Rabid Hot Mess

            Vodka lemonade. Black Eyed Peas.  Katy Perry.  Lady GaGa. Michael Jackson. Midnight free shots. The summer night was hot and Yoga Girl and I were dancing on a bench at our favorite watering hole, Big Chicks.  We were fully accessorized in the chakra crystal of the month, and dancing into the morning hours.

            From the bench, we had a view of the entire dance floor, where we looked at boys, made eyes, flirted, and used our developing clairvoyant powers to move energy about the crowd.

            A short straight chick climbed onto the bench next to me. Her spiked heal pierced through my sandal, stepping on my toe.  She clung to my new designer shirt, like a pawing sorority girl, trying to steady her drunken self.  She is the textbook definition of Hot Mess.

            “You are so handsome.”

            She thrusts her breasts into me.

            “Thank you.  Step away, please.”  I continue dancing, not making eye contact.

            “Oh, my gosh.  So cute. I should take you home.”

            “Step away. You are in my space.”

            “Don’t you think this dress makes my breasts look good?” She shoved her breasts together, looking down at them, and then me, smiling.

            “They’re lopsided. Not into that equipment. Back away, please.”

            She threw her arms around me, grinding her hips into me, as if feeling her flabby rolls of womanhood rubbing against me would transform me into a new man.

            Occasional a random Hot Straight Girl Mess gets lost on the Northside of Chicago and will wander into a gay bar, thinking her straight bar tricks are going to work in a gay setting.  Why women think their space should be respected by a man when they say no, but that courtesy is not returned is beyond me.

            “This is the last time I am going to tell you to stop touching me.”

            Despite my final warning, she continued to run her hands up and down my chest, which forced me into a defensive dance pose, swinging my elbows wide and out with great force.  My elbow jabbed her in the ribs.

            “UHHH!”  She belted over. Her two gay friends reached to grab here.

            “Honey, get down from the bench.  You’re going to fall over.”  One coaxed her off the bench and on the ground.

            Yoga Girl and I didn’t miss a disco beat.

            Recovered from the rib jab, Hot Mess went rabid, throwing me the bird as she danced.  I didn’t react but kept dancing in my own world.  When Rabid Hot Mess didn’t get the reaction she hoped for, she recruited her two gay boyfriends to also throw me the bird along with her, as if the triple bird is some sort of Achilles’ heal to my gay superpowers.

            “Take it back to Wrigleyville and try it in a straight bar, you Rabid Hot Mess!”

            Yoga Girl tuned in to what was happening, and went ballistic.

            “Oh, get a grip, Sister! Your heterosexist power doesn’t work here!”