Hints for vainglorious preening cocks on how NOT to pick up a girl

You and your antics are not making my panties wet.

When I go out dancing with my friends, I go out to dance and enjoy their company. I don't go out with the express intention of 'hooking up'. In fact, as I've said before, I loathe the concept of picking up in a disco or club. I prefer to dance by myself, every so often doing silly stuff with my friends (The Lawnmower Dance, anyone?). Occasionally, I will dance with a guy who seems to have a sense of rhythm, but it usually ends up being for a very short period of time, as I quickly get bored with the same set of 3 moves set on an infinite loop.

So last night I danced with some Lothario who considered himself God's gift to American girls. I fucking hate, HATE guys who think that dancing with you is an automatic invite to start slobbering and pawing you. This imbecile decided that if he started drooling on my neck while we were dancing, I'd be a good little stereotypical American slut and spread my legs. Uh, no. Not even close.



After politely extricating myself from his grasp, I began chatting with my friends. With a I-think-I'm-sexy-when-i-pull-the-wounded-puppy-dog look, he grabbed my hand and wanted to know why I didn't want to dance with him. After patiently and condescendingly explaining I was with friends (for 15 fucking minutes, and no, my Italian is quite good thank you), his witty reply was "So? You can talk with them any time." At that point, exasperated, I pulled out the tried and true secret weapon: the engagement ring.

Obviously I'm not engaged, but a gold and diamond pinky ring my mother handed down to me fits only on my ring finger, and I've found that it can be passed off as an engagement ring. Not that Italians are horrendously respectful of the institution of marriage/relationships; cheating is as natural as breathing here and one of the most over-used Italian phrases I've had used on me translates into "What the eyes do not see, the heart cannot feel." Riiiiiight. However, the ring is helpful and all I have to do is play the part of devoted lovesick girlfriend. And when asked where my fiancé is, reply with some sad story about him being out of the country on a family emergency. Works well, and even if they don't believe me, it helps the Casanova wannabes save a bit of face.

Unfortunately, if your girl friends don't realise you've pulled out the old hoary chestnut and drooling Casanova asks them if you really are engaged, your cover is blown. Which is what happened last night. You'd think that finding out a girl lied to you and said she was engaged would indicate in big fucking 10 meter high neon flashing letters "NOT INTERESTED. BUGGER OFF (PLEASE)" Not this idiot. He asked my girl friend to ask me why I wasn't interested. Rolling my eyes, I explained to my girl friend that he was drooling on my neck and she (knowing me and my tastes quite well) got the idea. I continued to dance and chat with my friends, ever careful to keep my back to this doofus and avoid eye contact at all costs. My patience was already strained at this point.

As it was getting late (early morning) and high heels are an instrument of torture after 4 hours of dancing, I propped myself up against the wall, with my friends separating me from Drool Boy. And he decided to continue the seductive *cough cough* assault. "Ah, a girl like you, why are you sitting here against the wall. Why don't you dance with me, leave your friends, they are busy. (a couple of them had stated kissing at this point)" And during this discourse grabbing my hand and trying to drag me to the center of the dance floor, ignoring my protests of "I'm tired, I don't want to dance right now". Basta

The Polite Aloof Engaged Ice Princess routine was not working with Numbnuts. As he was physically trying to drag me onto the dance floor, I ripped my hand out of his grasp and gave him a firm shove. Of course he came back whining "Why did you shove me? Why do you not want to dance with me?" I gave him both barrels, verbally speaking, rife with Italian expletive that sent his jaw plummeting and (I hope, judging by the look on his face) his balls crawling back into his abdomen. I think one of my male friends (who hasn't ever really seen me pissed off) thought I was about to deck Drool Boy and pulled me off to one side. Of course, since he had forced me to wreck his fragile Latin male ego, he assuaged himself by slinking off to the bar and complaining about the snotty American bitch on the other side of the room. At which I merely smiled with saccharine malice as my friends snickered.

Better luck next time, Drool Boy.