Outside, I can already hear the bass, like a premonition of what's to come. It sounds like sweat and drunkenness, public urination, and late nights standing in a chipper swaying gently in the sterile lighting trying to focus on the menu while an Italian behind the counter stares at you like you're what's wrong with capitalism. But it hasn't come to that yet. The night is young.
The place is glitzy, and a thousand people pass by. A guy in a shirt and pointed brown shoes, next a girl in a frilly blouse and heels, the next in a long dress and hair flowing. They all flit around the street, offerening themselves up like art. I am a conaisseur; appreciating, admiring, ranking.
Two tattood men are wearing suits at the door. Bouncers are the only tattood people I've seen in suits. It makes them look simultaneously more menacing, official, and moronic. They let me straight in wothout id and stop a guy who's clearly 30 after me.
Bouncers always let me in. I think it's for the same reason girls' parents like me. I've never punched anyone and I wouldn't know where to start. I know when to hold eye contact and when to avoid it.
The brunette at the bar ; good time to hold eye contact. After we've "eyefucked" for a few moments, I go up to the bar and she starts saying something but the music is too loud. I lean in and she repeats it once in a normal voice, the second time shouting. If it was witty at first, it isn't anymore.
"I like your shirt."
Everyone loves a stripey blue shirt. I smile and mime "thank you" and she smiles to herself. Realistically, it's going to be hard to get a conversation going here, so I ask her if she wants to dance which of course she does.
On the dancefloor there isn't enough space to swing or anything, so we stand about doing that sort of silly dancing that is a step below epilepsy and a step above transferring your weight from foot to foot while standing.
From here we could kiss without even exchanging names. Why not. Get your kicks for the evening, make you feel like you're there for a reason. No one will even be surprised if you don't know.
Eventually we're glistening with sweat and I gesture toward the smoking area for some air. The irony is wasted on no one.
Outside, the music is quieter, and the sounds of chatter spread out takes over. Laughs, shouts, drunken arguements come from all around. It's only then I pick up her accent.
She starts telling me about her trip. All the usual crap. This isn't her yet, this is a montage of cut outs from ads for camper vans and hostels and trips to the great barrier reef. She's not used to her own words so she has to warm up to get there.
I ask what her favourite thing was. Skydiving. Freedom. Exhilaration. I ask what she wants to do most. Hold a Koala. Cute. Then I ask my favourite; why did you leave home? She gives the usual... job, sun, experiences, travel, whatever.
This is my favourite part.
I ask "why did you *really* leave?" and I look at her as if I *know*, and she doesn't have to lie to me. She starts flowing then. Tells me real things about herself like what she things of her friends, who she loves in her life, who messed her up. Important things. Things you don't get at a wine and cheese reception, chortling over a good bailout joke.
A while passes and we chat. We bond. We share. It's wonderful to have someone let you in, even if there are cigarette butts all over the floor, and beer mixed with ash in the glass ashtray.
A little later a friend of hers passes by and I take the opportunity to excuse myself to the WC. I smile as I walk away so she knows I'm coming back.
I walk across the loud dancefloor, pushing through the crowd, and in the door into the toilet. A guy pushes out past me as i walk in, and the hand drier that was on winds down. The music is far away again as soon as the door shuts behind me.
I walk up to a urinal. There's piss on the floor. Seriously, after 20 years of practise, you'd think people could hit the bowl. The only things you do more are breathe and walk.
I start going and pee yellow because its the 21st century and I eat more vitamins than I need. Some guy pushing in the door of the toilet shouts back at his friend and, laughing to himself, slides up to the urinal beside mine even though there're three free beside eachother.
"Good night buddy?"
He broke unial etiquette. He's clearly a douchebag. Close this conversation down.
"Pretty good."
Perfect. Polite, and non committal.
"Oh! Very nice! Got any foxy ladies then?"
Seriously, who says foxy ladies. I smile, as though smiling means something.
In a moment we've finished, zipped. We're shuffling to the sinks and the mirrors and the door.
"Ha! Good on ya man!"
I see it coming before it happens, and when it happens it does so in slow motion. Dread. His whole body opens as he swings about and pats me on the shoulder with his disgusting unwashed hand. That was completely unnecessary.
I shrug in an "I don't know" way to get rid of him, and he leaves the way he came in, laughing to himself. The club gets louder for a second as he opens the door and then turns to a low din as it slams.
I look at myself in the mirror.
This is clubbing.
