I was at a Jammin' Java show earlier tonight, ordering a plain old Diet Coke from the bar. A male sidled up to me so covertly that I didn't notice him until he leaned in and, shouting over the music, asked if he could buy me a drink. I'm really picky, so I immediately rejected him in my mind.

"I'm not twenty-one," I yelled into his ear. (Whoops, I didn't mean to caress it with my lips.)

"How about a soft drink?" (Who actually calls it a soft drink?) Before I could reject his second offer, my girlfriend got my Diet Coke from the bar and slipped it into my hand. I pointed to the drink with my free hand. "I guess I was late then," he shrugged. I smiled apologetically and began to head for the stage at the end of the room.

He wasn't done, though. "Do you dance?" he asked.

"Um..." I thought about it for a few seconds. Do I dance? As in, would I like to dance or do I dance? Either way, the answer is no for you. "No...not really." I don't know what he said after that, but I managed another apologetic half-smile, said thanks, and followed my friend toward the stage. Free at last!

According to their MySpace, the local band we went to see plays "heavy danceable grooves" and "dirty sex rock". As is their style, toward the end of their shows they invite women up to dance. My friend, a few other girls (one of whom has freakishly long limbs and hooker attire, of which I'll post photos tomorrow), and I are on stage rocking out, wiggling our bottoms. I suddenly remember the guy at the bar. I chuckle and think to myself, No...I don't dance!

Update (3:36 AM): I just got a drunken phone call. Ugh. "Whaaat are you doooing toniiight?" I told him rather snarkily that I'm going to sleep. "Me toooo!" Yeah, nice try, jackass. Grr. I hate males.