Contrary to what some people might believe, I was not actually a lady slayer growing up. Now I know that this might come as a shock to some, I mean, who can say no to that face?
Don Juan in his natural habitat.
Ladies, please contain yourselves.
So needless to say I found girls quite mysterious and had a hard time reading their signals.
This was further proven when I turned 18, and was about to hit the club for the first time with some friends.
I remember the music, the sound. The press of bodies all around you, the open dance floors filled with sweaty people, drunk or pretending to have fun.
The whole place containing enough uncertainty and low self-esteem to power at least three beauty-pageants and a decent Bar Mitzvah.
And I was in the very heart of it, radiating self doubt and smiling nervously. But everything was new and exciting, so I decided to go ham on the dance floor with my mates.
Channeling all my nervous energy into some sort of Canadian raindance, I was suddenly approached by a mysterious girl.
Who then proceeded to nonchalantly grab my butt cheek, clenching it like Rose clenched that door when the Titanic sunk. She then followed up with a neutral face and a quite absent eye contact, after which she simply sauntered away into the crowd.
I was very confused.
Was that a compliment or did I just get molested? Should I highfive my friends or call the police?
This passive-aggressive stress increased during the night, as butt was squeezed an additional 3 times.
I not even exaggerating. I can’t make that stuff up.
I grew more uncomfortable and uncertain after each time, jumping at shadows. Eventually I wondered if all women were pigs, and so I bravely ran away from that place like the strong independent man that I am.
It was the beginning of my complex and complicated relationship with clubbing