A couple of weeks ago, I was at the bar. (Most of my stories start this way.) It was getting late in the evening, my buzz was mellowing me out nicely, and I was shooting the shit with a few of my friends. I was out of beer, so I walked up to the crowded bar and squeezed my arms together to maximize my cleavage and the chance of getting a drink faster. A guy standing next to me said hello, and we started talking. Nothing salacious; just some light banter while we waited to get served.After a few moments, this girl comes up to the bar so fast she should have been accompanied by the sound of rubber squealing on pavement, and starts talking to the guy next to me. She's throwing me dirty looks as she rubs her hand on his arm. Even in my hazy state of consciousness, I notice she's kind of being a bitch.
When I rejoin my friends, they fill me in on the details. Apparently, she'd been scoping this guy out for the majority of the evening, and thought I was going to end up with him. This girl's friends pointed out that I was talking to the guy, and urged her to go over and run interference.
Listen, lady: You need to chill the fuck out. I respect that if a dude has been chatting with a girl all night, I shouldn't try to interrupt the love connection. But you hadn't even mustered up the cajones to go over and say hello to him until I was talking to him. If looking at a guy in a bar lays some kind of claim on him, I've fucked half the city.
It's women like you who give the whole gender the reputation for fighting over the affections of men. I'm perfectly happy to go home on my own most nights—if you want to creepily stalk dudes in order to validate yourself, knock yourself out. But don't paint me as some harlot because I'm talking about the weather with the guy you can't work up the nerve to talk to until you're "threatened."
Thank you.
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