Friday night was one of the rare occasions I decided to go out to bar with a friend. I rarely spend any time with her outside of the activities we have together. I rarely get a chance to talk with her even at parties that we are both invited to.
I’ve had lots to party invitations in the past month to the point where I really had to pick and choose.
So back to Friday night at the bar…
Clara recommended that we go to a gay bar, so we wouldn’t have to deal with being hit on all night long. This bar is considered a “dive,” but it wouldn’t even come close to that in my definition. The people in California have no idea what a real dive bar is like. This bar was small, but there was enough room for tables and couches, a pool table and dance floor.
I was surprised by her bar choice, but then I thought “why not?” We would be able to talk and dance. Gay bars had to have good music, right?
I was right about the good music. Loved the music. The people were great. They initially looked at us a little funny.
Just as I was getting comfortable, and Clara and I were talking, he walked up. A scrawy, scruffy, drunk Russian. He told us he was Russian. Not only that he said he was married and not gay. I heard most of his life story. Apparently he was avoiding his wife’s complaints about how he fucked her. Clara and I danced, and so did this guy. The bartenders eyed him apprehensively. So much for not being bothered. Leave it to Clara to draw the only “straight” guy to us in a gay bar.
When we sat down again, he was back…sitting to my right. His invasiveness into my personal space was infuriating. Then I could tell how much he had been drinking and that he was stinky. So now this stinky, scruffy, scrawy Russian sat within inches of me on a bar stook. Then he had the gall to comment on my posture. I had taken to crossing my arms over the bar. So what? Apparently that meant something to him–mostly that there was something wrong with me. I did make it clear I wasn’t going to talk to him. He interrupted my conversation with Clara two times. Then I was mad. The stupid drunk had no clue. The creep also touched my hair–picked up a piece of my hair and fondled it. I have no idea what else he might have done before I saw him since he was behind my back.
He was very touchy. I was polite, but glared at him. Again, he wondered–aloud–what was wrong with me. Me telling him that I wanted to have a conversation with my friend made no difference.
Clara actually told him to go away…and not nicely. Something she said she never does. It’s more like something I would do. The bartenders got involved. Scruffy Russian then went to the corner and pouted.
He returned about thirty minutes later. I left earlier than Clara who waited for her husband to pick her up.
It was the first time I asked someone in a bar to escort me to my car. We had met a nice guy there who also tried to scare away the persistently drunk Russian. Even in straight bars–the typical pickup scene–I have never had so much trouble or continually been accosted by some stranger who refused to get that his presence was unwanted.
