Chick Wit: Francesca as bachelorette party bouncer

As a bridesmaid at a bachelorette party, you are part dance partner and part security guard to the bride-to-be. You want the bachelorette to have a VIP experience, and you are the velvet rope. But in order to do that, you have to master the art of bar sign language.

Last weekend, 10 friends and I celebrated my BFF's bachelorette party at a beachside bar. On the dance floor, we formed a protective circle around the bride-to-be, ready to wrangle, distract, and, if need be, repel incoming males.

It didn't take long. That plastic tiara and sash are like the Bat Signal for single dudes.

A man came up behind one of our friends and put his hands on her hips. No words, no introduction, just a butt-grab.

Classic creeper move.

She swiveled out of his reach to give him a hint, but he simply stepped forward and replaced his hands. Then she turned to face him and shook her head. He pouted - does that work on any woman who's not a guy's mother? - and attempted to draw her in again.

She held up her left hand and pointed to her wedding ring.

The caveman gave a nod and walked away. As though the faraway husband's proprietary claim was more compelling than the live woman's refusal.

It's the bro-code of troglodytes.

Trog-code.

We need a similarly effective gesture for unmarried girls. Maybe I could just point to my bare ring finger, and that could be the accepted sign for "My fake husband says I'm not into you."

Then there was a weird couple who kept "bumping into" us. The man was dancing with and kissing his girlfriend, and yet he simultaneously tried to grind up on each of us.

If that was their sign language, we didn't get it - and we didn't want to.

Now, listen, you have to work hard to offend an attendee of a bachelorette party; we're a generous bunch, especially a single one like me.

I was a gazelle faking a limp.

But I drew the line at truly offensive behavior.

What's an example of that? Oh, say, when a drunk guy sneaked up behind me and started making out with my shoulder.

"Heyyy," I said, gently pushing him back by his forehead.

He took this greeting as an invitation to throw his arms around me.

"Give me some space," I said, but the music drowned out my words. So I made karate-chop hands showing a gap between them.

Middle-school dance chaperones got some things right.

He flashed his palms and nodded in what I thought was agreement.

But when I turned my back, he went full-starfish on me - suctioned to my back, and seemingly with five arms.

I spun around and acted out each word of, stop (traffic cop) touching (bear claw hands) me (double-thumbed point at self).

He feigned confusion and came at me with Frankenstein monster arms.

I found myself playing charades on the dance floor: You are being too grabby. You're grabby.

Anyone looking would have wondered why I was doing an angry version of the chicken dance in this guy's face.

But he got my message: Go away.

(The shove to the chest helped).

Finally, a guy made a polite approach with a smile and an extended hand, the universal sign for "Shall we dance?"

And dance we did. For an average bar, this guy was Fred Astaire, but built like an NFL wide receiver.

I was twirled, whirled, and dipped.

How many of us have endured a clumsy dip? At best, I'm usually doing a deep backbend, supporting myself by my back leg, just trying not to break my neck.

This was a proper dip: unexpected, secure, and a total thrill.

After that, I was the grabby one.

But the final skill of the bachelorette crew is to know when to call it a night. I said goodnight to my new friend, and I helped round up our giggly, wobbly girlfriends for a final head count.

As we piled back into our party bus, a friend asked me about the guy. "You gave him your real number? Girl!"

A man who can move like that?

I might even let him graduate to words.

Francesca@francescaserritella.com.