An Open Letter To The Guys Who Grind On Me At Parties
The answer is simple–no.
As I put my brand new Kylie Jenner lip kit on my face and dab on my Naked eyeshadow palette, I think of what my intentions are for the evening. I’m just here to have fun with some girlfriends. No expectations. No drama.
As we walk to the party, our heels clacking on the sidewalk, we’re shivering with anticipation that we’ll be able to score some cheap beer in the back of the living room, right behind the couch. We’re hoping that our usual sitting spot isn’t taken, and that the creeps won’t be there tonight. We’re hoping to just have a good time, have some good laughter, and make some great memories.
But, there you go again.
We’re dancing in nearly pitch black, and all of the sudden, I feel a hot breath next to my neck. Sweet jesus, who the hell is that, I think to myself. I look over to see my best friend’s mouth in the shape of a Cheerio and my sister next to me, grabbing my hand, trying to get myself out of this position. Oh, the creeps are here tonight, and they’ve grabbed me from behind.
I’ve never considered myself someone to get physical with another human being. I’ve even considered myself to always dodge animals as I’m driving on the highway. Point blank, I don’t like to hurt things. But that night, I couldn’t help but defend myself, my high-as-hell set of standards, my group of girlfriends, and my desire to just walk away. I immediately took his sweaty and drunken limbs off of my waist and started to saunter away. As I took steps towards the right, he would grab my arm. What’s wrong, sexy thing? That was the best he could do as a pickup line, apparently.
To the guy who I still do not know your name, don’t ever do that to me again. The next morning, my friends asked me if I knew you. When I said no, they claimed we were “awful close”. I do not know you, nor want to know you. If this is a sly way of getting a girl to hook up with you, I suggest you start paying for more swipes on Tinder, or try ChristianMingle.com, because that shit isn’t working for you. Learn some good, ole’ fashion romance, and stop preying on those girls at parties who have no desire whatsoever to go home with anybody.
The Girl Who Just Wanted To Dance