Tuesday, August 23, 2005
It's like a jungle out there.
On my last night out in Boston, we ended up at the Liquor Store, located in that fine part of Boston, the Alley, where holy crap, there were more trashy bachelorette parties than you could shake a stick at. But this isn't so much about the bar itself, which was swelteringly hot and full of people who seemed to think that the floor was their trashcan. No, this is about the fine caliber of Boston men, which mercifully I won't have to deal with anytime in the near future.
The boyfriend? He was on FB's soccer team (yes, I finally got to meet his damn soccer team the day before I left. Good timing on his part. I feel as though this was on purpose, grr.). The reason I put a question mark there is that, well, he had a girlfriend. However, he spent about 95% of his time dancing (or grinding) with other girls. Were I her, I'd have been really mad and would've smacked him upside the head because four hours of beer pong does not make for a good excuse for ignoring one's significant other.
The fishers. There was a small elevated platform in the club, and these guys stood at the edge of it, perusing the crowd all night while attempting sad dance moves. Just as if they were fishing for girls. It was rather amusing watching them. I guess it worked, because later on I saw a couple of them with their fresh catches of the night.
The molester. Otherwise known as the Orange Shirt guy, because that's what he was wearing that night. Initially, he was amusing. Totally balls-to-the-wall, he was this crazy dancing maniac who would grab you for a quick spin. However, as the night wore on, and he got drunker (and ew sweatier, but that's not entirely his fault as it was soooo not climate controlled, the cheapskates), he progressed from being a mere dancing fiend to hello, sketchy grabby guy that I would have smacked or kneed in the groin had he not also been on FB's soccer team. I was fine with the close dancing. I was okay with the proximity to the sweatiness. I, however, was neither fine nor okay with the ass-grabbing, for it wasn't just ass-grabbing but more like ass-massaging in conjunction with a bad case of wandering hands. And I finally left when he full on tried to kiss me, and when that didn't work went for my cheek, and then my neck, and I was scared that he was next going to aim for my cleavage. FB? Not such a good protector, poophead.
The funny guy. Okay, this guy was actually decent and was perhaps the best guy of the night. No, definitely the best part of the night. He was my friend's financial advisor's friend (say that five times fast!). He was amusing and chatty, but the best part? I don't know how this came up, but I dared him to dance with the bouncer who was standing at one corner of the platform. "What's in it for me?" he asked. "You can say a girl dared you to dance with the bouncer and you did it," I replied. "From the back or front?" he inquired. "Front!" I answered, because hello, dancing with the bouncer from the back would have surely earned him a jab to the solar plexus, if not worse. Then the guy walked away, and I was like, hrm, am I that boring? That is so sad - besides, it's my domain to be the walker-awayer. But no, he went over and stood about 8 inches from the bouncer, facing him, and started to dance. The bouncer said nary a word, but instead quickly moved to another part of the platform as if his feet were on fire. I couldn't stop laughing. It was great.
The boyfriend? He was on FB's soccer team (yes, I finally got to meet his damn soccer team the day before I left. Good timing on his part. I feel as though this was on purpose, grr.). The reason I put a question mark there is that, well, he had a girlfriend. However, he spent about 95% of his time dancing (or grinding) with other girls. Were I her, I'd have been really mad and would've smacked him upside the head because four hours of beer pong does not make for a good excuse for ignoring one's significant other.
The fishers. There was a small elevated platform in the club, and these guys stood at the edge of it, perusing the crowd all night while attempting sad dance moves. Just as if they were fishing for girls. It was rather amusing watching them. I guess it worked, because later on I saw a couple of them with their fresh catches of the night.
The molester. Otherwise known as the Orange Shirt guy, because that's what he was wearing that night. Initially, he was amusing. Totally balls-to-the-wall, he was this crazy dancing maniac who would grab you for a quick spin. However, as the night wore on, and he got drunker (and ew sweatier, but that's not entirely his fault as it was soooo not climate controlled, the cheapskates), he progressed from being a mere dancing fiend to hello, sketchy grabby guy that I would have smacked or kneed in the groin had he not also been on FB's soccer team. I was fine with the close dancing. I was okay with the proximity to the sweatiness. I, however, was neither fine nor okay with the ass-grabbing, for it wasn't just ass-grabbing but more like ass-massaging in conjunction with a bad case of wandering hands. And I finally left when he full on tried to kiss me, and when that didn't work went for my cheek, and then my neck, and I was scared that he was next going to aim for my cleavage. FB? Not such a good protector, poophead.
The funny guy. Okay, this guy was actually decent and was perhaps the best guy of the night. No, definitely the best part of the night. He was my friend's financial advisor's friend (say that five times fast!). He was amusing and chatty, but the best part? I don't know how this came up, but I dared him to dance with the bouncer who was standing at one corner of the platform. "What's in it for me?" he asked. "You can say a girl dared you to dance with the bouncer and you did it," I replied. "From the back or front?" he inquired. "Front!" I answered, because hello, dancing with the bouncer from the back would have surely earned him a jab to the solar plexus, if not worse. Then the guy walked away, and I was like, hrm, am I that boring? That is so sad - besides, it's my domain to be the walker-awayer. But no, he went over and stood about 8 inches from the bouncer, facing him, and started to dance. The bouncer said nary a word, but instead quickly moved to another part of the platform as if his feet were on fire. I couldn't stop laughing. It was great.
Gloria 8:14 AM
