(This post is inspired by recent musings on Tiny Lucky Genius)

There are reasons as to why many of us ladies like clubs like Rage, where we know the boys are checking out everything but our cleavage. Those reasons can be found in "Wait (The Whisper Song)."
I'm twenty-eight now. I started clubbing at eighteen, DJing a year later. I've heard "The Whisper Song" in every language and form one might imagine. I've seen it pantomimed on dancefloors and lurking in parking garages. It gets old.
There was the tourist who said to me in broken English, "How about you give me ride to hotel and we fuck?"
"Excuse me?"
"You give me ride. We fuck."
Apparently, the four girls who slapped him prior did not make the message clear. My friend dragged me to the car before I could bestow slap number five on him, but not before I had the chance to tell him that he could go fuck himself.
Then there was the night that one fellow felt the need to stick his hand up my skirt as I danced. I was not dancing with him. I was not even dancing by him. He just walked up and tried to get his hand in the cookie jar.
I kicked him without thinking. I'm sure that Malcolm Gladwell has something to say about that.
"What did you do that for? I was just playing."
"Just playing. You don't 'just play' by sticking the hand up the skirt of someone you don't know."
And then there was the guy who came up to the DJ booth during one of my gigs. I didn't realize he was there until I stepped on him.
"Hey, I was just trying to look up your skirt."
"What?!"
"I'll give you money for it."
He shoved a sweaty single dollar bill in my hand. Not only was the dude a pervert, but a cheap one at that. I threw the bill at him, yelled at him to get out and he just stood there sort of menacing but probably too drunk to do anything. I grew up in the big city, very little scares me. However, in that booth, with no exit in sight outside of the window that was eight feet above the stage, I felt nervous. For every step back I took, he moved one forward. I could smell inferior gin mixed with Drakkar Noir. He was fartooclose. I pushed him and, for the first time, had to call security over the microphone. As security dragged him out, all he could say was that he was "just playing."
So for all the guys who go to the clubs for a piece of ass, who think that we're out for the same, know this: Those rancid nothings you whisper in our ears are not playful and definitely not seductive. Talk dirty to me and my insults will slice you and half. Touch me and I will defend myself. Some might think that kicking and slapping is no answer, but my fifteen minutes of pacifism passed long ago. I'm not at that club to be an accessory to the porno in your head and I'm not there to educate you on how to treat a woman right. If you never learned to mind your manners before, you probably won't learn it now and I would rather be on the dancefloor with my friends.