A few weeks ago:
It's an hour before midnight, and the Rainbo is comfortably filled with the kinds of people who don't have to worry about waking up early the next day. I've become one of these people; there's something better about going out late on a Tuesday rather than on a Friday.
Among the revelers is the friend I'm meeting, who we'll call Miss X (in honor of the MC5, natch). We grab the second booth from the left and start to talk about the Edwards/Cheney debate that just went down. We have smuggled in some Caramellos, and it somehow feels little-girlish to eat the waxy chocolate in the midst of all the drinking.
Jesse's in the booth next to us, and I tell Miss X that he's thinking of growing a beard again. I'm against the idea, and to emphasize my support of shaving, I text-message him: NO DAN HIGGS BEARD. The beard discussion mutates into one about dude style in general: what's with pleated pants? why do so many of them grow their sideburns out until they look downright pubic? why would they grow moustaches? soul patches?
And just as we're reaching the peak of giggly perplexity, we're approached by a young man. He starts to slide his narrow hips into the booth before asking, "Do you mind if I join you ladies?"
I do, but he's already here, so we tell him he can sit for a bit. He's grinning lazily at Miss X. For a second I feel happy that he's not leering at me, but then my sympathies shift to Miss X, whose decolletage is being eyed hungrily by our newfound booth-mate. He introduces himself, but over the din all I can hear is that he's 22 and he's a writer (uh-oh). The lighting is dim, but when I look at his outfit I swear that he's wearing a corduroy tie with a corduroy blazer. I wonder if his outfit makes swish-swish sounds when he walks, just like how my scratchy corduroy pants did when I was a girl.
Both Miss X and I are displaying polite disinterest, which is our first mistake. We women do this too much. We don't want to look like cold bitches by telling men to leave us alone, so when some drunk clown is crookedly propping himself up on our table, we instead try to drop hints that we're not interested. The problem with this approach is that it's neither honest nor effective. The person in question often takes the absence of a direct "no" as the green light to keep on feeding us lines.
And so that's how, ten minutes later, Mr. Corduroy is still at our booth. He's also three sheets to the wind, he's now inviting Miss X back to his apartment — "My place is two blocks away, c'mon, you have to pay for drinks here" — and he's worn out his welcome. I can't tell if Miss X minds him being around, because her refusals of his offer are polite rather than forceful. She's a little drunk, and so I decide I must defend her honor, a duty that may or may not involve fisticuffs.
When Miss X excuses herself to use the loo, Mr. Corduroy makes an appeal to me, the cute sidekick. "Your friend would come home with me if you weren't here," he says, delusional. "I'm a nice guy; I just want to get to know her better." I consider telling him that she's my lesbian lover, but instead I say ice-cold, "She can do what she wants, and apparently she's not interested in going home with you." As Miss X starts her return from the bathroom, Mr. Corduroy again argues that if it weren't for my presence, he'd totally have this secured. Right.
Significantly drunker than before, he further attempts to cajole Miss X, who is either too tipsy or polite to tell him off. He's weaving all over the place, which is pretty difficult to do if you're sitting, I'd imagine. As he continues his wheedling, he starts to lean toward me with an outstretched, heavy hand. It's then that I realize that his hand's trajectory is leading toward my left breast. And then I say something so uncharacteristically brash that it sounds like arrows shooting from my tongue: Don't you dare touch my tits.
Him: Aw no, I wouldn't do that ever, why would you think I'd do something like that, I have total respect, I'm not sleazy.
So then I tell him that it sure looked like he was trying to "accidentally" cop a feel and that he's a major sleazeball. And yes, he is being pushy. And no, Miss X does not want to go home with him, and maybe he should get a clue and realize that when a woman says no, she means no. He apologizes and leaves our booth. We join James and Sam and go out for eggs at the 24-hour diner.
It's an hour before midnight, and the Rainbo is comfortably filled with the kinds of people who don't have to worry about waking up early the next day. I've become one of these people; there's something better about going out late on a Tuesday rather than on a Friday.
Among the revelers is the friend I'm meeting, who we'll call Miss X (in honor of the MC5, natch). We grab the second booth from the left and start to talk about the Edwards/Cheney debate that just went down. We have smuggled in some Caramellos, and it somehow feels little-girlish to eat the waxy chocolate in the midst of all the drinking.
Jesse's in the booth next to us, and I tell Miss X that he's thinking of growing a beard again. I'm against the idea, and to emphasize my support of shaving, I text-message him: NO DAN HIGGS BEARD. The beard discussion mutates into one about dude style in general: what's with pleated pants? why do so many of them grow their sideburns out until they look downright pubic? why would they grow moustaches? soul patches?
And just as we're reaching the peak of giggly perplexity, we're approached by a young man. He starts to slide his narrow hips into the booth before asking, "Do you mind if I join you ladies?"
I do, but he's already here, so we tell him he can sit for a bit. He's grinning lazily at Miss X. For a second I feel happy that he's not leering at me, but then my sympathies shift to Miss X, whose decolletage is being eyed hungrily by our newfound booth-mate. He introduces himself, but over the din all I can hear is that he's 22 and he's a writer (uh-oh). The lighting is dim, but when I look at his outfit I swear that he's wearing a corduroy tie with a corduroy blazer. I wonder if his outfit makes swish-swish sounds when he walks, just like how my scratchy corduroy pants did when I was a girl.
Both Miss X and I are displaying polite disinterest, which is our first mistake. We women do this too much. We don't want to look like cold bitches by telling men to leave us alone, so when some drunk clown is crookedly propping himself up on our table, we instead try to drop hints that we're not interested. The problem with this approach is that it's neither honest nor effective. The person in question often takes the absence of a direct "no" as the green light to keep on feeding us lines.
And so that's how, ten minutes later, Mr. Corduroy is still at our booth. He's also three sheets to the wind, he's now inviting Miss X back to his apartment — "My place is two blocks away, c'mon, you have to pay for drinks here" — and he's worn out his welcome. I can't tell if Miss X minds him being around, because her refusals of his offer are polite rather than forceful. She's a little drunk, and so I decide I must defend her honor, a duty that may or may not involve fisticuffs.
When Miss X excuses herself to use the loo, Mr. Corduroy makes an appeal to me, the cute sidekick. "Your friend would come home with me if you weren't here," he says, delusional. "I'm a nice guy; I just want to get to know her better." I consider telling him that she's my lesbian lover, but instead I say ice-cold, "She can do what she wants, and apparently she's not interested in going home with you." As Miss X starts her return from the bathroom, Mr. Corduroy again argues that if it weren't for my presence, he'd totally have this secured. Right.
Significantly drunker than before, he further attempts to cajole Miss X, who is either too tipsy or polite to tell him off. He's weaving all over the place, which is pretty difficult to do if you're sitting, I'd imagine. As he continues his wheedling, he starts to lean toward me with an outstretched, heavy hand. It's then that I realize that his hand's trajectory is leading toward my left breast. And then I say something so uncharacteristically brash that it sounds like arrows shooting from my tongue: Don't you dare touch my tits.
Him: Aw no, I wouldn't do that ever, why would you think I'd do something like that, I have total respect, I'm not sleazy.
So then I tell him that it sure looked like he was trying to "accidentally" cop a feel and that he's a major sleazeball. And yes, he is being pushy. And no, Miss X does not want to go home with him, and maybe he should get a clue and realize that when a woman says no, she means no. He apologizes and leaves our booth. We join James and Sam and go out for eggs at the 24-hour diner.
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