding my own business, having a good time, when suddenly, a wild sketchy townie man appears! Not only appears, but stands himself directly in my bubble of personal space.
Now, I don’t do the whole MTV grind thing when I dance with people. It weirds me out. I’m more of a two-stepper. So when this man put himself all up in my space, I did what anyone else would do…I immediately froze in place & stared at him blankly. Cause I’m smooth like that. Instead of taking this as a screaming signal of “DO NOT WANT”, he said “What? Cant I get a dance on your wedding night?”
Ok, 1. Obviously not my wedding night, jack. Your line is bad & you should feel bad. And 2. No, you cannot “get a dance”. You could have asked me to dance a minute ago, but instead you just jumped all up in my bubble & seemed surprised by my lack of response. See, I’m a lady, not a stripper – you can’t expect me to grind on you just because you walk up & invade my personal space.
That’s all what I would have said to him had I not still been frozen. At the time freezing solid was my only defense mechanism against creepy, so I was committed to it. I continued staring at him & maybe mumbled “…err um…no”. Again, this should have told old dude something & should be the end of the story, but alas, it is not.
The man then, as either a hail mary or sign of truly profound social ignorance, put his arm around my waist, pulled me against him, and stuck his tongue in my ear. After which he let me go & looked at me like all proud like “Now about that dance I wanted…”
He stuck. His tongue. In my ear.
That man is lucky I was 21 & simple then, not 29 & jaded like I am now. Otherwise, he may not have survived the encounter.
I immediately wished I was Alex Mack & could just melt into goop & ooze away. That’d teach him to be gross. “Last time I did that, bitch just melted into the floor! Not doing that again.” But I couldn’t. So instead, I ran away.
Seriously. I just dipped. Off the dance floor, out the door, & back to the apartment without a second look. So ended the first & only time I went to “da club”.
Thanks again, creep! Way to ruin my fun.