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A Reflection On Being An Ex Party Animal, And The Men That Drove Me Out Of The Clubs

If you want to witness an example of the textbook definition of a man-child, look no further than the club.

Here you will find males of all heights, shapes, and sizes. They are most likely standing up against the wall, scoping out the beautiful ladies they will try to prey on and harass that evening.

These annoying, animalistic, predatory males have little to no interaction with the lady-folk during the week (besides their coworkers and family members) so they lose their minds when they head out to parties packed full of gorgeous women. They have no self control and their entitlement takes over. In their heads, women who willingly choose to go out to parties must speak to them and dance with them. After all, we only exist for the pleasure and satisfaction of men, right? We cannot possibly dress up to look good for ourselves after a long work week.

The club male doesn’t care that you worked long hours, and you decided to grab a drink with your friends while teasing the man-folk with your perfectly styled hair, clean-shaven legs, and mini skirts. Nope.

The typical club male is selfish. He must interject himself into your plans by compromising your safety and making your entire evening about him.

While the man-child is trying to get you to dance with him for the third time after you’ve shooed him away, all you can think of is how much you regret going out. You should’ve just stayed home and had a girl’s night in your apartment. Or enjoyed a quiet evening relaxing in your lingerie, drinking wine and watching Netflix.

As much as I love dancing, I rarely, if ever, go out to parties anymore. On Friday and Saturday nights you can find me putting on my socks and dancing in the comfort of my bedroom. And I have the time of my life. I can wear what I want, and I am not subjected to the harrowing music choices and constant interruptions from the DJ. And best of all, Club Sanni is man-child free.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve gone out with the anticipation of having a good time, only to have my fun-filled evening cut off prematurely due to males who can’t seem to understand a short but powerful two letter word: No.

At parties I’ve been grabbed, stalked, and even had a man stand behind me while dancing, making sure to not brush up too close to me so I wouldn’t notice his slick way of sexually harassing me. My nights were often filled with rage, as I had to resort to cursing men out for trying to touch me or dance with me after I politely told them No. I’ve even had to put hands on them at times.

You see, blind, hot anger is the only communication males understand. They play this game of ignoring a woman who politely tells them to leave them alone. When the woman has had enough and gets angry, she may resort to throwing a drink in a man’s face or even punching them. The embarrassed yet entitled man-child retorts to playing an innocent victim. Even though he single-handedly provoked her to her tipping point, he paints the woman that rejected him as drunk and crazy.

And for the most part, everyone believes him. Why? Because it is still widely viewed that a woman who dresses to kill is only looking for trouble. She willingly invites predatory men into her Jezebel web. She craves male attention in any form, even harassment.

I came to the realization that my safety is greatly compromised around males, and clubs and parties are crawling with them. So I simply don’t go. There is the extremely rare occasion that I am excited to dress to the nines and show out, but I always make sure to arrive with a group of friends, with most of them being men.

I miss my nights on the town as the dancing queen. While I hate that I can’t be the free, independent woman who comes and goes as she pleases by herself, my safety is much too important to take chances. I alone can’t change the club culture, so I pretty much avoid it entirely. My life is much less stressful as I utilize other ways to have fun that doesn’t involve me cursing out someone’s sweaty, horribly raised son.

Originally published at

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