“Full of alcohol.”
Last night, I went to a dance club for BG’s birthday party [short for “birthday girl”]—first time I’ve ever been to one. I know, scary, but true… Some of us stayed until closing and I had a lot of fun there, but part of me is seriously disgusted after experiencing first-hand what women have to deal with when they go out to party on the weekends.
There were so many times when we were walking around that guys asked the girls to stop, sit down and talk, have a drink… my friends were obviously smart enough not to. Still, it was strange to see them going around together as sort of a support network, helping each other avoid any guys who thought they might get lucky with one or more of them. Or maybe it wasn’t seeing the network that was so strange—it was the necessity of having one.
Towards the end of the night (i.e., 1:00 in the morning), people started to leave and I became BG’s official protector. It isn’t hard for me to switch into “Big Brother” mode—I tend to be protective of my friends as it is. I also tend to be a people-watcher when I’m in the middle of a large group, but this time, I was doing it out of caution, not curiosity.
Unfortunately, there were several times that required said caution. One guy started hitting on BG while they were sitting at the bar, so I kept my hand on the small of her back to make sure they both knew I was there. If he thought that meant we were a couple, made life easier for me. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for him to lose interest, though that probably had more to do with her sudden loss of conversational skills than anything I did.
Later on that night, I was sitting in a tall chair and BG was leaning back between my legs, talking to a friend she’d recognized while we were there. Some guy walked up and started whispering into their ears. When he asked them out loud if they were sober… well, they weren’t. Then he asked if I was. Mind you, I don’t drink, but BG turned her head and mouthed the words, “Say no,” so I shook my hand to signify “sorta.” He started whispering into the friend’s ear again and she said something to the effect of “No, I don’t want to go and meet your friend.”
I figured I needed to do something. I moved my hand up to his shoulder and gave him a slow shove (dunno if that’s how people shove when they’re drunk, but that’s what I was aiming for). “Dude, she doesn’t want to go, just leave her alone.” He looked at me, then started to walk away. As he did, he was saying I needed to chill out and reached out to pat me on the cheek.
I’m not sure why that pissed me off so much, but I snapped my hand around to grab his wrist and glared at him. It took a second for him to respond, but he did: “Shake your head. Shake your fucking head.” I wonder what he might have done if I hadn’t done anything—it would have been a little strange to get into a fight with a drunk guy the first time I’d ever been to a club like that—but I figured it’d be a lot easier to do what he said. I shook my head, let go of his wrist and he walked away. Once again, “girls go through that all the time when they go out.”
It was easy to see why—there were plenty of women (with states of sobriety equal to or worse than BG’s) bumping and grinding and making out with random guys on the dance floor. If you’re looking for action and acting like an asshole works, why not, right? Don’t worry about me, I’m too much of a nice guy—I could never bring myself to do something like that. Being nice isn’t a bad thing, of course, and I think that’s why being at the club felt so disturbing at times…
I’m afraid I’m not in a position to apologize to all women for all the assholes out there who are looking to take advantage of you on a regular basis, but at least I can take comfort in not being one of those assholes—I’m much better at gettin’ my groove on while playing the role of “Big Brother.” Anyone wanna dance?
