For the hundredth time I pull the dress over my knees, but once again it treacherously rises up, exposing my thighs. The feeling that absolutely all the men sitting in this bar are looking at me. I take a quick glance around the room and realize with relief that this is paranoia. Maybe someone is watching, but not in the way I imagine it. And yet, I want to go home. Really want to. Maybe just plead a headache and walk away, paying for your drink?

“So, girls, since the guys didn’t deign to come, we need to somehow correct the situation,” my classmate suddenly says, who is also the...