If there's a phenomena that young people partake in that I certainly don't understand, it's "clubbing". We get all gussied up in our tightest and most revealing outfits (well, for the girls…the guys just throw on whatever isn't moving by itself on the floor) and head out to these clubs. We spend a few hours getting piss-drunk and dancing until we absolutely stink. The end result? Either a phone number you don't really want, a one night stand you, again, didn't really want, or another night home alone, finding solace in left-over pizza, internet porn, and the Cartoon Network (hopefully, not in that order).
I realize not all of my readers have had the unique joy of going clubbing, so I will outline the whole process for your pleasure. And for those of you who have, why not join me for the ride? I promise, it will be short enough so you can continue surfing friendster, facebook and eBay in no time.
As I said before, you get all dressed up in whatever you think will get you laid that night. Which is funny, because if those clothes actually worked, wouldn't you be wearing them everyday? Shit, if I had clothes that produced sex, I would never take them off. Except for the sex, of course. Maybe not even then - see if I could get more sex while actually having sex. Because more of a good thing, is never a bad thing. ^_^
But, I digress. So you put on your "gettin' some" clothes, and head to the club. You pay your admission (like an amusement park…only you don't need harnesses for the rides…unless you're into that kind of thing…) and probably immediately head for the bar. Because you will probably want to be drunk for all the stuff that comes next. It's not required of course, but oh boy does it help.
Now, here is where part of the narrative breaks off. There is a special kind of club visitor, usually dragged by friends, who makes it to the bar…and that's about it. They'll admire people from afar, talk the big talk about what they'd like to do to them and what not, and that's all. They won't dance, or even make eye contact with an attractive specimen from the opposite sex. You know who you are.
Back to the adventure, after you're good and not sober, you head out to the dance floor. And here is where things really get comical. Because most guys, despite all their efforts, cannot dance. Yes, it's true; why do you think they keep the lights so damn dark in there? For atmosphere? Ha! No, it's so that other people can't see how truly idiotic your gyrations are. I'm sorry, you may think you are a good dancer, but turn up the lights, shut off the music, and tell me you're not having some sort of pretty flashing lights-induced Pokemon seizure. They make monkeys doing a sex-ritual dance look like Michael Jackson.
It's not entirely our fault. The music ranges at these clubs, from interesting to…more interesting. Apparently, it's the height of coolness for DJ's to intermix songs together instead of actually letting one finish, then proceeding to the next. You're digging a song, it's getting to the good part, and then wham! You go from Warren G's troubles in the hood to Kylie Minogue's "La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la" song. Somebody should die for that song.
And you can thank me tomorrow when it's stuck in your head. ^_^
Anyway, we're getting to the point where I don't think DJ's will even let songs start anymore. They'll just intermix them all together, until you end up with some screwed up fusion, like Eminem singing Britney Spears lyrics to a Jay-Z beat ("Oops! I did it again. …Bitch. HOVE!").
Back to the dancing, I always find it absolutely hysterical when women tell me that they're concerned about whether or not they are good dancers. I find it hysterical that they think we actually notice their dancing. Most of the time, we're (men) admiring that outfit (or, more appropriately, the lack of it), and trying to imagine the fastest way to take it off.
Please, oh please don't be surprised by that. That's what these clubs are all about! It's like a mating ritual for humans.
As if you needed further proof, we will now explore the oh-so subtitle act of grinding, dry humping or freaking if you will. I could go into a long, drawn out explanation process…try to illustrate the logistics involved…maybe even draw some diagrams. But I'll save us all some time and just say that dancing in a club is vertical (mostly), dry sex. It's true! Go rent a porno (or download one…hell, who am I kidding…pull out that porno CD you have hidden under your keyboard, boy), and imagine what it would look like if the actors and actresses were wearing clothes…yep, that's grinding.
But, the best part, and this one really gets me going, is that there are some women who get royally pissed off when they grind with a guy and he pops a stiffy. Um…hi. Did you happen to miss that day of sexual education in middle school? Do you not know how the system works? If you're going to be simulating sex with a guy, he's going to react! What do you expect?
If you do not want to feel my penis, perhaps you should not be thrusting your ass into my crotch. Repeatedly.
Women just don't understand - us guys have absolutely no control over the little son of a bitch. …Okay, okay, the big son of a bitch. It really is a separate entity down there. Usually, we try to work together - shared interest, common goal, all that jazz. But, please keep in mind that the penis does have a mind of its own, and we have zero control over it. If we did, even just a little bit, do you think impotence would actually exist? Would Viagra be a billion dollar drug? If we could pop that shit up or down on command, don't you think we'd do exactly that? No; it's a little beast that resides in our crotch, and we try to make it happy by feeding it regularly. It's not our fault you women are so damned difficult.
But, I digress…again. So you're grinding and thrusting out of the dance floor…having a grand 'ol time! Mom would be proud. Maybe you make a real connection, so you drag your semi-sex partner over to the bar to…ha ha…talk. In the dog world, this is equivalent to sniffing each others butts. The girl is trying to make an honest assessment of the guy, while the guy is trying his hardest not to say the things that will ruin sex for him that night (for some odd reason, those "sex-killing" responses are automated responses in his brain…must be God's favorite method of population control or something).
I can't believe some women actually think they're going to find a keeper in a club. How many relationships have you heard of that started out in a club? I certainly can't think of any. Guys go to clubs to get some play for the night, not to come back with a relationship. You never see things like this…
Marie: I'd like to introduce you to my husband, Scott.
Alexis: Nice to meet you. How'd you two meet?
Marie: In the club. When I felt his hands rising up my shirt…I just knew that he was The One.
As I said, clubs end with either a phone number that ultimately goes nowhere, a fling that, also, goes nowhere, or you save time and go home with nothing. Don't that sound like fun! Whee. But don't mind me, I guess I'm just bitter because I'm getting dragged to a club tomorrow.