Five minutes later, the bartender approached where Sara and I were sitting, handing us a bill for 35 ringgit (about 20 dollars). “No,” I smiled and shook my head. “I asked you what we could have for ladies night, and you said that these drinks were free.”

“Oh, of course,” he replied, backing away. I got an uneasy feeling. Sara read my mind and suggested we leave.

I told the boys we were leaving and Sara and I walked outside. When we turned around, we saw that Dan and Dylan, who were attempting to join us, were inside being detained by the bouncers. I had a feeling that it had something to do with our drinks, so I entered the club again. Dan and Dylan took the opportunity to leave, fairly sure that as a woman, no real physical harm could possibly come to me. Sara, the friend that she is, joined me inside.

I explained the situation in a calm and clear voice to the “manager” of the club. He called the bartender over, who readily concurred with my story. Things were said in Hindi between the manager, the bartender, a random woman (who I am fairly sure now was the wife of the owner), and the bouncers. Suddenly, Sara and I were at the door alone – the bartender and the manager had returned to the bar – and a row of bouncers blocked our exit.

“Excuse me,” I said politely, attempting to leave. The first bouncer, who was at least 6’3″ and spoke poor English, stepped in my way. “No,” he replied, “You must pay.”

I couldn’t believe that we were being trapped inside of a club for twenty dollars. Honestly, I don’t think Sara and I even thought that paying was an option; these men were so horrendous, so conniving, that our obstinance directed our choices.

“I have nothing but respect for you and your manager, sir, but right now I feel unsafe, physically intimidated, and unfairly treated,” I said to him, before going to the bar to say something similar to the manager. The manager was equally cold and, for lack of a better word, scary. At this point, Sara and I knew that it would probably get ugly. “You need to let us out of this establishment right now,” I demanded, throwing cursory (and futile) threats of lawsuits into muted ears.

Sara grabbed my arm. “Annette, we have to force our way out the door. There’s no other way. Let’s go.”

When we did this, we were pushed and pulled from every direction by at least four men. Our friends outside were shocked, and desperate to escape the situation. Sara and I, pulling men off of each other, spitting words that she and I did not realize were in our vocabulary, finally broke free and felt the humid, night air. The owner of the club ran outside, screaming, “Assholes!” at us, while I politely curtsied as we ran away. Sara and I, a team until the end, hopped into the nearest taxi, shaking and crying, completely ignoring that we began the night with three additional people.