An Open Letter to Boys in the Club

Dear Boys in the Club,

        Despite what you may have heard from Usher, I do not want to make love in this club. I want to drink, dance, hang out with the friends I came here with and not waste my time fending off your pathetic attempts to get me to pay you attention. Inevitably, I’m going to have to use one of these said friends as a human shield or my fake lesbian girlfriend so that you will leave me alone. I can understand that the many scantily-clad girls and copious amounts of cheap beer you have ingested have thrown your testosterone into overdrive and lowered the already slim chances of you thinking rationally. But really, this isn’t a Golden Corral and you can’t just take what you want.

Later when you come up to me at the bar and insist on ordering me a drink, please understand there are two main reasons I will say no. For starters, my previous interactions with roofie cocktails were less than spectacular and I have no desire to relive them. Secondly, you seem to be under the impression that if you buy me a $2 vodka soda, I somehow owe you something. News flash, I’m worth more than that, and you aren’t that cute.

But then there are those boys who strategically wait until I’m already on the dance floor with my friends and dancing to my favorite jam until they aggressively grab my arm and try to drag me along. Or worse, creepily sneak up behind me and start grinding on me because why else would I be moving like that on the dance floor. Unless the unlikely event arises that there is a sign on my butt that says “place pelvis here,” please keep it to yourself. And for those who come back 10 minutes later to try again, I say this: Learn the meaning of no means no.

Boys be aware of this: while I may be friendly and good tempered the first one or two go-arounds, my patience will run thin. I will become less and less polite every time you grab me,  tell me that you “run this club”, or physically block my path so I can’t get past you. Know that when you call me a b*tch, simply because I’m not interested, that I really couldn’t care less. I can hardly take the words of a boy in this dirty bar to heart.

Let me give you a bit of advice from a woman’s standpoint: You are not entitled to touch me simply because I look great and you (and possibly I) are drunk. I am not inherently a terrible person because I don’t want you to touch me. Forcing me to dance with you, or trying to do so without my consent is super rape-y and only speaks to the type of person that you are. Try asking with your words, and here’s the important part: if I say no…walk away.

To those men, and notice I use the word men here, who use their words and take the hit of rejection like a gentleman, know that I applaud you. I pardon you from the label of skeevy that I bequeath to the rest of the fratstars in this place. Though I am aware that “do you want to dance?” means “can I have psuedo-sex with you on the dance floor?”…hey, at least you asked.  But the answer is still no thank you.



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