One night a week, I stop being a paper-pushing bore and become . . . a karaoke jockey.
The bar I work at is a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, with wood paneling and dogs. Don't order the wine. No, really. And while the bartender can build you a decent pint of Guiness, most patrons drink beer imported all the way from Milwaukee.
KJing (yes, that is what it's called) requires a defensive plan. People come up to me to put in their songs, and it's my job to encourage that. Unfortunately, that also makes me approachable.
My station is set up near the ladies room--they have to walk behind me to get there. Sometimes, if the one-seater is occupied, they choose to wait in my personal space. One regular likes to lean her head on my shoulder. Occasionally, she drools. Another regular thinks it's hilarious to rest her boobs on my arm. On one memorable occasion, a woman who was a total stranger simultaneously humped my leg and sneezed on me.
(True: The parts of your brain that are stimulated by a sneeze are the same parts of your brain that fire during an orgasm. The only part of your brain that is stimulated by a humpsneeze is the "Ohmygodmakeitstopickickick" part.)