Don’t buy me a drink.

Last night I went to the clubhouse with Jack and his boyfriend John.

We are posted in my favorite room, the video bar, which is like a gay sports bar that plays music videos instead of football.

The Ting Tings are playing when the bar tender plops these small red drinks in front of us.

I shoot the bartender a look like “What the heck?” and he says,

Bartender: “These are from the guy across the bar.”

Jack is amused. I panic.

I panic as if the bartender just placed Saddam’s lost WMDs in front of us.

Jack: “Drink up!”
Me: “No! We need to send these back. NOW.”
Jack: “What? It’s a nice gesture. Stop being so stuck up.”
Me: “NO NO NO! When you accept a drink from a guy he will think that he owns you. He will think that it is okay for him to come over and harass us for the rest of the night, like a dog pissing on his favorite lamp post. And I will NOT be that creep’s lamp post tonight! No urine on this leg!”

I shove my drink away. Jack drinks his.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later, I feel an arm reach from behind me, into my shirt, and I feel a crusty old-man-hand clutch onto my chest like I’m Anna Nicole.

The Creep is latched onto me, and he’s squeezing his cheek against mine, as if he’s wiping his sweat off.

I am in a gross, drunk, choke hold.
Jack is amused. I’m livid, but I slap on a fake “wtf” smile because I don’t want to cause a scene in front of Cute-Guy-in-Corner.
After a few seconds of sheer terror The Creep slithers away. Jack and John are laughing at me. I’m bug-eyed and roaring.

And of course Cute-Guy-in-Corner saw the entire assault, and is laughing at me too.

So I’m standing there perturbed, and suddenly I hear all this shouting behind me. Had The Creep returned so soon?

I turn around just in time to get out of the way of a Hot Mess who falls into the side of the bar. He catches my bitchy glare and decides to BELCH loudly, in my ear!

I mean, girlfriend just let it rip. This was one of those ground shaking trucker burps.

The bartenders are shocked. Half the bar is glaring, the other half is laughing. The night is officially messy.
It was as if someone sent out a mass text to all the crazies and informed them of my presence: Hello, hello, Jansen is in the building. Proceed to harass. One at a time!
I realize that The Creep who bought us the drinks has placed himself under the music video screen that I’m watching. This way he can pretend that I’m looking and smiling at him when I’m really just watching Beyonce.

I realize this too late however, and The Creep comes back around the bar and wipes his sweat on me again.

He then slithers away.

Jack, John, and Cute-Guy-in-Corner are all amused. The two cowboy hat-wearing lesbians sitting next to me are also laughing. I glare at them and they look away.

I then turn to Jack:

Me: “This is officially some bullshit. If he comes back one more again I’m pulling a Brooke Valentine.”
Jack: “I love the drammy.”
Me: “This is why I don’t talk to people in bars. Minneapolis is full of The Crazy.”

The Creep waits about an hour before making his final move. This time I was prepared. I notice his arm reaching from behind me and grab it before he can latch onto my chest again. I then turn around and glare. He sees 10 types of crazy in my eyes and says he will leave me alone.

Jack is laughing.

Me: “This is why you never let anyone buy you a drink.”
Jack: “Oh this needs to happen more often. I’m quite amused.”
Me: “Glad to be tonight’s entertainment. I accept all major credit cards.”