That sounded more mirthful than I intended.
What I meant to say was, growing up is cool! Yeah! Way cool weekdays! (anyone remember that?)
In my early twenties, I was quite the party girl. Yup. I was. Yes indeedy do.
I don't regret a single drink or those broken heels (achieved drunkenly falling down the stairs from a very hip club) or the many poor decisions made with giggly friends (but at least we watched out for eachother). We were young. Living in Hollywood. Having fun. And, for the most part, doing it safely.
I've mellowed significantly since then. If I were a European royal male, they would have called it sowing my oats (which is a stupid fucking saying), but there you are (also a stupid saying).
We did watch out for eaxchother though. We took that very seriously. And my friends knew that I could be the one to step in if needed. I wasn't out as half-gay yet, but I was eager to play tough dyke if asked. I probably couldn't back up my tough talk, but never failed to intimidate a drunk douche pushing his luck.
I was a big believer in confidence and I used to shamelessly. I honestly believed that if you walked into a room knowing you were the hottest girl there, then you would be the hottest girl there. Simple as that.
I didn't pay for drinks. Ask my friends Jersey or Melzee. I'd have them pick a guy and in a few minutes, we'd have drinks in our hands.
I was also friends with every door guy at each of my favorite bars. Because they have all the power, dontchaknow.
But despite all that, I never liked to be "hit on." I also maybe didn't understand that if I walked in oozing sex, I might get treated like sex. Nonetheless, I hated it.
If a nice guy approached, introduced himself politely, and struck up a decent conversation? Awesome.
If a guy tried a smarmy line or used the cramped quarters of a bar to molest me? Not cool. Not cool at all.
If I was in a good mood, you'd have gotten off easily. Like the time I was walking through a bar and a dude grabbed my ass. I told him a guy usually has to buy me a drink before I let him do that. And then I made him buy me a drink. Fair's fair.
If I was feeling pissy and a douche pushed his luck? Well, that's another story.
I'm reminded of a time when I was the sober driver. And my friend was impossibly drunky and was being molested by a short, douchey guy of questionable hygiene. I made it clear to him she wasn't interested and he might want to stop groping her. At which point he switched to me. Apparently any girl who addresses you directly is fair game. So he sidled up entirely too close to my backside and decided to put his hands where they just didn't belong. At which point I used my index finger to push him back and informed him that he just can't invade my personal space like that. It's not my fault that he finds me insanely attractive and it's not my fault he can't control himself. Now back the fuck off.
I'm not a party girl anymore.
My idea of a wild night might be Cookies n Cream and season 4 of Bones. I may rarely go into a bar these days, let alone have a drink (Unless it's for karaoke. Karaoke trumps all.). I now prefer my cozy flats to 4 inch heels. And I've replaced most of my racy thongs for soft cotton bikini briefs. I also might be way better in bed than I was back then. Practice makes perfect you know.
But I still hate being hit on.