Monday Nights with the Douche Bag Duo

Now that I'm a smitten kitten I don't really care about going out to bars anymore. The thrill of having a drink with a girlfriend at the hottest spot has lost it's luster now that the prospect of meeting some handsome stranger is gone. I got the handsomest man at home - I know, gag. Moving on. Point is much of the appeal of bar hopping with a wingwoman was the exciting possibility of meeting someone new. Now hitting up the neighborhood pub with my g-friend feels more like heading into war. Case in point last night.

Linds and I went for a bite at this great little tavern down the hill. We were hungry, we had juicy stuff to catch up on and we wanted to get out of the house. We found seats at the bar, a feat for a place that had a big Monday night following- we had no idea. We were grubbin on these delicious appetizers when someone brought out a big birthday cake and half the place erupted into song. Out of tune, drunken singing serving as his soundtrack, the biggie-sized 'Roid boy next to me decided to pounce.

"You know it's my birthday too. Are you going to share a bit of your food with me?" he said, his deep voice startling me out of my conversation with Linds.

I half turned to him hoping my body language said, "No and move the fuck away please." and instead said shyly, "Uh.... sorry?" with a stupid grimace slash grin on my face. Ugh I hate being a sucker.

"What? How rude!" he exclaimed somehow shocked that I didn't want to share my food. "You know I was only kidding. You could have just gone along with it," he continued, berating me for my gentle rejection. I could hear an accent in his voice and tried to forgive his lame pickup and utter cluelessness on cultural differences. I shouldn't have.

Unfortunately his stupid friend realized that he knew Lindsay and so we were both then engaged in obligatory conversation with this douchey duo. Niceties were exchanged and the moment a pregnant pause fell upon the four of us Linds and I returned to our conversation.

That fat 'Roid boy kept rubbing his inflated body against my back as if this spot at the bar were the only place to stand. I inched further off my stool and toward Lindsay hoping he got the hint.

And then out of nowhere, without warning fat 'Roid boy grabbed the waist of my jeans from behind me and pulled up my pants. Apparently my panties were peeking out of the top of my jeans and this fat freak felt it his duty to protect my butt from being exposed to the world.

I couldn't really process what was happening it was all so bizarre. Usually that kind of contact is reserved for lovers or friends, but for some stranger to take liberties to essentially giving me a wedgie all under the guise of helping me cover my unders... uh yeah I wasn't into it.

Lindsay seemed like she was going to tackle the dude and she probably would have if he hadn't looked like he ate a football player. But if looks could kill... He must of known instantly what he did wasn't cool because Lindsay shot daggers, the bartender raced over to see if we needed any help and his stupid friend materialized at my side to reassure me that he didn't mean anything by it- he's just Jamaican. Ah, well color me stupid that explains it! What a stupid fucking thing to say- like his nationality somehow gives him carte blanche to assault women in bars.

The next thing I knew Lindsay was giving him a piece of her mind and he was bumble-fucking an apology out. 'Roid boy's friend tried to smooth it all over by asking if we come here often but at that point we really just wanted them to walk away... forever. The karma angels shone down on us and carried the 'bags out of the bar soon after but we both were left with an icky taste in our mouth.

As we exited the bar (looking left and right to make sure Tweedle Dee and Douche weren't prowling) Linds said sadly, "I really wish they hadn't ruined our night. We were having such a good time."

I didn't feel that the whole thing was a loss but it was pretty skeevy dealing with those dudes. Everybody likes a little ego stroking in the form of attention from the other sex but I think it's safe to say that the line is being crossed when the stroking comes in the form of grab hands.

I relayed the story to K later that night. Ever the world traveller and having visited 'Roid boy's homeland, he offered, "What that guy did? Yeah, that'll get you kniffed in Jamaica."

That's what I was thinking.