Dear Dude at the David Guetta Concert,
I told you I write for a women’s libertarian website. That means that I, unfortunately, spend a lot of time talking about people who do it wrong. The times dudes screw the pooch—usually because of a society that teaches them all the wrong things about how to interact with people. But you, sir, were different. You were awesome. I want to take the time to thank you for getting it right. Cause I don’t think we, as women or as a society, do that enough.
First of all, I’m sorry I either never got or can’t recall your name. Please don’t think less of me for it. I think names are ultimately inconsequential. People are much more important to retain than names, and I want to remember you.
I am glad circumstances put us together Saturday night. Though my friends were awash in male attention and I lacking in it (as are the consequences of being a little heavy, brunette, and eternally sober), the time I spent with you substantially improved my evening.
The little things you did were the sexiest: putting your cheek on mine from behind, lacing our fingers together, moving your hands down my arms, placing your hands on my waist, wrapping your arms around my shoulders, letting me rest my head on your chest and holding me close. They were all intimate without being invasive. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted that intimacy until you provided it.
My companions fought off creepers putting their hands in their pants. I got you. You were sexy as hell, in part because you got that less is more. I felt desired but not objectified. Sexy, but not without personhood. It’s a difficult line to straddle, and you did it well. I felt you saw me as a person, not just a random chick on the dance floor there for you to grope.
Speaking of dancing, I highly approve, sir, of yours. Moving with you was seamless, flawless, and a hell of a lot of fun. I love to dance beyond the standard bump and grind, and we were well-fitted as partners to that end. I respect a man who not only can but does get low (I still say you were better at it than me) and someone who will look me in the eye as we move together.
I was surprised that you came back after getting a drink. Surprised that you could find me in the crowd, surprised that you were having a good enough time to make the effort to find me again. That you came back, rather than finding some other random chick to dance with, also made me feel wanted. Thank you.
I am sorry that you had to leave so abruptly, but offering me a cab ride home was classy and sweet. I’m sorry I didn’t have the forethought to just go out to talk with you a bit and maybe get your number. I believe this is what we call “striking out.” I’ll admit it: You got in my head, and I can’t get you out, but I’d rather be kicking myself for not following through than kicking you in the balls.
Part of me wishes you had asked for my number, but it’s okay. Maybe you’re gay. Maybe you have a girlfriend and you’re not open. Maybe you just didn’t think it was worth it since I had to go back to Philadelphia in the morning. Maybe I was the only one feeling high on chemistry. It doesn’t really matter. I understand that sometimes all you get is a few hours with someone. You still made me feel wonderful.
I don’t expect you’ll ever read this, but others will, and I hope they can take a page from your book. I know it’s difficult to walk that line between making someone feel wanted and making them feel like a piece of meat. We tend to openly (and rightly) criticize those who do the latter, but there is not enough praise for those who accomplish the former. Please consider yourself praised, appreciated and, most importantly, remembered.
By the way, St. Louis is west of Chicago. I win.