Published: November 13, 2008

For about four years now, my friend Jacqueline and I have sat across from one another at any given table, at any given restaurant, lamenting the failure of another relationship with a spoiled, overindulgent New York City man that desperately needed to read Emily Post’s “Etiquette.” Out of frustration, anger and confusion she has repeatedly said, “Who do these men think they are?” Those words echo in my head constantly.

“These men” are your gawking, ass-pinching, whistling, winking, “Let me buy you a drink,” “My wife/girlfriend/fiancé/boyfriend is out of town,” “Hey baby,” kind of guys. If further clarification is needed, give a little listen to TLC’s “No Scrubs” or Robyn’s “ Handle Me.” This type of “man” can be of any age, race, religion, educational background, sexual orientation or income bracket; however, it should be noted that money is sexy, and men in upper income brackets seem to get away with naughty behavior.

Just the other night, a group of friends and I decided to venture into Chelsea for a little fun at the club, and “these men” were out in full force. It was a typical Friday night scene with the loud dance music, underwear-clad bartenders and me wishing I had stayed at home and caught up on reading. Ten minutes in and I had my first encounter. A 5’9”, overly-tanned, middle-aged troll approached me and said, “I like short guys. I think you want me.”

I thought to myself, “Is he high?”

Irritated by his brashness, I replied, “I’ve never been that drunk and never will be.” I then grabbed my friend Brian’s muscular arm and added, “This is my boyfriend. He’s really protective.” To avoid further harassment, we moved downstairs to hang around the bar and get away from this creep.

From across the way, Brian tells me he sees another guy eyeing me and winking in our direction. It was then that I realized Brian was probably drunk himself because the guy “eyeing” me looked as if he was seeing double and was definitely twitching.

It’s funny how at 20 you can still feel like you’re in the fourth grade. Before I realized what was going on, my friends had literally pushed me into my inebriated admirer. Up close, I was surprised he had “boy next door” good looks. He glared at me with only one eye open while he held on to the railing behind the bar for stability and managed to work up the word, “Hey.” With my friends looking at me, I took a moment to think, what would Audrey Hepburn do? I answered myself almost instantly. Audrey wouldn’t have come to this place. You’re on your own, I thought. I mustered a smile, got close to his ear so he could hear me over the music and introduced myself. He said he was visiting from London for a week and was out with friends. It was going well enough until he moved in, slobbered on my ear and pinched my nipple. I knew I had to get out of there fast.

My friends were still glaring at us, so I decided I would just kiss the loser and say I had to go. As I turned my head and made that awkward kissing lean in, he closed his mouth. Feeling like an idiot, I pulled back, and he said, “I don’t kiss. I’m straight.” He followed that gem up with, “But we can go to the bathroom,” all while licking his lips and staring at one of my friends. A thousand primal screams toward the heavens went off in my head, and Jacqueline’s words hit me again, “Who do these men think they are?”