Why I Hate Clubbing

We went out yesterday to a motown night at a club. At the beginning, there were 5 of us, dancing and having a good time. However, as the evening wore on, this is a sample of my internal monologue:

To the guy dancing slightly too close: Fuck off out of my personal space with your awful dancing. Yes, you. I mean it. Turning my back on you is a fairly good indication I don’t want to dance. Maybe not. Fuck off. My back is still turned. Leave me alone. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you?

And on and on.

Later, a guy came up and asked me to dance so his friend could dance/make out with my friend. I knew that was why he’d asked, his friend had made it pretty obvious. So I told him – because I was drunk/tied/pissed off by the sleazy guys in the club – I’d not hold hands, and I’d not make out, and I’d only dance if he proved he was a good dancer. He accepted with good grace, so we had a bit of a dance off, and then we danced, and talked and danced some more. At the end, a friend of his came up and the guy I’d been dancing with explained my rules. I said that I hadn’t come out to make out with some random stranger, to which the guys friend replied “then why would you come out?” And THAT is why I hate clubbing. The fact that I go out to dance is irrelevant, because the guys in the club think I’m there to make out with them.

It’s so tiresome. I don’t want to spend my nights having my personal space invaded my drunk guys with a sense of entitlement. I want to dance. In my own space. If you would like to dance with me, than dance – don’t be a sleaze-ball all over the place – it is SO unappealing. And it shouldn’t have to take me spelling it out to some guy for him to understand that.

…Perhaps I should laminate a set of rules and stick it to my forehead, saves me having the same inane conversation multiple times…


Gah. Rant over.