There is no way I could have anticipated the madness that is the meet and greet. The conference organizers don’t bring us into the exhibition hall until right at the session’s start time, so there’s no sit-there-and-wait-for-people-to-trickle-in period. No, the doors open and we walk in—Aiden, Katherine, Nia, Seb, Lily, Rajesh, and me, with Benny bringing up the rear—to a large room packed wall to wall with cheering people, all here to meet us. Even the experienced Friends seem surprised at the high turnout, but they wave like we’re a mixed-gender One Direction circa 2013, so I do the same.
But since we’re not at boy band levels of fame and importance, the meet-and-greet format is somewhat loose. There’s a long pseudo wall of UltiCon banners that we stand in front of, with a few yards between each of us so people can move down the line and get their pictures taken by UltiCon staff as they go. There are several high-top tables set up with Sharpies for us to sign anything fans have brought with them, like old Friends of Flavor cookbooks or, you know, cardboard cutouts of Benny’s face. The organizers explained to us how it would all work before we got here and said that the line should move “organically,” but seeing the mass of people packed in, I predict it may be as organic as a ten-car pileup.
I am at least pleased to be stationed between Seb and Benny, probably the two coworkers who put me most at ease. Still, when the rope is dropped at the head of the line to kick off the meet and greet, my stomach drops a bit, too.
The interactions start off pretty tame. A group of teenage girls is the first to come through.
“Oh my God, Reese!” a cute redhead squeaks, throwing her arms around my shoulders.
“Oh,” is the startled response that comes out of my mouth. The first girl releases me and her friends each give me less aggressive hugs in turn.
“We loveAmateur Hour,” the one with a cat-ear headband says, then lowers her voice. “What’s it like working with Benny?”
The other two waggle their eyebrows suggestively as if we’re gossiping about boys at a sleepover. Except usually when I do that with Nat and Clara, it’s about how much we don’t like one guy or another.
I let out a laugh that hopefully sounds breezy and not flustered at this being my very first meet-and-greet question ever. “It’s great, most of the time. He’s a trip, but we’re good friends.”
They look a little disappointed at my failure to, what, divulge to total strangers that kissing Benny’s face has become my favorite pastime? I sign each of their UltiCon programs, we take a selfie, and they’ve cheered up by the time they move on to the boy in question.
Before long, the vibe changes.
“You’re even more beautiful in person,” says a man who’s at least my dad’s age. The plastic smile I’ve had on since the event started falters, and possible responses flash through my mind.That’s inappropriate,for example, or,I don’t know what you expect me to say to that.
What comes out, though, is a meek “Thank you.”
Sometimes, I feel like having good manners is a curse. The man stands beside me for a picture, his hand resting dangerously low on my back, and I stiffen instinctively. The desire to step away is so strong, it almost pains me to keep still. Each fingertip pressed against the fabric of my skirt feels like a flag staking claim, saying that as long as I can’t overcome the awkwardness of saying no, the “yes, touch me anywhere you want” is implied.
Without my thinking about it, my eyes flit to Benny, who’s engrossed in talking with a family. I look toward the camera again, a large part of me wondering what I was hoping for—for him to see the guy’s hand, how close he’s standing, and swoop in and rescue me? Go all alpha-male-territorial on a random Friends of Flavor fan?
No, I don’t want that. Or at least, I don’t want to want it. I don’t want to feel like I need a guy to protect me from another guy. But I know I would feel safer, more at ease, if Benny or Seb or even Aiden was over here to run interference, and that sucks.
The guy moves on, and I know the whole interaction took less than a couple of minutes, but it felt so much longer. I don’t relax at all after that. The next couple of hours are a blur of handshakes and hugs and fist bumps and constantly trying to manage my actions and reactions. How close I let people get to me. How friendly I can be without inviting unwanted flirting, or worse.
A group of college-aged guys come through, and maybe inany other context, I’d find some of them cute. But their roaming hands and insinuating comments and questions are definitely not cute.
“You ever on the FoF subreddit?” one in ahave a flavorful day!T-shirt asks.
“Uh, no, not really,” I say, signing his friend’s homemade poster of the FoF logo.
I look up in time to see the guy who asked the question share an amused glance with another in a backward cap like Benny’s. “Some fans on there found some old spring break pictures of you and posted ’em. Gotta be honest, it looks like being around all that food lately has agreed with you.”
His lascivious gaze travels a slow path up and down my body, and I feel my jaw drop. He…They…What in the actual hell?So many irate responses tumble through my head, I don’t even know where to start. My face feels like it’s on fire. Who thinks it’s okay to say things like that to a complete stranger? Do they realize that I’m an actual person, that I may not want their opinions on my looks, good or bad? Except, I realize, they probably don’t care.
I could slap those smug smiles off their entitled white-boy faces. But what good would it do? The comments and the looks are already out there. I feel like I need a shower. Would it make anything better to give them a good telling-off? Would I make things awkward for two seconds until they leave or, worse, Aiden notices and gets on me for being rude to fans?
Before I can decide or so much as utter a sound, the guy with the poster says, “C’mon, let’s get a picture.”
They crowd in, two on my right and three on my left. Hands come around either side of my waist in a firm grip, more territory-marking flags. And I don’t stop them. I give a tight, teeth-only smile as the camera snaps, and then they’re moving on, backslaps all around for a job well done, a cloud of too-strong cologne in their wake.
I curse myself silently for being so passive. But it’s like each time I let something slide, more of my righteous anger, my will to push back slides away with it.
A while later, when a man unbuttons his shirt for me to sign his bare chest, I do it. When another lifts a pen and reaches for my wrist, I’m too confused to pull away before he’s written his phone numberon my skin.It’s becoming physical, the feeling of weakness each of these encounters gives me. My shoulders grow more hunched as time passes, my body more tired, my voice softer.
There are, of course, innocent comments, like girls who tell me they love my hair or clothes, or the many, many people who enjoy my accent. But not once during the whole meet and greet does anyone talk to me about cooking. Not that I’m an expert, Lord knows, but that’s our whole shtick.
A family—two parents and two young daughters—comes through and the girls look up at me with gap-toothed smiles as I sign their conference programs.
“You’re my favorite Friend,” the littler one says.
