When a dude you don’t know suddenly has his hand on your inner thigh – you’ve done something horribly wrong.
Let me back up. We’re having a lovely evening at the Crown and Anchor, home of beers, burgers and as the summer comes to an end, an overabundance of undergrads from the campus across the street. It’s getting late, the place is thinning out a bit when this guy yells to his friends who are leaving/fleeing, “I totally win gaychicken.”
I look up at this guy who already way up in my pre-designated personal sphere, and asked him what the hell is gay-chicken. In hindsight bad plan. If I’d stopped, thought about the etymological structure of the phrase, taken into account the spiky-beached haircut and also had about two less beers, I would’ve left well enough alone.
“Gay chicken is where two guys try to make each other uncomfortable by acting gay. I’m awesome at it. The first one to flinch loses…” Or it was something like that, because at this point I’m having my inner thigh felt-up by this guy and fight or flight instincts have shut down the hearing. Finally, just before we get to the turn-your-head-and-cough-point, my brain restarts and sees the exit strategy, “Dude you win. Really, you win.”