I want you to talk to me...

...about as much as I want my body to be ravaged by ticks whilst my eyes are being violenty torn from their sockets by a devilish-looking clown.

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I think there's something about a woman sitting alone in a dimly lit bar that screams "I need to be talked to." Or, at least, that's what men seem to think. On Saturday night, I went to a jazz lounge-y kinda place to see a local band play. I was supposed to meet some friends but, long story short, they never showed. As such, I ended up perched in a rather large booth, sans posse.

My booth sat in a longish row of booths, and to one side of me sat two men. At this point, the joint was still sparsely populated which, I believe, left me more vulnerable to approach. Before long, one of the guys looked over to see an unlit candle on the table top in front of me. It was tall and encased in glass, similar to those inexpensive candles with Catholic patron saints plastered to the front of them; my candle had burned down substantially. He leaned over and said, "I'd offer to light your candle, but I don't think I could reach in there." Nice, dude. Clever opening.

I humored him with a little chuckle, and that was that. Until about ten minutes later when he felt the need to offer me a beer, since I "shouldn't be sitting there without a drink in front of me." I graciously declined, but his little anecdotes continued spewing forth, every few minutes, for the better part of an hour. After a few rounds, I started getting perturbed considering that I felt my disinterest in conversing with him was apparent. Perhaps I was overestimating his perceptiveness.

Mind you, at this point, I was still thinking my friends were going to show, and I found myself quietly cursing their tardiness, for if they had been punctual, I would have easily escaped the encounter(s) with the Grotesquely-Thin-Acid-Washed-Jean-Wearing-Chain-Smokin'-Ass-Clown.

To my incomprehensible relief, the band started playing and I was assured a few minutes of "quiet time" during each song. To my utter disbelief, another guy came and sat down in my booth, the very one that I was now sure would remain empty otherwise. And since the place was now quite packed, seating was limited. I was friggin' boxed in! The exit was beginning to look impossibly far away...

The new guy, who we'll call Hippie-White-Trash-Hybrid-with-Unbelievably-Large-Horse-Teeth, or HWTHULHT for short, had within about three minutes completely obliterated GTAWJWCSAC. That is, if we're talking about a man's effectiveness in driving away a specimen of the opposite sex. His first mistake was asking:

"Do you jive?"

Enter blank female stare here.

"You know, dance?"

Oh.

O.M.G. I dance. I love to dance.

"Actually, no. I hate it."

Hey, just a little white lie. I could not give this guy AN INCH as I knew he'd attempt to capitalize on it. Oh! I neglected to mention that he had leaned across the sizable booth, positioned his face RIGHT next to my ear, and as he spoke sprayed rather large amounts of saliva on the side of my face. He was so close to me that all I could see from the corner of my eye were his chattering horse teeth...

Which made me suddenly wish I were a horse. A very ill one. One whose owner would reluctantly shoot it with a rifle in order to end its suffering.

Onward and upward...

I had planned for two weeks to go see this band, had paid a steep cover charge to get in, and so despite my misfortunes, I hung in for awhile. Goddammit, I was not going to allow a pair of bar flies to spoil my fun! Yet, in the end, they did. After approximately 90 minutes of tag team pick up efforts, I was exhausted. And pissed.

Because, why? why? WHY? did these guys think I wanted or needed attention? What makes them think I didn't WANT to be alone? Granted, in this instance I was expecting to (and wanted to) be with friends, but most of the time I am content to do things and go places alone. I am not the talking-to-strangers type. I just wanted to enjoy the music in peace! Yet at the same time, I have a very difficult time being outright rude to people I don't know, and especially men who are trying to pick me up. Somewhat cold and distant I can do like I pro, but there's some subtlety in that, you see.

Perhaps there is some part of a man that would feel guilty if he didn't "indulge" a girl like me a bit. He wouldn't be able to sleep soundly knowing he had actually seen a young woman at the bar on a Saturday freakin' night, A-L-O-N-E, and didn't at least say hi. He obviously thought there was some sad little story to explain my situation, yes?

I will have to ask some of my male friends if this is some kind of unspoken male commandment or something. I'd really like to know. Or if I want to be extremely masochistic, I could always conduct an experiment to test my new theory. Go to bars, vulnerable and alone, and see what kind of reactions I get. Although there is some twisted part of me that wants to know THAT badly, the overwhelmingly powerful other parts would not allow for such ludicrous behavior.

That, and maybe I don't want to find out my theory holds water. With the amount of time I spend solo, I am likely to find myself drinking alone at the bar with increasing regularity and I just don't think I could stomach knowing that, without a doubt, I would be preyed upon.

I'll just feign ignorance.

In addition to cold and distant, I can do denial too.