Like a cow to the slaughterhouse…

cow

Remember a couple of days ago I told you about being invited to a party? I bought a new outfit, painted my nails red and put on my most daring lipstick.  It was going to be a girl’s night out and we were going to have some fun.  Well, we did, and it was fun, but I remembered why I don’t do the pub scene and now find myself in two minds about the whole thing.  You see, I have never been the life of the party.  That’s just not me.  Turns out I may be the main attraction, but that’s where things get all fuzzy and the short-circuit of a million thoughts and ideas running through my mind gets a kick-start and I end up over thinking the whole situation … again (that is just so tiresome, right?).

For starters, I was the first to arrive. It’s easy to just sort of melt into the crowd if everyone is already there, but when you are the first to arrive, at a very busy very loud pub, packed to the brim with about 30 guys for every 1 girl there, turning on your heels and opting for an early night with popcorn and movies sounds like a mighty good idea.  But, knowing that I can’t let down my friend who invited me in the first place, I stuck it out.  O, what luck, an open chair right at the back in the corner – like it was waiting for me.  With my back safely against the wall I had the perfect vantage point to observe…

“You’re not from around here are you?” O fun, it only took 5 minutes for the first pick-up line to come my way.  I politely and discreetly make it known that, yes, I actually am from around here, but no, I don’t come here often because it’s just not my scene.

My friends arrive and we really have a good time, until suddenly I start to move, literally. Before I know what’s going on this random guy (that’s been eyeballing me all night) has his hands all over my chair pulling me closer to their table.  At this point I sincerely regretted losing all that weight.  His reason?  “It’s time for the little wallflower to be plucked from her perch in the corner because it’s very hard to get to know you while you are so very far away.”  And I’m thinking who said I want to get to know you?  At that point my friend indicates that she knows someone at the table and yes, sure, let’s sit with them.   Let me give you short version of how it all went down

He soon figured that I am very guarded and I need to learn to just let go. Spot on Mister

I reminded him of a mermaid, ever so elusive, but he can guarantee that he will show me depths of the ocean I never imagined possible. No ego problems there then?

We are, as per his psycho-astral analysis, completely incompatible and will drive each other insane within 3 months, which is why we should just consider this a one-night stand and be done with it. I mean really?!  Does that ever even work?  I made it clear that I am not the one-night stand kind of girl and would be better for him to just forget it and move swiftly along.  His response to that was a gleeful “OK, so let’s make it a weekend thing then!”  WTF!

At this point he decided that a more aggressive approach was needed and he should buy the drinks. “Cheers, but that ain’t gonna get you nowhere”, he didn’t seem fazed by that at all.

That’s when things became a bit… heated. He took it upon himself to tell me that he is an ass-guy and that mine is just perfect (blood reaching simmering point here, adrenalin coursing through my veins, all and any effect of alcohol vaporizing from my system). Despite him being an ass-guy he would love the opportunity to describe my breasts to me.  He puts his one hand on my waist while the other finds its way down to my booty.  Everything inside me exploded – and not in a good way.  This cosy scene ended with me staring him down, my fist centimetres from his nose, telling him in no uncertain terms that I am not that kind of girl and if he ever dares to lay his hands on me again he will regret it.  Surely that must be the end of it, right?  Guess again.  This tenacious bastard comes back, even more convinced that I just need to learn to let go.  He eventually gets the message and bids us goodnight and leaves the place.  Only to return, not once but THREE times, to see if I have changed my mind.  As if the loneliness and the sheer gravity of him departing would be enough to jolt me out of a lifetime of moral values and very high personal standards.

We had a couple more interesting events that went down, but all’s well that ends well and I managed to make it home alone, no phone numbers exchanged or calls to dodge, leaving the vultures behind as my gate securely closed behind my back.

Now, the conundrum that I am faced with:

So, do you

  1. go out and endure the torment of being meat on display at the market or
  2. go out and deliberately make yourself as unattractive a specimen as possible or
  3. just stay home

As a single, not completely unattractive female with a body that you work hard to keep in shape, you should have the right to get all dressed up, go out and just have fun.

Men, on the other hand, seem to then see you as a prime specimen on display at a cattle auction somewhere in sub-Sahara Africa where all the other cattle are either diseased or scrawny or just cheap, begging to be taken from that place. What gives a guy the idea that, just because you are there, he has the right to undress you with his eyes, throw cheap and corny pick-up lines your way and then grope you despite you telling him off? On what level do they perceive their cheap comments about your body and what you look like as compliments as opposed to making you feel … dirty (for lack of a better word)?  And it’s not like I could be giving mixed signals.  If you know me, you know that my face makes it very clear what I think and feel without me having to utter a single word.

I honestly don’t know if I am up for this…

Someone said to me “if you don’t want to end up recluse, you just have to endure the pain”

I think I’ll opt for being a recluse then…

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Author: nanuschka

I am a free spirit born in the Free State, 20 years to late. I am Ying and Yang. I am the girl next door who prefers daisies and peace rallies, but can just as easily rock at a rally. I love all things Latin and am sure that in my previous life (if that existed) I was Spanish. The dark side of me, however, tells me that I lived in Mother Russia. On a quest to find my happy-ever-after, I am in constant search of answers to all things that makes us human. What we do and, more importantly, why we do it. I hope you enjoy my rambles and would love to hear from you!

1 thought on “Like a cow to the slaughterhouse…”

  1. Not worth it. You won’t meet your kind of guy at that kind of scene. Best is to do the things you love, make your kind of friends, and gradually meet nice people through them. How did you control yourself and not punch the ape? I once tried to get rid of a guy like that and eventually just whispered in ear “f— off”. And he magically did. Taught my mom to do the same when she got divorced in her 50s and it worked for her as well. But some people are just too thick-skinned…

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