Him: “Are you a lesbian?”
Not again.
Me: “What does that have to do with anything?”
I’m annoyed at being interrupted with this kind of inane question. Again. Twice in as many days, makes you wonder if someone tattooed “Lesbian” in capitals all over your forehead without you noticing. And all I really want at that moment is to just continue dancing. (Lovely DJs that night!).
“Well, yes or no?”
Considering my options. Answers along the lines of in regards to you, most definitely might be more trouble than it’s worth.
“It’s none of your business.”
At last he gives up in disgust. Of course, he’s now convinced that I am a lesbian and simply too ashamed to admit to it. Not that I mind, at least it keeps him from trying to flirt and means I can continue showing my appreciation to the DJ.
Quite some time later I watch one of the door guards grabbing his arm and half dragging half guiding him at top speed towards one of the emergency exits. Unfortunately, I don’t know what it was he did that validating ejecting him. Maybe he asked the guard if he was gay, too.