An Open Letter To The Gentleman Dancing Behind Me In The Club


Dear Gentleman Dancing Behind Me,

It has come to my attention that many men feel there is supreme injustice done unto the male gender in the nightclub industry. Although I don’t completely disagree that there is some financial inequality into which many men buy, I don’t believe women are to blame. If you are the type of person to buy someone a $15 cocktail out of the goodness of your heart without expecting to end the night with that person on top of you, I commend you — but I am not entirely sure you really exist.

I’m aware that cleavage has become a currency of sorts, but let us remember who chooses to accept it. But, before you claim that our physical differences have spared us from nighttime financial burden, let's remember that men can get away with rotating dress clothes in close succession of wears. The same is not true for women — people comment when we re-wear outfits often, and it can be embarrassing. Why the female gender is so concerned with things like is not an idea that I care to address, but it is what it is.

Luckily, our long, toned legs garner us the attention of the gentleman at the bar, but this requires us to sell our souls to the elliptical or to wear stilettos. Many places actually refuse admission to girls who don’t wear heels, and to the men who believe women enjoy wearing this form of footwear (and the women who feign to also enjoy this cruel and unusual punishment they support), they hurt.

Though they make our butts look nice, they are painful. I assume very few of you men have ever worn heels — so imagine your toes being squeezed together really, really tightly. Now imagine standing on your tip-toes for hours on end with nothing but a stick supporting your heels. As blisters inevitably form and sweat inevitably gathers, I promise you’re no longer interested in going through the trouble we do to look the way we do.

Also, bras are uncomfortable — especially the strapless ones that many club outfits require. I have a theory that Satan actually invented the strapless bra. I’m not sure if you’ve ever heard of eyelash adhesive or fashion tape or sticky boobs or Spanx, and you’ll probably never have to deal with these things. Maybe you’re even confused by all the new terms coming your way — I assume these are vocabulary words you’ve never learned.

Following the pain and discomfort to which we subject ourselves just in preparation for the club, it only gets worse upon passing the bouncer and coat check. Contrary to popular belief, there is rarely a line of guys waiting to purchase us vodka sodas and lemon drop shots. While many men assume our interests in them only goes so far as the bar tab, we are conditioned to believe that your interest in us begins at the barstool and ends at the bed post. You think we’re just after your money, and we think you’re just after our bodies.

It may appear I am lingering by the bar, waiting for someone to get caught in my eyes and offer me the world in the form of Grey Goose, but more likely, I’m either looking for my friends, who somehow disappeared, or I just happen to prefer to stay away from crowds full of sweaty people groping each other. If you ask me if you can buy me a drink, you probably know how I'll answer — it’s rude to turn down a gift.

You may be a perfectly nice guy, with a perfectly nice smile, but what if we have no connection? Regardless, I’m obligated to spend the duration of my drink with you in addition to 10 minutes or so, as not to appear like a gold-digging bitch. If I turn down the drink in the first place, I’m already a bitch in your eyes, so how am I to win?

I recognize that most men don’t linger by a large group of girls waiting for the opportune moment to rub up against the back of our dresses prior to any formal introduction. But for those of you who choose to partake in the grip and grind, I hope you now understand our resulting repulsion. We know you’re just looking for a way break the barrier between our skirts and our vaginas.

So, while your ego may suffer when a girl whose face you have yet to even see doesn’t want to bump and grind with you, understand that she is neither a bitch nor too quick to judge. She’s just protecting herself.

So, maybe we’re even.

Love, Mackenzie

Photo credit: Superbad