an open letter.

it has come to my attention that the men in this city no longer have any comprehension of body language. is it a failing in the schools? the streets? frankly, i might have to blame the parents.

one thing i DO know is that the behavior of this new generation of young turks (see also: men between the ages of 25 and 30) has not quite clocked that when a woman crosses her legs so that she's turning away from you, crosses her arms over the bar, and won't look up from her drink to deliver the terse answers she is giving to your stupid questions, she probably doesn't want to talk to you. and that she almost CERTAINLY doesn't want to talk to your friends. or be touched by any of you. at all.

i'm sure you can see where this is going.

as the tempest that was last week wound to a close, i found myself at one of my favorite old haunts, the ever-delightful swift's hibernian. back in the day, you could find me there every thursday, getting absolutely destroyed with a rotating cast of my best and brightest. it seemed like a good week to resurrect the tradition. and a good week it was, initially! it started with the incredibly handsome bartender buying me a drink, and it felt good to be back.

and then the frat pack walked in. and much like a flock of vultures, descended on an object that really, if given a choice, would prefer not to be covered in their digestive juices (metaphorically speaking, of course).

here's how it broke down:

frat pack number one - presumably the alpha of the crew, he took first crack at me, talking my ear off with a tenacity that would be admirable if it hadn't been so fucking annoying. not wanting to be completely impolite (at least not immediately), i used body language (as detailed above) to try and give him a hint which flew completely over his head rather than telling him just to fuck off. which, in retrospect, i really wish i'd done, because then i might have been spared my encounter with...

...frat pack number two - when he arrived, for one delightful second, i thought they might go off to their corner and leave me alone at this point. no such luck. fp1 introduces me to fp2, who seals the introduction by sliding his arm around me and settling his hand on that wonderful hinterland between the bone of the hip and the top of the ass. i visibly recoil from this action, and while he didn't quite seem to get the connection between the two, i was saved at this point by a female companion of theirs, who was clearly irked that i was monopolizing the attention of her friends. yeah.

which brings us to:

frat pack number three: he was the quiet one, and the last one to the party. his attempt ot chat me up was simply to bring his beer over to the empty spot beside me at the bar and stare at me, finishing off his round by calling to fp1 and 2 that i was hitting on the bartender, and then, mercifully, walking away.

later, both fp1 and 2 made second attempts to get favorable attention, with fp1 following me out as i smoked (and later telling me i was being a bitch) and fp2 continuing with the inappropriate touching until i flat out told him that he needed to stop immediately.

gentlemen of the lower east side: it is not charming or cute to continue chatting up a girl when she clearly doesn't want to talk to you. i mean it. don't do it.

fortunately, the evening wasn't a total loss. hot bartender did ask for my number before i left.