No Playa Hater

Playing hoochie mama ain't as carefree as it looks

Wanting to be as conspicuous as possible, we headed straight for the stage and cooked up some drama as we danced like Disney-trained pop stars to some lame-ass diva ballad and then to Prodigy's "Smack My Bitch Up."

Then came a playa who really didn't know what he was doing; the dude got up on-stage and started dancing behind me. He didn't seem to care that he had the worst singing voice I've ever heard, because he kept belting "Can't Get You Out of My Head" right into my delicate aural cavity.

He was staring at his buddies in the doorway, and then he grabbed my arm and said he had to duck out.

Yo, did that playa just dis me? Naw, booty dancin' don't mean a damn thang!

Or at least, that was the philosophy we went by until we walked over to the bar to hydrate and realized that vertical delectations breed horizontal expectations: The men started to latch on. So, you know how it is, we were dancing with every fella who walked by until this bulky, bald Peruvian man -- "Diego," he whispered -- who must have been about 45 years old grabbed me and started spinning me around. He actually knew how to dance, which was interesting for a while.

But it didn't take long for him to start spewing the spindly web of perviness and obligation so often used to trap women into nightmarish afterparties. He started trying to grab my ass, and I pushed him away. He refrained, and we resumed dancing until... well... an obstacle arose.

I retracted my hips to indicate that I was there to dance for myself, not to be a boner scratch post.

He smiled and said, "What? What?" as if the whole occurrence were perfectly cool, as if the chance that I might not be attracted to him was negligible. I retreated from his pitched tent, but in the customary pickup style, he would not let go of my arm but insisted I accompany him to the bar. Not yet having made a clean break, I attempted to relay verbally the message that I was not interested.

Doing this was a mistake.

As I talked, he lunged forward and tried to plug my mouth with his own. I grabbed onto his ears and pushed his face back away from mine.

The hoochie-mama experiment was going from bad to worse.

My distress was apparently evident. An at-least-six-foot-eight-inch-tall dude stopped kissing on and grinding away at this other girl and started pointing at me and then himself. He was mouthing, "You, me."

Because my experiment had deteriorated into just trying to escape this club without getting slobbered on, I was reluctant to exchange my guy problem for a bigger one. So I shook Diego off and went to find Lola, who was grinding snugly in between two guys, one of whom reportedly asked her midgrind, "Can you feel that?"

We were nearly out the door when I turned around to find the six-foot-eight Pimposaurus Rex towering above me, saying, "I wanna dance with you."

Certainly, it might have been interesting, and I was considering just one dance when the Peruvian dude reemerged and grabbed my arm. Despite rejection and his rather intimidating competition, he started trying to get his groove back under way.

Trying to protect him from getting his ass kicked, I turned and started talking to the giant. I stood on my tippy toes and approached his ear with a whisper, "I'm scared of you."

"I'm a teddy bear," his booming voice replied unconvincingly.

Diego wasn't letting go of my arm, and Rex and his crew of three were hovering with unfriendly glares.

What I wanted -- to shake my ass without submitting to concubinage -- had clearly been ruled out as an option.

Lola sensed trouble and slipped out of her tight spot. We scuttled out the door and disappeared into the crowded street -- not hatin' the playas but decidedly forfeiting the game.

Alas, there's no free ride on the bump-and-grind go-round in Downtown Loddy Doddy. If you wanna dress the game, drink free, and mingle with playas, you gotta play by their rules. Otherwise, don your cardigan and beat-up jeans, sneer at the passersby, and buy your own damn beer.

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