Guys Who Don't Want To Date Me ['90s Edition]: Ravers

Granted, I only dipped my toe in the rave scene for one summer in 1997 and it wasn't even my idea. I came home to Chicago the summer after my freshman year at college and, much to my chagrin, I found that a large portion of my punk friends had turned into pacifier-sucking, huge pants-wearing, glow stick-waving ravers while I was away at school. I resisted it at first, scoffing at their all-night parties. But, after a week of sitting around my parents house, I realized two things:

1. I missed my friends.
2. Staying out til the wee hours stomping around the city sounded like fun.

So, I relented and went to my first rave. I was blown away because everyone was so nice! People would just come up to me and give me hugs. (I would later find out that this might have been *ahem* a chemically enhanced sense of euphoria on their part, but since I was straightedge and naive, that never occurred to me.)

Unfortunately, I never dated a raver. The closest thing I had was when I cuddled with a random blond kid on a bean bag chair in a "chill out lounge." Big whoop (that's sarcastic.) I'd see dudes scurry around the dance floor, bobbing their heads to the beat but I'd never turn those heads. I could've swung glow sticks from my ta-tas, but I don't think that would've made a difference.

I even watched Hackers and enjoyed it. Apparently, laptop-wielding, rollerblading ravers did not turn me off. Alas, having a wide-legged pantsed Romeo was not in the subbaculture cards for me. Boo hoo, right?

Did any of you guys date a raver? They always seemed up for a good time, all the time. Did I miss out?