The other night, I was rolling with the hotel lounge, top shelf liquor and pinstripe segment of Washington. The men were witty, handsomely turned out, and gallant. Conversations were punctuated with flashing of handheld technotoys and the tap-tap-tap of full keyboard texting. I'm a jeans and dive bar kind of girl, but sometimes it's fun to branch out. And these guys were a blast to hang out with.
Except for one. One of the men in the group, whom I will call Toolio to protect his anonymity, was indulging in every stripe of tomtoolery. He assaulted, licked, insulted and harangued. He told me about his wife and kids, then asked if I wanted to have sex with him in the bathroom. He pawed at and proposed to the only other woman in the group (which I suppose means I'm the girl you screw in the bathroom, while she's the sort of girl you marry). He subjected everyone to verbal tirades, uncomfortable clinching, and socks in the arm. He was stupid and loud and way, way too drunk.
Much of his obnoxiousness was saved for me, because I had objected to him picking me up by the ass on our first meeting. I resisted the urge to kick him in the groin, and instead demanded that he put me down. Not wanting my ass manhandled made me a terrible person in the Toolio universe. After all, what are women for, if not to be tossed around and pawed at by total strangers? The ridiculous part was that he kept denying it, because I apparently do not know the location of my own ass. While that may be true in a figurative sense, I've had this ass for 31 years and I do in fact know when it's being grabbed. (And I think I just hit a new record for uses of the word “ass” in one paragraph, which seems fitting. Ass ass ass! Ass. Assy assy ass.)
Getting back to the story, the man was the Tooliest Tool in Tooltown. What was interesting, though, was how the other guys reacted. They spent a lot of time nervously conferring on what to do. In the meantime, Toolio was coddled and humored. My suggestion to simply have security haul him out was considered and politely overruled. Eventually a cab fare collection was taken up, and he was cajoled into going home. Just before the taxi arrived, he face-planted into the street and split his chin open, splashing blood on one of those lovely Brooks Brothers suits.
I had no problem holding my own with Toolio verbally, but there isn't much you can do about physical intimidation and manhandling when you're 5'2” like me. It may be a bit backward of me, but I do expect guys to step up to the plate and be protective. Looking out for those smaller than yourself is basic courtesy. And, on average, men are bigger than women.
Here's how the same evening would have gone down in Woodbridge: Toolio would have had his arms twisted behind his back, and he would have been bodily removed from the bar. If he resisted, he would have been drop-kicked into an gutter and told to sleep it off. Or they'd dump him into the bed of a pickup truck, and he would have woken up half-naked in the middle of one of Woodbridge's three trailer parks with “Tool” scribbled across his chest in permanent marker.
Conclusion: nobody does chivalry like a Hoodbridge redneck gangsta.
In the comments section, tell me what your hometown boys would have done to Toolio.