My opinion is on the fence when it comes to dance clubs. On one hand, I can't get enough of them. But on the other, hitting up the club often makes me wonder what I'm doing with my life. These thoughts usually occur to me post-club as I scarf a huge, greasy slice at 2:30 a.m., drunk and kicking myself for sending "I miss you" text messages to exes.
Having sailed on the clubbing-is-still-exciting boat more than a decade ago, I have to admit that my outlook — or rather, my expectations — for these scenarios has mutated quite a bit. The awareness is similar to the superficial turn-off you feel when your significant other farts in front of you for the first time. You still love the person, the experience isn't a deal breaker and in the back of your mind you always knew they weren't perfect, but still, some of their glow has dimmed.
So, getting back to the club, I'd like to talk to you guys about some things that went down in XS not so long ago. Holy hell, what is up with that place? It is absolutely glorious, all jokes aside.
As I made my way through the corridor toward the mouth of the dance floor, my senses were immediately hit with a sensory overload that eliminates all guards of inhibition. The music is loud, its pulsating rhythms so easy that one can't help but notice an enhancement of one's animal instincts.
One thing that always gets me off — even though I pretend to vehemently deny it — is being approached by and talking to hot, new guys. It gets the adrenaline running a little bit, and if conversation lasts for more than five minutes, I can't help but start to wonder if the guy is a good kisser. Of course, all it takes to choke these thoughts and build a wall is a one un-sexy comment. "You know, you have a really great ass. Want to dance?" No, no I do not want to dance.
The standard excuse to leave this now-awkward situation is the good ol' ladies room. God bless the ladies room, seriously. The line is always a mile long, with some people taking a million years to do their business. Toilets stuffed with an overflow of paper and piss always make me wonder who the hell is in my company at the club. Flushing ain't that hard. But even in this irritating congregation of women all wearing size XS, there still is a sense of camaraderie.
We give each other toilet paper if our stall is out, compliment each other's outfits and wish each other a good night. It's great.
Post-piss, I lasted in the club another hour or so, doing more of the same. I left that evening with girlfriends, happy but deflated. This is what I mean about dance clubs: I really just don't know what they're all about. I'm glad they exist, but can't explain why.
Had I left with a guy, would I have felt better? If so, does that reflect a lack in my self-esteem or an expectation of the dance club atmosphere?
Funny, but as I sit here thinking about the questions I just posed, I can't help but sense a desire to get made up and try it all over again.
