November 19: Creepers

I'm still sick. If I could have a little tea and sympathy, please, I'd feel so much better. Thank you.

A reader complained that I wrote some teasers in last night's post. True that. She wanted to know in particular about the creeper and the blue-eyed man. Teasers being what they are, I'm not giving it all up tonight. No news about the blue-eyed man yet -- whose name from here on out will be One-of-Ten. But I will say something about creepers.

Creepers come in a lot of different packages, and their creepiness might take different forms. I suppose one woman's creeper might be another woman's stalker possible new friend. Like for me, any guy who wanted me to pretend like I was a little girl would go into the creeper column. Other women wouldn't have any problem at all playing that kind of game. Consenting adults and all that. I don't judge.

The creepers I dislike the most though aren't the ones who want to negotiate their creepiness; it's the ones who get their jollies from unwilling victims. Those can be found anywhere, but they often lurk around dance floors where they can watch women dance and maybe even get in there and cop a feel if they're having a particularly brave night. I'm not saying every man who watches the dance floor is a creeper. Hell no. Some men just like to watch people dance.

But some seem to think any woman dancing is his private dancer, putting on a show just for him, giving him coins to put in his piggy wank bank.

For example, I was at a dance club one night with my son Drake and his girlfriend Montana and some of their friends. About the only time I go there is with them. I was dancing with Montana and some of her girlfriends when I felt eyes. You know that feeling? Like a psychic brush on the back of your neck?

So I danced in a circle and found the eyes. Although there were lots of people standing along the rail that runs above the dance floor, one tall, bald man was obviously watching in my direction. I didn't care. He wasn't even necessarily watching me. Why would he? I was dancing with beautiful young women. But I had felt his eyes.

Later when I was standing at the bar with Drake, the bald man stepped up beside me to order a drink. He said hi and started some small talk, which was fine. He was attractive and of an appropriate age (as opposed to the 26-year-old who tried to pick me up there once). Nothing wrong with small talk.

And then he asked if my date minded that he was talking to me. ??????  He gestured with his head toward Drake.

My son? He thought I was on a date with my son? Lordamercy. To be fair, that's the second time that happened in there, and both times I was ..... let's just say I was not flattered. Just like I'm not flattered when men my age hit on my daughter, and then try to tell us we look like sisters. Put them in the creeper column.

I told him my son wasn't my date, and then I imagine my demeanor chilled down a few degrees. I turned to talk to Drake and his friend.

Bald guy got his drink and walked past me to go outside on the patio. As he did, his hand brushed against my ass. I turned and frowned at him but he just kept walking. OK, that could have been an accident.

Then he came back and as he walked by his hand brushed against my ass, harder this time. There was plenty of room behind me. I shuddered, and again he just kept walking like he didn't notice he'd done it.

When it happened a third time just a couple of minutes later, I said to Drake, "Mommy needs to find another place to stand or big bald guy there is going to get a drink in his face. You know how I hate to waste a weak $5.00 drink in a plastic cup."

Bald creeper also could have gotten a fist in his face, because while dance club patrons can be unpredictable, Drake and his friends are not. They would be glad to deal in their own way with any creeper problem I encountered there. Does any young man really want to know some stranger is playing secret grab-ass with his mom? And the tall, bald man was definitely a creeper  of the surreptitious ass-brushing variety.

We moved to another room in the club, and he didn't follow. Maybe Drake and his friends should have taught him some manners, but if they started in that place, they'd be cracking heads all night.

Saturday night's creeper was a dance-floor watcher too. I was out with my friend Trick Shot and her boyfriend Lights listening to a classic rock band. When the band played an irresistable song, Trick Shot and I would go out on the floor and get the dancing started. We did that probably 4 or 5 times. Each time this short, pudgy guy with thick glasses -- who was watching the band play all night, not just when we were dancing -- would clap his hands, smile really big at us and say, "Yay for the dancers. Yay for the dancers." And we would clap with him and laugh.

Lights asked if he was bothering us, and we said no. We even said he was just being happy, not creepy. Toward the end of the night I said to the guy, "Why don't you get out there and dance? You know you want to."

He said, "Oh, I will before the night's over."

And so he did. Trick Shot, Lights and I were dancing to the last song of the night, when the watcher came into the dance area and started dancing too. I gave him a little clap, clap and kept dancing. The clap, clap wasn't an invitation.

Nevertheless he came up to me and held out his hands like he wanted to dance with me. One little hair went up on the back of my neck, but I took his hands. He held on and kind of danced rocked back and forth in a circle. As he did, he sang along with the band, although he didn't really sing words. It sounded like, "Hunne nnunn djnew when hunnnd dunnn dewww ..." I was trying not to laugh. Awkward.

And then he pulled me closer and put his right arm around me as if he was really going to dance. Ten hairs went up. I can dance. He obviously couldn't. He said into my ear as his right hand inched down my back, "I can't really dance. Hiunnnd loon vorn sandow .... " I backed away and he grabbed my hands again and kept dancing -- smiling his "Yay dancers" smile the entire time.

I wasn't having fun any more. And when he grabbed me and pulled me closer again and put his hand on my ass, I moved back again and shook my head at him. He grabbed my hands again, and as he did, I looked over at Trick Shot and Lights and mouthed, "Help me."

Could I have dumped his chubby ass on the ground? Probably. But I prefer to get out of a situation gracefully if I can -- even with a creeper. Lights cut in and poor Trick Shot took one for the team and danced with the creeper. It was toward the end of the song, but he tried to put his hand on her ass too.

Yep, he goes in the creeper column. And I owe one to Trick Shot.

I'm lucky that most of my creeper stories happen in places where I'm with friends, and I know the staff and/or the band. Saturday night, I'm sure a couple of members of the band were watching every single move chubby creeper was making. You see everything from the stage. Besides I've known their lead singer for many years, and the guitar player always hits on me himself. I wasn't in danger of anything except needing a shower.

But it's creepy. It's skin-crawly. It's somebody trying to get his jollies from an unwilling victim. That's not OK.

There's a difference between appreciation and loading up the wank bank. I can't always describe it, but I know it when I see it.

So that's a couple of creeper stories. Blue-eyed One-of-Ten will get his turn in a future post, because he definitely did not go into the creeper column. At least not yet.

Update: Here's the video Drake posted in the comments below.