I attempted to explain bodily autonomy, while drunk, to a drunk man. Spoiler: it didn't work

A friend - a small, fey man - and I were at the bar, buying last drinks. A large happy drunk man was "dancing" next to the bar, and by dancing we mean full-blown karaoke style, down on his knees singing and at some point putting his arse in the air and waggling it around.

Friend, quietly, to me: when did this become a gay bar?
Me: I... do not know.
Friend: Not that I'm complaining.
Me: *shrugs* Arses!

Friend commences ordering his drinks. Next thing I know, large hands are cupping my butt. I become somewhat confused, because the individual most likely to be placing large hands on my butt is in another country. I turn around, and Mr Arse Dancing is groping by butt.

Me: That's my butt!
Mr Arse Dancing: It is?
Me: That's my butt. (Moving my butt out of his reach)
Mr Arse Dancing: Is it?
Me: Yes. It is my personal property.
Mr Arse Dancing: Oh. Is looking ok?
Me: Yes. Looking is ok; touching is not.
Mr Arse Dancing: *makes a big show of examining my butt*
Me: I hope it is satisfactory.

Mr Arse Dancing steps back a little, and I insert myself between Friend and the bar, instructing him that he is not to leave yet, because my butt is under contest. Friend says of course, and seems a little surprised that I felt I had to specify this to him. I don't think to put Friend between me and Mr Arse Dancing, which perhaps would've been a good idea. Tiny he may be but he still occupies space. For some reason, perhaps boyed by drunk logic, I thought I had accurately asserted my position and Mr Arse Dancing would resign himself to looking.

Mr Arse Dancing waits until I'm ordering my drinks and resumes handling my butt. At this point the general manager, who may or may not have noticed, but is friends with Mr Arse Dancing, turns up and engages him in a strange homoerotic wrestle on the bartop.

What. Just what?

Zuchinni - Penny Stirling

For a flock of saffron rocs harvested:
paid, fed, proffered just one bed.
She beneath and I atop the sheets;
correction more tiring than recent feats.

Immunity to desire-poisons
brings a brisk cull of spring sirens.
Drink success with friends whispering
who force "privacy" on us, winking.

She overwhelms with axe in hand;
I wield were-bells and spell-sand.
Partners in life and adventure — not lovers,
nor colleagues, "just friends" or sisters.

The witch who yearly orders troll eyes
first thought us makeshift allies
in tandem until finding man or god.
Nine seasons on, still calls us odd.

Guide a mageling through his winter trial.
Smiling, he insists we are "in denial".
Then a grin: if not "taken", aren't we "free"?
Flirting spurned, he rebukes our humanity.

After reaping elves I stew their bones,
brewing salves for her skin-turned-stone.
While she heals I rarely leave her side,
ignoring chat that she's kin or bride.

In the home we will only build
once our questing hunger is filled
we'll shed lies, armour and conjecture
and just be us, growing old together.

---

Also from the latest edition of Goblin Fruit