So, the girlfriend finished her examinations, and as is customary enough, there are no two ways about it other than OMG WE HAVE TO GO SOMEWHERE AND CONSUME COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF ALCOHOL.
One of the sort of mentally stashed things I've been meaning to write about is the Dancing that goes on in clubs, and I guess, the part I have to play in it. As with all things, it boils down to a few simple factors: Some people have it, some people don't. While you cannot help but admire the sinuous grace and funk factor as certain individuals move to the music, their hypnotic factor often aided by copious amounts of cleavage; others, like myself, move like epileptic monkeys.
As for said cleavage, yes, it is my opinion that women are infinitely better suited to dancing than men; at least when it comes to the type that goes on at the dance floor in clubs. The woman can sashay and twist, slither and slide...and have you seen the look some of them can give while doing it? That look that instantly robs straight men of conscious thought and reduces them to walking penises. Not to mention, the total amount of cloth on some of them adds up to what goes into the making of your standard school sock. Damn.
This is not to say, of course, that men can't dance. I've seen some doing it really well, and inevitably, they end up the recipients of the look from the above group of women, and generally do not leave the club alone. Bastards. The other 99.5% of the male clubbing population, however, apparently all attend the same school of dance. They have one move: Twitch, and they're not afraid to use it. Bearing special mention here are the fresh National Service recruits out for the weekend. It gets so bad at some places that all you see on the dance floor are vibrating caps, the sultry women having already snapped up the guys who can dance and left to fuck them silly, or gone elsewhere in disdain. Friends, I understand that after a long week of training, you want to come out and get smashed, have some fun, maybe get laid (in your drug-fuelled dreams, bitch)...but do you have to make yourselves so obvious?
As always, there are the exceptions. Not every woman who steps into a club is a ravishing, smouldering, sultry siren who's just so unbelievably hot you just want to...um, nevermind. Presenting, in full Technicolour glory, extremely prejudiced profiles of Dance Floor Scum!
-The Fat Bitch.
Yeah, yeah, how could I, oh, heartless beast, they're not fat, they're just horizontally challenged, etc. Shut up. Look, I don't want to spoil anyone's fun, but -really-, fat bitches shouldn't dance. I mean, if they -really- have to, I suppose they could just stand in the corner and let the bass do the work for them. Ouch! =p You've seen it, I've seen it: The Fat Bitch that just LOSES HERSELF in the music and gyrates wildly in exuberance, often knocking over tables and maiming small animals in the process, and this is to mention nothing of the potential harm she can cause to your eyesight if you stare too long. Please.
-The Skinny Bitch.
Fuelled by supermodel dreams, you eat a stick of celery for breakfast and that's it. For the week. Where the dance-floor goddesses have curves to die for, you look like something might snap off if you shook too hard. Though not as dangerous as the Fat Bitch, do yourself a favour and just sit down. Gently, or you'll break something.
-The Female Twitcher.
Not as proliferate as their male counterparts, the Female Twitchers are the ones who got shafted genetically and just cannot replicate the temperature-raising moves of their peers. They don't dress as flashy or as little, and tend to be...well...drab. It's not like they look like they're enjoying themselves. Some are probably dragged onto the dance floor by their more skilled peers, who subsequently somehow always seem to abandon them, leaving them twitching sadly in a corner. Not to worry, inevitably, with the gender ratios and sheer amounts of alcohol and bad lighting in most clubs, they'll get picked up.
-The Ones Who Think They Can Dance. (Wow, it acronymizes as TOW TT CD. I'm good.)
Mostly male, and probably possessing really dense and obnoxious personalities, these pieces of shit think they can dance. Generally dressed to make some kind of statement, their backwards Cap, 34 wallet chains weighing down pants that they pull up every 20 seconds and also, sunglasses, because we all know the lighting in clubs is horribly bright, this statement often seems to be "I M RETARDED HAHAHA". Arms flailing wildly and legs swinging all over the place, they mangle people, furniture, aforementioned small animals that somehow got into the club, and the word "dance" in their attempt to show how coolx they are. Identifiable by the wide berth of space they're given, they sometimes mercifully knock themselves unconscious with a swinging wallet chain during a particularly cool and vigorous move.
These people should not be allowed on dance floors. Clubs should keep a list of people blacklisted from the dance floor and employ physical force to prevent the slightest attempt to sneak onto it, by these people.
Rising above the scum, and indeed, the better of her peers, however, we have that very special breed of people who, really, are what men go clubbing for.
-The Podium Goddess.
Not to be confused with the people some clubs employ specially to dance on platforms. The appearance of the Podium Goddess is rare, and often only happens in the mid to end range of the club's operation, after suitable amounts of alcohol have been consumed. Amongst all the hot, nubile, scantily clad women in the crowd, one, or a few, will decide to climb onto the provided elevated platforms and undergo an amazing transformation. Possessed by the spirit of the Podium Goddess, she sways. She draws one hand slowly down the side of her neck, along hair messed just enough by previous dancing to hold seductive power of its own. Lips parted slightly, the other hand beckons for people to join her, and while some do, none match her surreality as she continues to dance, dreamily half-lost in the music, with that look in her eyes to die for.
There are documented cases of spontaneous ejaculation by weaker-willed males at the sight of one in action. Ebbeh.
That said, as we run out of space before this post goes beyond Ridiculously Long, allow me to give you a brief run-down of the night.
11.20 pm:
We arrive, she, a male friend, and myself, at Rouge. The place is filled, though not crowded. We run into an acquaintance, and while the male friend talks to him, she and I stand and survey the place. The acquaintance is there with rather pretty female friends, who I surreptitiously check out.
11.30 pm:
We find a table, whoopee. Still sober and listless, we stare into space, having found out that 1-for-1 only starts at 12. Explains the lack of the usual crowd. Being cheap bastards, we wait.
12.00 am:
Beer! Male friend makes deprecating comments about my tendency to drink too much, too fast. Heck, like I said, I'm not particularly fond of the stuff, so I just toss back a glass at a time, usually.
12.30 am:
As the beer starts to settle in, we just kind of stone and smoke. I look at the twitchers, both male and female, starting to fill the dance floor, with disdain. They're playing sweet music, though. Old school R&B, with classics from TLC and Blue Cantrell, stuff you almost never hear anymore. And of course Maroon 5's This Love, the staple sampling everywhere. Mmmm.
12.40 am:
Still listless, but a bit better for wear from the beer, I begin texting people. First, my girlfriend's friend, to tell her my girlfriend just said her sister's boobs were better than the friend's, a running gag as both persons involved were, um, women of epic proportions. The friend is sleepy and irritable, and makes defamatory remarks about the length of my penis. I say "defamatory", but being Chinese, it wasn't that far from the truth and I let it rest. I begin to send sexually suggestive messages to the skinny Chinese guy who was on my bed the other day. He also happens to be out getting smashed with a buncha guys.
1.30 am:
Mmmm beeeeer. In a state of, uh, elevated awareness now, the music seems to keep getting better. In the midst of this, the friend who's helped me rediscover the anal bastard I used to be arrives with two female twitcher friends, having just finished some cult worship at the company. He proceeds to immediately run off to the dance floor. With my girlfriend. Outraged, I give chase, catch up with them, and bite him.
Yes, bit him. Taking offense to this, he proceeds to smack me around a bit, all 130kgs of him. Having established my dominance, and suffered only minor internal hemorraghes, we chuckle a bit at the bond between us, and I proceed to do my best epileptic monkey impression, pausing occasionally to continue sending sexually suggestive messages on my phone to said skinny Chinese guy. Time passes in this manner.
2.30 am:
The Podium Goddesses emerge. There were two, one in blue jeans and a white frock, and one in a black frock with matching pants. They proceed in almost exactly the manner described under "The Podium Goddess" (now you know why it sounded so vivid), and cause many lesser-willed males to mysteriously stand still, shudder a little, and collapse. I watch in rapt fascination. Girlfriend is too smashed to notice.
3.00 am:
We leave the place, and Skinny Chinese Guy calls me, asserting that he is engaged in a contest with his friend to see who can hold their puke the longest. Sick shit. We establish that we are not going to meet up for hot heavy goatsekz like we had vaguely alluded to over the course of our texting, and bid each other good night.
We all go home. I smack facefirst into the bed and sleep.
...Song bo.
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