To All the Boys I’ve Met in Bars
I never did get your names.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, with baby faces and collared shirts, who sidled up to me as I ordered a drink and tried to make conversation through the noise. Who respected my space and offered to pay for my rye and ginger with melting ice and a dry, withered lime.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, where lights flashed and people danced and the bass throbbed through the floorboards. Who wore skinny jeans and slogan tees and offered me MDMA if I waited a little while longer, or came out to their car. Who disappeared with my money, given in a moment of haste, and never returned.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, where pleather-lined booths behind projector screens provided the ideal make-out spot, even though I never learned your name and you never asked me mine. Whose faces blur and smudge but a vague description stayed in the contact list of my phone.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who danced me into corners away from my friends. Who asked me my name and whispered in my ear that the fake one I gave sounded sexy. Who tried to kiss my neck and grazed me with their teeth.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who danced me to safety from their lecherous counterparts, playing the boyfriend or the best friend to save me from strangers’ hands around my hips then disappearing into the crowd before I could say thank you.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, where fancy hors d’oeuvres were served by waitresses clad in skintight black and you reached your hand up my dress while your friend watched. Who fingered me from behind without asking as I stood stock-still in shock and shame. Whose name I never learned, whose fingers I can’t forget.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who invited me home as I waited for a cab, or followed me for a few blocks until I turned into a well-lit gas station for safety. Who offered me money for a price.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who felt me up while their girlfriends waited at home for their return, who plied me with sugary drinks until my tongue was loose enough to fall into your mouth, or until my hand was heavy enough to fall into your lap. Who whispered that she would never find out if I cooperated, who begged me to stay when I was sick to my stomach enough to leave.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who approached me as I smoked a bummed cigarette, snatching the opportunity to call me beautiful if I smiled or a slut if I didn’t. Who said they wanted nothing more than to offer a compliment and couldn’t I see that, why did I have to be such a bitch?
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who rubbed their hands up and down my body, weighing every piece of me and whispering that I was sexy, that I was fuckable. Who said I was not like the other girls as if that were a good thing.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, where I travelled from room to room, tugging my friends by the hand to escape you and your shouts, to escape the heat and the noise and the sticky-sweet smells of sweat and booze. Where I froze on chilly balconies for fear of running into you again before the evening closed.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who grabbed me for a saliva-soaked kiss without asking, who caught me by surprise, my mouth open mid-song. Who pawed at my face like we knew each other, and spun me in close so I couldn’t pull away.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, where I dressed in high heels and short skirts and you took that as an invitation and I was confused whether I had misled you or asked for it. Whether I wanted it or wanted you or wanted you to want me.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who ground the stiff zippers of your jeans against me and reached your arms around my hips to finger me from the front, stopping only when someone saw you and not when I pushed you away. Who saw me bent horizontal as the height of dancing and romance.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who judged my friends for dancing provocatively and barred them from reentry, who shamed them in a setting where we are all shameless. Who crossed your arms and shook your head when I reached out to console them, who said they weren’t mothers or wives because good girls don’t dance like that.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who asked for my phone number and then called it to verify its veracity. Who called me a whore upon discovering my lie, which was used only to protect myself.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who sent a drink my way and didn’t understand why I refused it because I hadn’t seen it poured and did not take chances with strangers in strange places with strange drinks. Who didn’t ask me what I wanted anyway and I would never take a vodka soda.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who I’ve used when my wallet was light and my mood was low, who bought me tequila shots and rum and cokes with speared limes and salty rims. Who let me use them before I disappeared somewhere else, with someone else, because I can be terrible, too.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who texted me weeks later and I couldn’t remember who they were or where I’d met them or what they looked like, and who waits for weeks? My memory can barely last the whole night.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who slapped my ass and disappeared, whose faces I never saw but you never wanted me to, anyway. Who pinched my hip and made me worry about love handles rather than being handled.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who took a look at my lowered lids and drooping posture and invited me outside with the offer of fresh air when you had everything but in mind. Who tried to muscle me into cabs until I broke away and went back inside, tossing a laugh over my shoulder so you wouldn’t know I was scared.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who cry, “Not all men” as if that is reason enough to feel safe.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, who wouldn’t let me back in because I wobbled, but believed me when I said it was my shoes, and smiled at my chest. Who invited me back in despite the obvious evidence of obliteration.
To all the boys I’ve met in bars, on whom I pinned my self-worth, self-love, and self-esteem. On whom my night teetered, depended upon being grabbed or eyed or kissed, the ill-got confidence I drew from these careless caresses. On whom I hitched myself to feel worthy, wanted, won.
There is no more to be said to all the boys I’ve met in bars, who took so much and gave so little, to a girl who was happy for the crumbs. There is now only this. And this is all mine.
