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One of them noticed my indiscretion, waved hello and offered to buy me a drink.

I declined, but we had an amusing little conversation about his friends and the dodgy people around us. He asked several more times, until finally I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with him.

Eventually I excused myself and continued on my merry way, until an hour or so later while giving my dancing feet a rest, he plopped himself down on the couch next to me and put his hand on my leg. In both of these scenarios, Jane and I had probably miscommunicated our level of interest on initial contact.

I realise that in a nightlife environment, there’s a fine line between having a chat and moist-eyed flirting.

Throw in a few beverages and the inherently abysmal intuition of most men, and there’s obviously a lot of room for misinterpretation.

I have a swag of stories about men cracking the shits when they realise a woman merely enjoys their personality and has no interest in their bodily fluids, but here are two of my favourites.

My friend Jane has been blessed with a magnificent bosom.

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