I'm Dancing Alone

Back off, buddy.

Is it weird that I refuse to dance with guys when I go to a club? 

It's not that I can't dance. I can and I do (boy, do I). In fact, despite the fact that I go so rarely, clubbing's pretty much the only exercise I get. I go with the aim of dancing until I can't feel my feet, leaving sweaty and satisfied. I just dance alone.

That's weird, right?

It seemed plenty strange to the guys I encountered this weekend at a local club, none of whom could understand why I insisted on dancing alone. Or maybe they just couldn't comprehend why I refused to dance with them. 

The truth is, I have very little patience with the whole club mating scene. You know, the one where a guy buys you a drink and then owns you for the rest of the night. Or where, if you happen to dance with a guy for two or more consecutive songs, he owns you for the rest of the night. Or where, if you let him bend you over and hump you to the beat, he owns you for the rest of the night. Seeing a trend there? I can't be bothered to keep peeling myself away from random guys looking to cop a feel. To keep things really simple, I simply keep to myself. 

It's never been much of a problem, but then I usually go with my boyfriend (a man who can repel even the most boldfaced lounge lizards with a single look) or a group of friends who know how to form a protective circle around us vulnerable ladies when necessary. This past weekend, however, I went with a girlfriend. We thought we'd have a little girls' night out, just she and I. How naive we were. 

I never dreamed that the men would take my aloofness as a challenge. Nor did I anticipate that my unwillingness to dance with anyone would somehow  turn me into the most desirable woman in the nearly-empty club.

Several tactics were employed to trick me into a brace and wine:

A handful of guys simply spent the night attempting to wear me down. They approached in shifts from various angles and were completely undeterred by my sophisticated evasion skills. 

One clever young man realized that any attempt to press up against my rolling derriere would result in my taking 3 large steps forward, so he simply decided to dance around me. Every 10 minutes or so, this guy would return and wine in front of (or next to) me. Not close enough to touch me, but close enough for me to know that he would like to touch me. It was clever in that I couldn't exactly run him off, but absurd in that it reminded me of the "I'm not touching you game". Not at all sexy, but slightly amusing and less irritating than the guys who couldn't seem to figure out that a girl who runs from sudden and uninvited contact with your pelvic area is a girl who's not interested. 

His friend's approach bordered on emotional blackmail. Abandoning all pretense, he declared that he wanted to dance with me and that he would not dance with anyone else or leave until he got the privilege. Flattered but unmoved, I warned him that he'd better settle in for a long night. I also pointed out the women all around us who were either splitting, humping or literally hands-down-legs-up. Surely one of them would be up for a dance? Dude wasn't biting and true to his word, he stood in a corner and pouted for hours before giving up and leaving, shooting me one last reproachful glance on his way out the door.

I felt a little bad about that, so I relented and danced with a friend of my cousin. Just one little dance. Barely the length of a song. He promptly leaned into my ear and declared that he was in love. He then spent the rest of the night trying to convince me to: (a) leave my boyfriend (b) run away with him to Tobago and (c) marry him.

That's why I dance alone.