T was in town yet again and asked me if I wanted to hit a Ho-Town club with him and some friends. Granted, my girlfriend was spending the night at her sister's place, leaving me a free man, but I didn't feel particularly motivated to go clubbing. Why?
1. I've reached that point in my life where crowded places with large quantities of drunk-ass males annoy the shit out of me. In other words, I be old.
2. I am not single. Talking to strange females at nightclubs when you have no intention of sticking your penis in them is an extraordinarily boring activity, particularly in LA.
3. I've been coughing non-stop since T's bachelor party in Vegas - which shouldn't be surprising considering how much time we spent at churches that weekend praying for a deeply spiritual marriage for T and his wife. All that hymn singing must've damaged my throat.
So the next thing you know, I'm hopping in T's rental car and driving off to the club. Why?
1. The next time I see the guy will be in April, during the wedding rehearsal.
2. According to the Surgeon General, the best way to kill the viruses in your ailing throat is to pour lots of Goose down there - further proof that vodka is God's way of telling mankind that he loves us.
3. Watching people at a nightclub is sometimes an enjoyable spectator sport for me, except the athletes occasionally vomit on your shoes.
The group drank a couple of rounds of drinks at the table, and then they went off to dance. All that was left was me and this guy Jeff, who was married and had a two-year-old kid. Jeff and I just sat there, sipping our drinks. Our seats were built in such a way that an ideal sitting posture was impossible to attain. From my awkward semi-reclining position, this is what I observed ...
1. Women, not unlike the Yeti, are very strange, mysterious creatures. These two females began to dance right in front of me and Fred. Both were gyrating furiously while facing us the whole time. After five minutes, I began to wonder if they were doing this for Fred's benefit, as the dude was one of those tall, muscular types that club chicks tend to gyrate for. I wasn't wearing my glasses or contacts (long story), so my night vision was fuzzy. I turned to Fred.
"What's been happening for the past five minutes?" I asked, figuring Fred could see clearly what had been occuring in front of us.
"Hell if I know, man," he replied.
After ten minutes, our waitress walked over with a quizzical look on her face.
"Do these girls know you two or something?" she whispered. "They've been dancing in front of you guys for a really long time."
"I don't even know what they look like," I answered.
It was then I noticed that in my semi-reclining state, my head was resting against a giant mirror that spanned the entire wall. Could it be that the two gyrators were not performing a long mating dance for Fred but had been checking themselves out dancing in the mirror? Even the Yeti would be scratching their heads over that one.
2. Women, not unlike the Yeti, use bisexuality as a marketing tool. At this point, the rest of our group came back from the dance floor. A couple of the guys immediately spotted the gyrating twins and tried to join in their gyrations, but they were ignored. Instead, the gyrators walked straight toward me ... and grabbed this girl Lisa, who was sitting next to me. They ended up gyrating with her for a while in that PG-13 lesbian dance that girls typically do at clubs to get as many men as possible to stare at them.
Eventually they'd ask for her number. Many of the guys were intrigued by this and asked Lisa if she gave them her digits. She claimed she did, of course, which further excited the guys. I'm not saying she wasn't genuinely interested in the gyrators, but until she videotapes their threesome action and emails it to me, I'm not buying any of it. It's all part of the bisexual marketing ploy that women came up with to consume men's minds and loins.
3. How to tell if a woman really likes you: excessive violence. Later in the evening, I noticed a fight had broken out on the dance floor. I walked over and saw this poor bastard on the ground getting a beating from some other bastards. But then his girlfriend threw herself on top of his curled-up, bleeding body to prevent the other guys from kicking him in the head. The guys kept circling the two, trying to find an opening for them to kick, but the girl kept repositioning herself to shield her boyfriend from further blows.
"That girl's a keeper," I said to T.
"Huh? Sure, whatever." he said. "So do you really think that Lisa's gonna do those girls?"