Dear Asian Kid from Thursday Night,
I think your name was Patrick, but that’s unimportant. Kid seems more appropriate. I know there’s no way you’ll ever see this, but maybe by writing this, I will help someone else out who might be planning to fuck up the same way you fucked up and thus end up with zero fucking in his immediate future.
The situation: It was somewhere between 1:30 and 2 am. We were on the dance floor at my eating club. I was dancing in a circle of sorts with some girls of mine and you came over and joined our circle. I semi-recognized you from when I’d been on tap duty earlier, and I always feel bad for lone dancers on floors full of circles, so I didn’t side-eye you out of our space. I also (somewhat racistly, oops) figured you were trying to dance with E, and was preparing myself to be entertained by her shutting you down. But then the song changed and you disappeared from my peripheral vision, and all of a sudden there were hands on my hips and a groin perfectly poised for me to push up on, and I was surprised, but it was on.
I was mildly impressed by your ballsy approach, just starting to dance with me rather than asking me to dance, despite the fact that you were this skinny Asian kid who was shorter than me and whom I’d never seen before. It had been a while since I’d danced with a man who was sexually interested in women (which I presumed you were, given the situation), and I saw no reason not to back up on you. The music was bumpin and we had a nice rhythm going, so I’m not gonna lie, I kind of liked it when you slid your hands forward and wrapped your arms entirely around my waist. When one song ended, we transitioned seamlessly into the next, a feat I’m usually unable to accomplish. (My grinding abilities increase exponentially with my levels of drunkenness. Part of it is probably drunken recall, but most of it is just a drastic lowering of inhibitions–which I what this semester/year is devoted to anyway. When I am wasted, I am not shy.)
You somehow maneuvered us over to a column where I could push up on you good, and I was running my hands up my thighs and playing with my skirt as you inched your hands closer to not-in-public zone, and you leaned in and said, “You’re so fucking hot. Do you wanna get out of here?”
Dude. We didn’t even know each other’s names. What kind of girl do you think I am? “No, I’m alright.” You questioned this response somehow, and I said I don’t really roll like that. That could have been the end of our encounter, but you didn’t stop dancing when I dashed your dreams, so neither did I. The couples started to break apart when the DJ played “You’re a Jerk,” and you asked me if I could jerk. I said no, but that you could if you wanted to, and you said you didn’t want to let me go. I was simultaneously flattered and creeped out.
After “You’re a Jerk,” the DJ played Rihanna’s “What’s My Name?” and while we were singing along, you–in the one truly smooth move you played all night–leaned forward and whispered into my ear asking, “What’s your name?” I told you, and you told me yours, and then you asked the question that let me know I needed to get out of this embrace of yours asap:
“Do you go here?”
RED FLAG. ALERT. ALERT. Of course I go here, why, where the fuck are you from, kid? “Yeah…I’m a senior.”
“Wowwww. I’m a freshman at Rutgers.”
Seriously?! *cue record scratch*
I leave that one unanswered, and he starts going on again about how fucking hot I am and at one point even says something about my “booty”. I know, I should have been long gone by this point, but it was a hardcore case of My mind’s telling me No, but my body, my body is telling me ye-e-esssss! It felt so good to be dancing with someone who wanted me and feeling that he wanted me (not like that, you dirty minded scoundrels), and I felt like people were watching me give it to this guy (which turned out to be true, based on the comments I got on Friday), and I wanted to continue both of these things for as long as possible. I felt hot, but I also felt kind of skeeved out…I just let hot win for a while.
Then we made our way to the tap room and he got another beer and K ran over to tell me “Get your man, girl!” You came back over and I asked what brought you to Princeton tonight, since you go to Rutgers and all, and you said you were here with some friends, but they left and now you “have nowhere to spend the night,” as you tell me in a voice that’s begging me to take you home with me. Brain screams, ‘ALLOWABLE LEVELS OF CREEPINESS OFFICIALLY PASSED, ABORT MISSION LET THIS GUY MAKE YOU FEEL SEXY!!! REPEAT, ABORT MISSION!!!’ You started asking where I live and whether that’s close to here, and I try to counter by asking where your friends are staying, but you “don’t know”. And then, by the grace of alcohol, you have to take a piss, and I run over to K and beg him to save me. He laughs me off, so I decide to run upstairs and hide, and he doubles over laughing as I run off.
I wait upstairs for a few minutes, hoping that you’d lost interest/found someone else to sketch on, and then made my way back downstairs and joined another circle of girlfriends. E said K explained that I was running away from you, and thus when you tried to join my new circle, my girl J started grinding up on me to prevent you from taking that spot. Later, a female friend whose name also starts with K and one whose name starts with B both took on this role, much to the delight of a male friend, R. You were across from me in the very large Pianoman circle, looking cockblocked, dejected, and like you were so drunk you were barely supporting yourself. I felt less skeeved out and more entertained when I realized that, and as soon as the song ended, I grabbed E and we walked home arm in arm, laughing at you all the way.
You were doing so well in the beginning. You made me feel sexy and wanted and were a good dancer. I was horny, and though it was an unfortunate time of the month for sexytime, I might have at least made out with you if you’d just shut the fuck up and danced with me. If you’d made me feel like hooking up with you was my decision because you made me feel good, rather than like you were trying to worm your way into my room/pants. You shot yourself in the foot, kid. Boys and their stupid mouths.
When I was telling him about how I wanted to get away from you the next day, my friend C made a joke about how this dude wasn’t even a 16, meaning that I’d had 16 drinks and still wouldn’t sleep with him. But it was really his attitude that was past a 16, not him.
So last year around Halloween time, it dawned on me that for the first time in my life, I was going to be celebrating with a group of people who I am comfortable enough with to be
a slu…scantily clad for Halloween. After much perusal of the interwebs, I decided to be a sexy nurse, and to make a long story short, my friends and I had a great night (as evidenced here), I got a ton of compliments, and all was well with the world. And as the relative size of my boobs has become a meme and a good 20% of my club has seen me naked, it was clear that this year’s costume should show even more skin. I wanted to find a good cop costume (because handcuffs sound like a fantastic idea), but then Amazon had a great deal on a sailor costume I liked, so sexy sailor it was.
When my costume came in the mail, I tried it on and learned to my dismay/delight that bending over would be problematic. Thus I reminded myself that I needed to wear sexy undies. XD
We started the evening by having our Thursday night Pub dinner in full costume, so my skank-itude started early. I had a respectable six drinks at dinner, then moved upstairs to watch Ghostbusters and eat candy with some fellow ‘Dranglers. During the course of our movie-watching, I finished a 5oz flask of blue raspberry UV. At some point before the party started, I had a shot of pumpkin liqueur, even though I don’t like pumpkin, because shots were being done and I certainly wasn’t going to miss them. Then whilst I was on tap duty, I had two shots of Chambord. Then some friends decided we were going to go (eating) club-hopping, so I grabbed my coat and my bestie and we went to TI, where I had two beers (and now I can cross going to TI off of my senior year bucket list), and then to Cap, and then back to Quad.
At TI and Cap, I was grinding on and being grinded on by my gay friend , which was interesting because neither of us was wearing pants. My friend J got into the mix too. But my real dancing adventures started when we got back to Quad. This dude deserves his own post, though, so stay tuned for the next one.
Then on Friday, I went to a play with E and another friend C. It was a fairly trippy show, a remake of a Greek classic, and afterwards there was an afterparty with an open bar (6 drinks on the University’s dime? Yes please.) and some “spooky” snacks and great Halloween decorations. The Beatles brings old people and young people together in harmony, and it’s funny as hell listening to a very white guy dressed like a zombie rap a Nicki Minaj verse. E won a $25 gift card to a local bar, which we will def be using in the near future. In fact, K and I are planning to go there tomorrow night for some actual Halloween celebrating. I might even bust the costume out again…
I am more convinced that I need to own some.
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Disappointment turns me into a sniveling creature for whom I have very little respect. I hold myself to pretty strict standards, and have this nasty habit of wanting to hold others to them too. It means I’m generally floored when people do wrong by me. And then, I’m still getting used to hearing the words, “I’m sorry” and “We regret to inform you” in academic and professional contexts, so that can be jarring, too. But I am trying to learn to take disappointment in stride, to see closed doors as opening windows and all that good stuff.
And if I have respect for anything, it’s this song.
Once upon a time, I owned wide leg jeans like this. That should happen again.
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