I am rather bereft in the feminine wiles department, although I notably have one (or rather, two) weapon(s) at my disposal. All it takes is a good bra and a low collar...strategically folded arms and leaning across a tabletop also help.
For some reason, my *ahem* assets crept into conversation as I was talking about one of the most bizarre things that ever happened to me in a gay nightclub...while I was on the dancefloor, I happened to become separated from my friends.
Next thing I knew, a perfectly strange man had latched on with both hands and was squeezing. "They feel so real!" he exclaimed. "Are they yours?" I'd stopped dead still, and the power of speech failed me for once in my life. Fortunately, my friend David noticed and inserted himself between us: "If you want to keep those hands, you will remove them. NOW."
When I found my voice, I squeaked, "OF COURSE they're mine! Whose else would they be?"
My new-found bosom buddy dropped his hands and asked, "Where did you get them?"
"God? Nature? Look, I'm a biological female! A real girl!" David advanced until he was squarely in front of me, glaring at Mr. Hands.
"Oh," he said, and then it registered. "OH! Oh my God! I'm so sorry! I thought you were a drag queen!"
In a gay club, kids, that's actually a compliment, but I was so taken aback that I had to have a couple of White Russians to work past the whole incident. You see, that's the kind of thing one expects to avoid entirely if one is a straight girl in a gay bar, but trust me to prove otherwise!