An Open letter to 20-something sleazebuckets at nightclubs:

Words by Michelle Andrews.

Hello, douchebag men of the World.

I write this on behalf of women – all women – who frequent nightclubs and encounter your slimy antics and sweaty palms every Saturday night. The always-hopeful, brave women who continue to undergo the tireless process of exfoliation, moisturisation and self-tan(…ation?) only to have you grab at our nether-regions in a way that is both crazy-gross and highly unauthorised.

Girls, let me say it, you all deserve a friggin medal. Or a cake… probably both. Sometimes the shit we put up with when we go out is ridiculous. Entertaining yes, but often irritating and invasive also. I’m not saying that this applies to all men – quite the opposite – but only the special few who make clubbing feel as sleazy as a tinder conversation at 2am on a Wednesday morning.

Yes, if you’re that guy who intentionally blocks girls getting up stairs/to the bathroom/to her friends/away from a slime-ball like you and proceeds to pull out lines like “Well well well, where are you off to then?” this one’s directed at you.

I understand that after 3 beers you believe you have magically transformed into an Abercrombie & Fitch model, and thus feel entitled to grope any women you scout on the dance floor. Men, let me assure you – you have been sadly mistaken. You just look slightly sweatier and make us question how odd you would smell close up (not that we would ever want to find out). So if you grab me I will happily transform into the sassy bitch version of my normal self I deploy specially for parking ticket inspectors and creepers like you.

Sidenote: why do the creepy ones always travel in pairs? It’s never the creeper with his group of mates – it’s ALWAYS the two guys who only go out together, sashaying around the club like they are hunting glittery-bandage-dress-wearing prey. You just know if he’s there with just one mate, he’s probably a massive sleazebucket (new word and I like it).

Shock horror: Us girls don’t dress up all nice and fancy for you to high-five our asses on our way to the bar to get another vodka lemon lime. If we are wearing a midi then we expect to be treated like ladies gawd dammit! Touch our asses and we reserve the right to throw our vodka lemon limes straight in your sleazebucket face. Enjoy the sweet sting of that citrus, bitch.

You see, despite your new-found inflated ego and woozy mental state, you are never entitled to touch someone without their permission. How would you feel if I sauntered over and started stroking and petting you like a household pet? I’m not saying that you need my written approval or a signed permission slip from my Mum, but it would be nice if you asked my name before you get all handsy. That, my drunken male friends, is only going to score you some seriously icey did-you-really-just-squeeze-my-ass-and-then-wink-at-me stare downs.

Further, on behalf of the ladies who are having a ‘girls-only night’ or simply aren’t too keen on the idea of your tonsils rubbing up against theirs, please be a gentleman if you get rejected. Just give politeness a shot. Try it out every once in a while. Because calling a girl a “stuck up whore” or “stupid slut” after she didn’t want a bar of you not only makes zero sense (and makes us question whether you understand the concept of sluttiness) it makes you look like the biggest toolbag on the planet.

So boys, please save the ass-slaps for your footy mates or maybe just bin them all together. If you wouldn’t want your little sister to be treated like a piece of meat, treat the girls around you with respect – ESPECIALLY when they’re wearing a midi skirt.

Sincerely,
All 20-something women.

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