An open letter to the bro who tried to dance with me

Last week, you, without saying a single word to me, put one hand on my waist and one hand on my girlfriend’s (mindblower right?) from behind and pulled us in to see which of us responded (aka moved more into your crotch and danced with you).  I know you thought it was okay because when I turned around you were smiling and waiting for me to return the gesture, for which I substituted a shove and an expletive. You looked genuinely surprised and called me a bitch. Fair.

You cannot touch a woman in a sexual advance without speaking to her first. Ever. Offering to buy someone a drink or starting a conversation or even dropping a douchey pickup line are often annoying–but generally not threatening and certainly much better than touching. I am in no way against people meeting in bars and going home together, as long as both parties want to do that. The problem is when men feel they’re entitled to touch any woman they want.

Honestly, I don’t think it’s all the handsy patrons’ fault. Club culture and pop culture totally play into it–it wasn’t 15 minutes after my interaction with this boy that Blurred Lines came on and everyone starting bouncing around to this date rape anthem. Girls, COME ON. Now, I do not frequent bars where lines form out front, but when I have gone to these places, bouncers comb the line to count the ratio of women to men in line and will sometimes even ask about the specifics of your party–6 girls to 1 guy? You’ll move to the front. More than 3 boys? You’ll either be shelling out much more money than everyone else or you should find somewhere else to go. Does that not sound like the douchiest frat party you’ve heard of? The ratio of hot drunk girls to pervy predator dudes comes into play before you even walk in the door, and these are the exclusive clubs everyone is Stefan-style raving about. WHY do we think that’s okay?

So, to the polo-donning bro I pushed, I wish I could say I’m sorry for making you look like a loser in front of your boys, but I’m not. I am, however, sorry you live in a culture that tells you I always want you to touch me, even when I really, really don’t–which, by the way, is always.