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Listen I know more than anyone that I wear clothes to the bar that, on occasion, garner attention. I’ve always been of the mindset that attention, even if it is from some wanker in a button down and bootcut jeans, is a good thing. There’s nothing quite as nice as knowing that there is a group of people in the bar who absolutely despise what you’re wearing.
They laugh because they’re insecure. I get it. But I wear outfits that are a bit on the outrageous side because I genuinely like them, and the first rule of fashion is that if you like it, fuck everyone else.
It isn’t every day that you see a guy wearing pleated khakis, a tucked in t-shirt with pink keytars on it, and wool socks with Birkenstocks, but I only have one life to live and I’m going to go out however I damn well please.
On an average Friday night out, I’ll have men and women alike come up and make a comment about an article of clothing I’m wearing or the outfit as a whole, and sometimes people will even offer to buy me drinks. I always graciously accept not because I want the drink per say, but more so because I feel pressure to take the drink. I never want to offend someone who offers to buy me a shot of tequila or a Cosmopolitan, and isn’t that just part of the social contract I sign when I dress the way I do?
I had a mustache for about a month last summer and one night I paired that mustache with an all-denim ensemble. Levi’s 501 jeans, a chambray shirt tucked in with a bolo tie, and brown boots. An All-American look if I have ever heard of one.
A girl and her friend standing at the bar bought me a beer because they liked my look so much, and afterwards I felt this weird obligation to stand there and drink my beer while they explained (read: talked down to me like I was a fucking child) why Lebron intentionally missed a free throw in a last-ditch attempt to regain possession of the basketball with a few seconds left on the clock in the fourth quarter, his Cavaliers down by 2.
I watch sports quite a bit, and to be honest with you I felt incredibly offended that they felt the need to explain the nuances of basketball to me as if I had never watched a minute of it in my entire life. I was routinely cut off when I would try telling them that just because I was showing a little bit of chest hair that this did not mean that I was some sort of man of the night or a human of loose morals.
Shortly after finishing my beer one of the girls looked me dead in the eye and, in a tone that I could only describe as dead serious, said: “So you want to get out of here, toots?”
Let me explain something to the men and women of this world that try to push up on me – I am a strong, independent man and I don’t need a piece of arm candy to legitimize myself, okay? I will have sex when, where, and with who I damn well please, and just because you buy me a couple of beers and whisper things like “Your ass looks so phat in those Levi’s” this doesn’t fucking mean that I’m going to sleep with you.
I’m incredibly flattered when people offer to take me home but it’s just so fucking asinine to assume that because you spent ten or eleven bucks on a couple of crispy beers for me that I’m just going to whip my dick out of my pants and start bumping uglies with you. This is 2018 and I’m so fed up with this notion that people like me are going to trade sex for some watered down cocktails. Be better, America. .