Oh, This is What it's Like.

Whenever women talk about how obnoxious it is that guys hit on them all the time, I've been annoyed and immediately become snarky. "You poor thing," I mutter disparagingly. To me, the idea of guys being interested didn't seem like such a horrible circumstance to be in.

That was, of course, because it didn't happen to me. Now, this isn't a compliment-fishing pity-post, I am speaking in all honesty here when I say that I've never been attractive. I was a hyper, ADHD preteen with too-big eyes and the figure of a ten-year-old boy. However, this appears, in the last year, to have changed. Now, just because I'm kind of cute now doesn't mean guys hit on me all the time. They don't. However, when alcohol levels are high and I'm dressed like a Space Pirate, apparently I do get hit on a lot.

Let's specify: Space Pirate, to some girls at that party, apparently meant 'wear black leather and platform heels and look like a ten cent whore.' But you must understand, I was not really inviting advances with my outfit. I took the theme quite literally. Here's a visual aid, so you can see how not-slutty I was.



Now, let's make this perfectly clear first thing: if you interpret this post as ego-stroking "I'm so hot, I hate when guys hit on me", then you'll be reacting the same way I always have to girls who say guys hit on them. But whether or not you understand how unpleasant it is to be accosted by someone with beer-breath who won't let you back out of conversation, you should know that I don't mean this to sound conceited. I simply want to make commentary on the strange illness that seems to take hold of men when they've imbibed too much.

Symptoms include, but are not limited to:
-talking too loudly;
-thinking they are terribly witty;
-spitting when they talk;
-being physically forward/overly touchy; and
-becoming (if possible) even MORE resistant to taking hints than men usually are.

Don't get me wrong - at least one guy who flirted with me was pretty cute, relatively sober, and passably intelligent. Of course, he also looked about twenty-eight, and I don't even look nineteen. I look about seventeen. So I don't really respect an almost-thirty-year-old hitting on jailbait. I'm not jailbait, but I look like it. To specify.

Allow me to detail three of the encounters I had the other night.

ENCOUNTER NUMBER ONE
in which Ginny is incredibly witty and causes much joy and laughter.

On the fair Porch is where we lay our scene. I am seated next to Kayla on a chair on the back porch, where everyone seems to have gone to smoke. Ew. A man with silver paint on his face (He had been wearing a giant silver rubbery...thing on his head previously that looked like a butt. I suppose that his planet of origin, when paired with that hat-thing, could be considered humorous by some.) asks me if I am a space pirate. Judging by the fact that this is, in fact, a space pirate party, I confirm. He then says to me, "I'm an alien. I'm from Uranus." (Pronounced, of course, 'your-anus'. I prefer to pronounce it 'YER-in-us' when I have to use the word, to avoid mocking laughter.) I just look at him, a bit lost as to why he's addressing me. "I'm from New Mexic...er, New Ass-ico." He grins, pleased with the incredible intelligence of his classy pun. I stare at him for a moment, waiting to see if there's more. There doesn't appear to be.

"Your wit," I told him gravely, "astounds me."

I didn't know people on the porch were listening, but apparently there were, since a rather surprising amount of laughter greets that statement. I feel a moment of warm, fuzzy pride in my stomach for being clever and sober.

"I'm drunk," he says needlessly, "so my wit is a little..." he gropes for a word. "not good."

"I can see that," I reply sympathetically.

He leaves, presumably to go get another drink.

Now, I know what you're thinking, reader. "That wasn't flirting! He was just drunk!" Your correct. I have no illusions that the man was hitting on me (God, I hope fervently that he wasn't), but I thought the exchange, which played up my talent with witty repartee, was worth sharing. NOW. Moving on to stories where men actually hit on me. I promise, it happened.

ENCOUNTER NUMBER TWO
In which Ginny is, again, clever and funny, and she is given a career suggestion.

The scene: I am standing in the front yard by the garage where we had just finished taking photos in front of the garage door. I am accompanied by Kayla. We're talking amiably, enjoying the cool evening air (well, actually, she was cold. So maybe we weren't enjoying it that much), when yet another drunk guy I don't know comes to stand in front of us. He leans up against the wall, probably more to steady himself than to look cool (good thing, since it didn't work), and listens to us talk. I was in the middle of a sentence, so I finish, ignoring him entirely.

Apparently it was funny (I don't think it was, really) and he laughed. He looks at me and says "You're funny." Oh, clever boy! Who wants a treat? That's a sentence with a subject, a verb, AND an adjective! Most high school Spanish students can do that in TWO languages!

"Thank you," I respond instead.

"You should be a comedian," he tells me.

"Yeah," I agree. "I'd be great. I could just walk out onto the stage and people would start laughing." He laughs at this, more than is necessary, and I feel the need to prevent the awkward silence that I know is approaching.

"But female stand-up comedians don't usually do well," I added.

"What about Ellen DeGeneres?" he suggests, clearly proud of himself. Instead of informing him politely that Ellen is not a stand-up comedian, I nod in agreement.

"Yeah, she's great," I say.

"Even though she's a dyke," he adds.

Now, let's get this straight. I can deal with irritating people. I can deal with dumb people. (Well...for short periods of time.) But derogatory terms for homosexuals really piss me off. Inordinately so. I thin my lips, give a sharp nod that I hope sends the message "Well, you prejudiced douchebag, that's enough out of you." I grab Kayla's arm and say "I need to go inside and get another drink." To my annoyance, he follows us and opens the door for us, but we do manage to escape him once inside.

Urgh.

ENCOUNTER NUMBER THREE
In which Ginny is forcibly grabbed, leered at, and eventually rescued by an exceptionally tall man.

This was the real encounter (or series of encounters) that convinced me that I was, indeed, being hit on. And not with much finesse. These others could all be interpreted either way - no one had said anything overtly sexual or provocative to me, and with the exception of some casual touching on my shoulder/back by a few random guys, which I quickly sidestepped, I wasn't convinced that I was particularly appealing to any of these drunk party-goers.

The first time I meet someone I will call 'Green-Shirt Guy', he drags Lauren and I into the living room, reassuring us that "It's okay, I'm the director." Whatever that means. He has two other party guests in the room and has instructed the guy to dip the girl into a romantic pose.

"I'm directing a love scene," he tells Lauren and I, "and I need you to critique it." He motions to the couple. "Kiss," he instructs them, and they proceed to suck face with an off-putting enthusiasm. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Lauren and I exchange glances. Green-Shirt Guy leans forward to instruct the couple further and Lauren mutters, "Come hold my hair while I throw up." Since Lauren's had absolutely nothing to drink that night, I immediately catch on that she's helping us escape, and I follow her to the bathroom. We shut the door and she makes retching noises, just to be safe and to have a cover story.

We hang out there for a bit, and when we come back out, the 'Director' is gone. Phew.

Later, I'm on the porch and Ben motions for Kayla and Lauren and I to come to the front yard to take pictures (this directly precedes Encounter Number Two) and we all stand up to go. On my way to the door, Green-Shirt Guy steps in front of me and says something like "Let me show you something," or something equally sketchy. He then grabs my upper arms. I bring up my plastic laser pistol that makes laser-y noises and put it directly between our faces. "Back! Back," I say, only half-joking, and a few people nearby laugh.

He then proceeds to stick out his tongue and LICK the tip of my gun.

I just about regurgitated my pizza and Sprite all over him. Instead, I said "Oh, God. I have to go." Disgust was thick in my voice, just so you know. No "Oh God, giggle giggle! Ew! Haha! Lick it again!"

I then tried to pull out of his grip and he wouldn't let go. "I have to GO," I said more firmly, and managed to wrench myself out of his grip.

Now, there were a lot of people there. I'm sure he wasn't going to do anything, I was safe as houses. But it made me very uncomfortable being caught in Green-Shirt Guy's grip and surrounded by people I didn't know. At this point, I was determined to avoid him the rest of the night, even if that meant suspiciously switching rooms every time I caught sight of him.

I managed very well, actually, until I went to leave. I was making the rounds, saying goodbye to people, when I turn around to find Green-Shirt Guy right in front of me. He holds up an unlit cigarette in one hand and gives me a half-smile that I'm sure he thinks looks sexy and inviting. "Meet me on the porch," he says. Good God.

"I'm LEAVING," I say loudly and firmly. He opens his mouth to say something else to me, and to my immense relief, Dane, Lauren's six-foot-million boyfriend, who is currently bristling with modded Space Pirate weapons, comes over, grabs me into a hug, and carries me back over to my group of people.

Let me take a moment to explain how much smart girls/safe girls/girls who don't want to get raped appreciate what Anne calls "Pallys." (Meaning: Paladins.) These are the guys who, when they see a girl looking uncomfortable in conversation with a guy, they'll walk up, join in the conversation, and generally protect the girl from the creeper. When it's required, they'll come up with an excuse for you to come with them and leave. I love those guys. Dane is one of those guys.

So yeah...thanks. : P

So, moral of the story - never go to a party without a Pally, and always carry a plastic, laser-noise-making space pirate pistol in case of being accosted.

Ginny, out.