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“Come on, pretty girl. Why don’t we go head back and talk?”
“I’m working, and you aren’t allowed to touch the employees, sir,” I say, my voice getting sterner as I try and pull my wrist away.
He tightens his grip.
Working at a place like Jerzy Girls, you’d think I’ve had my fair share of close calls, lewd remarks, and uncomfortable experiences. To an extent, you’d be right. But I’ve only ever been caressed in this club by a customer twice, and both times ended quickly with an apology.
I’ve never had to move, scanning the room to find Roddy or Marco.
“A girl like you doesn’t mind," he says, breath reeking of beer.
The bomb inside me starts to tick.
A girl like you. Words I’ve heard before in a number of ways that play through my mind, building my anger.
What does that even mean anymore?
A girl like you, when spoken by my father’s lips, means a girl like you shouldn’t major in politics, shouldn’t major in business. Try communication.
A girl like you, when spoken by a boy I’ve dated, meant I’m not going to sleep with a girl like you for fear of your father ruining me.
A girl like you, when spoken by my sister, meant a girl like you needs to be protected at all costs, regardless of what you think.
But a girl like you from a customer here means something different.
A girl like you. A girl with such low morals, a desperate girl, a girl who doesn’t deserve my kindness and compassion—that’s what so many men have written above their heads when they walk into Jerzy Girls.
And the way he’s looking at me, I know what version of a girl like you he means.
“Let go of me,” I say, my voice firm, my back straightening. I scan the room once more, but Roddy is helping Marco usher out a few customers.
See? Friday nights are chaotic.
“Now, why would I do that?” he asks, his words low and slow, his friends chuckling. “Come on, baby, we could have fun.” I tug my hand once again, finally getting it free before I start to move. Still, the man’s hand reaches out again, grabbing me, tugging on the waistband of my tight hot shorts, and pulling me into him, where I fall right into his lap. “Much better, yeah?”
“What the fuck!” I shout, and a few heads turn our way.
The world starts to melt as I try and focus on what to do—what next.
The man’s hand is touching the bare skin on my hip, hooked under my shorts.
I am in his lap, the smell of alcohol strong.
Roddy and Marco aren’t paying attention.
In the back of my mind, I hear Candy on stage calling Marco’s name, but I don’t have time.
No time.
I move, pulling back, struggling to find my footing, spitting in the man’s face and slapping him.
“You fucking bitch!” he shouts, and his friends start to move, trying to tug their friend out of the way, trying to find a solution to the problem they helped to create, but when I feel his hand in my hair, I know it’s no use.
The tug sears, and I can almost feel each hair pulling at my scalp. I call out in pain, yelling Marco’s name, and I think Candy jumps off the stage, trying to help, but I can’t focus on her.
I’m focused on figuring out some kind of plan, a way to get out of this safely.
But before I can formulate that plan, the pain is gone, my hair free from the man’s grasp. I’m being pulled into Candy’s arms, her naked breasts on me, but I can’t focus on that, either.
