The expectations of a girl in a club

The man comes up to me. His spirited eyes hold nothing of pain, frustration or anger. His hands too smooth to have worked more than a day, no lines of stress puncturing his face…No this was a boy, not a man. Hair matted down by the intoxicating heat of the club, or perhaps his mismatch of dated dance moves (of mainly grinding on girls) was more strenuous than I had previously thought. Testosterone beat at him, his eyes scanning like a half-assed predator wanting an easy kill.

With this limited crowd his eyes fall upon me… me? In dusted grey jeans and dirty worn sneakers. Really? He wants some of this? My hair has doubled in size due to the lack of oxygen that the greedy dances gulp down. He tumbles closer (probably believing himself smooth and confident) to speak to me, dirty breath a nauseating wake-up call.

He tries. He really does. Gives me the subtle eye-catching moments that are supposed to sweep me off my pretty little feet. He leans in close, fingers trailing my arm until –

“I’m sorry but no, I’m not interested.” Why do I apologise?  Why should I feel sorry that I don’t want to play this game, can I not have a voice without feeling guilty. He stares, eyes wide as if this is the first rejection he has ever suffered. For so long he just… looks. A lost puppy that doesn’t understand the giant colourful world around him. Suddenly he shrugs, trying again he whispers in my ear that I don’t know what I want and that I look so good and –

“No” I repeat. Finally, he leaves. But not before his friends all have a go at the merchandise, cooing me as if I am some finicky bird that just needs to be wooed. They swarm me, surrounding in hopes that the alcohol and disorientation would trap me. Are they idiots? Or am I really expected to accept that no, doesn’t mean no for me? No is a challenge?

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