Today’s soundtrack is what passed for club music in the 80’s, back when (I assume) dancing was slightly more sedate, and men wore suits to the club (at least on TV). Freddie Jackson is the daddy of all things R&B, and I will have no conversation on this matter. The man is, was, a small god, and this song is my misguided idea of a ‘getting dressed to go out’, ‘building up to the party’ track. That’s right, my geriatric ass will be found swaying to his disturbingly excellent voice as I pick out a fulana for the trip to the local, the old(-ish?) school vibes getting me stepping in rhythm to his funky syncopation. Yes, I used the word syncopation, because I am old, and I know what it means. If this song does not get you swaying…I was going to threaten to slap you, but that’s a bit pointless, because you’re clearly defective enough as is. Younglings, this is what a song about going out used to sound like, long before alcohol and sex became the theme of our party nights…
Tell me why you came here,
Was it just to sit and stare,
Won’t you come go with me,
Take out some time,
If you lend me a hand,
I know that we could jam,
Let’s get on down right now,
Let’s get on down,
Now don’t you wanna jam tonight…
My people, if one more man tries to funga me in the bar, so help me I will slap that bloody idiot, in the balls. I mean really, enough! This is the problem with going out to the bar alone, such as I often do, you open yourself up to all manner of propositions, most not welcome. I’ve gotten to the point where I’m scared to talk to random strangers, because at one point in the night, the man will decide, erroneously, to whisper in my ear just how much he wants to get laid, often after we’ve just finished having a detailed conversation about his girlfriend/wife/clande/mistress/regular ho. What the hell? Is there something I don’t know? Does the fact that I’m willing to talk to you, maybe even dance with you, is that code for ‘I want to shag you’? Because if it is, then I must look like the biggest langa in the bar.
Here’s the thing, I live alone, and for the most part I work alone. I don’t talk to too many people, hell, there are times I go for days on end without any conversation with someone other than myself. Its not that I don’t like people (although perhaps I don’t), it’s just the nature of my work, and life. So when I trudge down to the bar for a bit of wine and off-key singing, I’m looking for distraction, happy to have random conversations with whoever happens to be sitting on the next stool. I’m not looking to funga anyone, I’m not even looking to meet a man, seeing as how I’m convinced the worst place to find a man is at the counter, what with his beer goggles and my paranoid distrust of anyone who tries to derail me when my guard has been artificially lowered by booze. In as much as I realise that many men are looking for a random lay, and that striking up a conversation, flirting, or buying a girl a drink, is part of the seduction routine, surely you buggers can tell when a woman is just being friendly and when she’s looking to jump your bones? Can you not tell that a random conversation is just that, random? Can you not see that my dancing with you is simply me dancing with you, because I like to dance, and you like to dance? Can you not see that?
You know who I blame for this sad state of affairs? I’ll tell you, it’s the women’s fault. That’s right, I blame all the snooty women who refuse to talk to strange men in bars, unless they look a certain way, or sound a certain way, or drink the right drink, or buy the right drink, or wear the right jeans, or dance the right way… Do you know what happens to all these men who are constantly being ignored? I’ll tell you what happens, they resort to propositioning idiots like me, foolish langas who don’t have the good sense to ignore them. That’s right, the reason strange men hit on my ass is because I show them a bit of attention, which in their addled brains means I must like them, like that. Listen here, you foolish women, we need to train these buggers to think differently, and hopefully approach us differently. All it takes is you getting off your snooty little behind, stop assuming that every man who approaches you in the bar is looking to shag you, and talk to the bastard. Let him buy you a drink if he wants. Dance with the bugger. It’s not that serious, is it?
Don’t you wanna, don’t, don’t you wanna,
Perhaps it is. Perhaps the fact that I’m not the hottest of women is the reason why I cannot comprehend why a woman willingly ignores a man looking to talk to her for a minute or two. Perhaps the fact that I’m not constantly swatting off unwelcome advances means that I have a higher tolerance for idiots. Perhaps the fact that I do not think I am the shit is the reason why I am only too happy to spend a bit of time with someone who is also not the shit. Perhaps I’m just old enough to know better than to assign sexual motives to every idiot in the bar. Or perhaps I’m just too foolish to know better?
Sometime in December, one of the lovely gentlemen I meet up with at Karaoke every once in a while propositioned my ass, in a most blatant fashion. I only met the man in October or thereabouts, he’s a friend of a very good, very old friend, a friend I trust so implicitly that his people automatically become my people, by default, because that’s how we do. Shock on me when, after assuming that the new friendship I was forming was just that, harmless friendship (because he’s my pal’s pal and therefore a no go zone, plus he’s married), this genius steps up to me and tells me he wants to fuck me, immediately. I have not paraphrased. ‘Eh?’ was my studied response, my thought process (clearly) dulled by the cheap red I’d imbibed. I have never fled a bar so fast, this after I gave him an unequivocal, ‘No!’ See, its one thing to be hit on, it’s another thing for a man to try and funga your ass, that way.
To my mind, hitting on me is an expression of desire, possibly misplaced, but desire nonetheless. Trying to funga my ass, on the other hand, is an expression of lust, yours not mine. At that point, the man had reduced me to nothing more than a warm hole for him to stick his dick into, and that’s just plain unacceptable behaviour. Gentlemen, if you ever learn anything from this blog, let it be this. A good come on leaves a woman feeling like the shit. A bad come on leaves her feeling like shit. Try not to make us feel like shit, will you?
Come on and sing along,
Do whatever you feel as long,
As you have a good time that’s all,
Just have a good time,
Don’t you wanna jam tonight…
The bar scene is given much more significance than it deserves, and all because we’re a bunch of lazy idiots who don’t have the good sense to learn seduction 101, preferring the artificial scene of tight clothing and dim lighting, fuelled by alcohol and/or other, as our source of all things sexual. Listen here, not everyone in there is looking to hook up with your allegedly fine ass, and that goes for both men and women. Sometimes, as unlikely as it sounds, a stranger just wants to have some good conversation and unwind. I know, who’da thunk it?
Listen, you buggers, why the hell should I have to change my ‘loose like a langa’ ways, because some men erroneously presume me a langa, because it’s (allegedly) only the langas who dance with random men in bars? Nkt! That’s right, I dance with strange men. Not any strange man, mind you, but if I’m dancing with a bunch of guys I know, and then someone else joins the group, I’ll dance with his ass too (and the same goes for having a loose drink, because I know that one swallow doth not a bloody summer make). I come from a generation that liked to dance in the club, really dance, and I have no qualms with swaying gently to the soothing tunes of ‘Lady In Red’, even with a stranger (admittedly not a complete stranger, just someone whose last name I don’t know). It’s just a dance, dammit, it’s not like I grabbed your ass or something.
That I have issues with our funga culture has been well documented on these pages. That I have no objection to (preferably good) sex has also been documented herein. Trust me when I tell you that our bar scene has lost its way. I don’t know if this is true of every bar, but it seems to me that these days one can’t simply go out to have a good time, a good time that does not involve going home with someone. I’m all for sexual liberation and what not, but some of us go the bar to kick back and get our drink/dance/sing on, and nothing else. I will gladly talk to you, I will let you buy me a drink, and most probably I will buy you one in return just for good measure, I may even dance a jig or two with you. But I have no intention of shagging you. I may be loose (read easy going), but I’m not that loose (read easy). Gentlemen, are you hearing me? Are you really? Good. Now please stop telling me about your bloody boner, useless wankers…
These days, slightly older and marginally wiser, when I go to the bar I stay close to the fellas, they who know I do not want to shag them, never straying further than a couple of idiots away. And when I talk to a random stranger, I do not flirt…that’s a lie, I do flirt, because flirting is fun, and good for the ego, but I do not do anything more than mild flirting, not even so much as a saucy wink. I do not dance too close to a man, lest he gets the wrong idea, and I do not let him touch anything other than my arm (lower, not upper), because apparently letting a man put his arm around your waist leads him to believe that you plan on sucking his dick in the very near future (I’m not joking, these buggers really are a bit delusional). These days, I’m so busy weaving through potential mine fields in the shape of drunk, horny men, I can’t even relax enough to get my high on. What is this world coming to when a woman can’t get drunk enough in a bar to let her damn hair down?
I wanna jam, I wanna jam with you baby yeah,
Come on, let’s do it the way we love to do,
Let’s jam the night away…