I went out to shake my booty at Right Round last night. It’s a little bit outside the sort of socializing I ordinarily do, but I’m all about broadening my horizons, and besides, lil’ e assured me before my first outing that I wouldn’t be out of place, there’s all kinds of people there, and I should come get down.

So I went by myself last night, and was reminded of why I usually don’t. The music was great, lil’ e knows how to read a room, and the promised diverse mix of people was definitely in evidence. But there was this guy….

I was standing against one of the pillars in the Black Cat’s backstage room, looking through the door to see if a friend of mine was coming, and there’s this guy standing right near me. And when I say “near,” I mean, 4 inches from my face, which I have to get over at Right Round because it easily draws 250 people into what is not all that large a room.

But he’s staring at me. He’s about 40ish, heavy set, balding and graying, wearing khakis and a bluish button-down shirt.

I know he’s staring at me, because I’m standing against a wall and he can’t be looking past me at anyone else. So he’s clearly staring, and I’m very studiously avoiding eye contact with him.

Finally, he speaks. “Wanna dance?”

I don’t, really, at least not with him. But I had just been thinking about how dorky I feel dancing by myself, and maybe this guy just feels as out of place as I do and is trying to make the best of it.

So I shrug and say, “Sure.”

I was a little put off by how excited he looked as he went to put his drink down. I was wondering what I had just gotten myself into with Starey McEyeball when he returned, grabbed my hand, and led me out onto the dance floor.

We started to dance. Or at least, I started to dance. He stood about 5 inches from me put his feet about four feet apart, and started swinging his pelvis at me.

This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs
Now, I have pretty intense personal-space issues, and I work really hard to let go of them in situations like this, but it was just too much. I keep trying to back up, and he keeps moving toward me. Not cool. It was not helped by the fact that he kept staring at my chest and made no effort to hide it.

To be fair, I was wearing the ultra-fabulous Right Round t-shirt, and the bright freakin’ yellow is indeed pretty eye-catching, but dude… it’s the same tee the DJ and bartender are wearing, so it’s not like you’ve never seen it before.

And then he starts trying to flirt with me. In a room where the music is so loud you have to yell directly in my ear to be heard.

“Do you even know what a 45 is?”

I begin to see a light at the end of the tunnel. “Of course I do. My parents had TONS of them.”

“Aww, you’re gonna make me feel old.”

I shrug. Not my fault you’re almost old enough to be my dad, you skeevy old man…

“So do you like the gray hair?”

WTF do you say to that? “Eh, I don’t know…”

And then, clearly not getting the hint, he says in a voice he must have believed was seductive (while still shouting), “What can I do to make this gray hair look good to you?”

All I could think was how this idiot was about to try to put his hands on me and I was going to have to break his arm, and it would suck to ruin e’s party that way. I had had enough. “You can start by backing up off me.”

He did, and he was about to say something else, when a female friend of his walked up and started talking to him. He acted all irritated, indicating that he was, uh, busy, and the girl very politely apologized for interrupting. Oh, don’t apologize sweetie.

I had only a moment to evaluate my options. Continue my excruciating interaction with this guy who was clearly never going to get the hint? Not appealing. Try to disappear into the crowd and dance somewhere else? The room isn’t that big, and I’m here by myself, so not feasible. Leave the building entirely and go home? I was exhausted and the smoke was stinging my eyes anyway, so this is the option I chose.

I know, I know, I’ve probably destroyed my karma for ditching him that way. But what do you do when the guy just won’t take the hint, and you just can’t take him seriously in the face of his lameness? Even if I were available, I wouldn’t be… to him.

This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs