It was a relatively mellow night for me since I drove to the party and planned on driving myself and possibly others home safely. Still I had a good time, danced and rung in 2012 with a glass of champagne. The night began to get interesting after midnight.
Of course, since I never get to, I had to wear my sparkly spike heels. I was gleeful and happy until a bout of dancing made my toes numb. So I happily plopped myself down at a table full of empty drink glasses and babysat one of girlfriends drinks while she danced. I was happy to do it, no one wants to be rufied on New Year’s…or ever, come to think of it.
Anyhow, it was at this juncture, when I was content to sit and watch the drunkies dance that I began to be “flirted” with. All night I was hoping someone would flirt with me. The second I think “Aw screw ‘em. Every one’s too drunk now,” that’s when I get flirted with.
One man came up and asked me to dance. I smiled and politely told him my feet hurt and I’d like to sit for awhile. After I declined a second and third time he wandered off promising to “come back.” Super duper I thought to myself. I watched the people dance; chatted with my friends that came and talked with me before disappearing on the dance floor again. I was just starting to relax when suddenly out of nowhere another man flung himself onto the stool next to mine and leaned terribly, ridiculously close to my face and requested a dance.
I leaned away, again smiling through clenched teeth and gestured to my shoes. Telling him my feet hurt, I declined the dance. He pointed to his own shoes and said they hurt his feet but that he was dancing anyway. I nodded and said I didn’t like to dance when my feet hurt but he could go right ahead, with some one else. He leaned closer and slurred in my ear, “I only dance with the loveliest ladies and that is you.” Pause. “I am French.” Then he kissed my cheek. When I say he “kissed my cheek” what I mean is he sloppily ran his sopping wet lips against my cheek and expected me to turn and swoon.
I wiped my cheek said how wonderful it was that he was French, but I still did not care to dance as the pain in my feet remained unchanged and now I needed to go wash my face. A friend came and talked to me and she managed to distract him enough, probably by the mere fact that she was standing near the dance floor and not grimacing at him. Thank you dear friend for that. I turned back to the dance floor. Just as I was contemplating getting up and going downstairs so I would stop being assaulted by Frenchmen wanting to dance, even though their shoes hurt their feet, the first guy showed up again.
He asked me to dance again, I just said no thanks, abandoning all courtesy and honeyed words. He pointed to some barefoot girls dancing a little ways away. I replied that the floor was disgusting and I liked my shoes and wanted to wear them, not loose them. So he insisted on staying to chat. We talked a little and I thought perhaps he would leave it at that, but he kept getting closer. I thought my body language was clear; turned away from him, not really looking at him while we talked. Apparently being drunk blinds even the most socially savvy person, because he did not get it. Finally he leaned in, asked to kiss me on both cheeks and did so. Again saying he “kissed” me means sloppy wet lips met my cheeks and made me wish there was a clean napkin somewhere close by. He asked to kiss me on the lips, I said no, then informed him I was going downstairs to find my friends.
I left shortly after that. The persistence of the first man was
disturbing flattering but really, he couldn’t even remember my name and after being drooled all over (literally) I just wanted to go home and go to bed.
It was a fun party, and I have some funny stories to tell people, which is always nice. The only downside is I don’t think my cheeks will ever be the same again.