“Come to the club with us!” my friends said. “We haven’t gone in forever!” they said. Fine. Anything to get them to shut up. I’ve only been to a nightclub two times before in my life. The first time was my 21st birthday, when my sister bought me shot after shot of the cheapest vodka they had in the place and ended up going home with a kid who went to our high school. The second time I left early because my new tights had promptly been coated with a thick layer of frat boy vomit. I spent half an hour trying to hail a cab before I gave up and rode the subway while menacing homeless people glared at me. So excuse me if hitting up a club is not something that immediately makes me quake in anticipation.
My infinite goodwill toward my eager friends prevails in these situations, however, especially when they hold my cat hostage in the bathroom until I agree to join them. After searching my closet for an outfit that seems the most stain-resistant, eight women piled into Christie’s sedan chattering about the level of inebriation they planned to reach that night and silently cursing Tina’s failed diet. As they sang jumbled lyrics to every song the radio blasted on the way, I contemplated the other things I might have been doing tonight. Thank God I got away from a quiet night at home, munching on granola, flipping through Better Homes and Gardens while watching PBS. Without these fine women, the likelihood that I would become drenched in the perspiration of six different people by the end of the evening was slim to none.
We searched for the perfect parking spot for twenty minutes. The seven block walk to our target destination was punctuated by complaints of uncomfortable shoes, but it was relatively pleasant to be out of the hot, crowded car. We got in easily, and while the place wasn’t dead, there were few enough people to have a decent zone of personal space. The drinks were ordered, every male at the bar was giggled at, and we started rocking our hips to the music. Though I still had on my sour face, I was starting to have fun. To think, if it hadn’t been for that slurry-speeched, blurry-eyed girl stomping all over the dance floor, I might be a regular at Anthem or Prison or whatever.
My group makes it way to the middle of the place and we start dancing in earnest. We are all drunk on rhythm. And alcohol. It was then that “Get Low” sounded in the background, and just as I was pointing to the wall, I felt a pair of hands seize my hips. There were guys hooting, and I assumed that I was being accosted by a thin man on a dare. How I wish that were true.
I turned around to tell my would-be juke partner to please back off and try to grind his penis into a different girl, when lo and behold, my assailant was that intoxicated woman we had been mocking from a distance. She said I was magical, and proceeded to coat my entire face with her potently boozy saliva. It took three people to get her off of me. Mostly everybody was enjoying the show too much to intervene.
Then I made my vow to never go to a club more illicit than perhaps the Scrapbook Coalition that meets every Thursday at the Starbucks down my block. I waited in the car for two hours, checking my forehead for herpes. When I finally got home, I considered filing a report, but got called “uptight” and a few other names I’d rather not mention in print. “Come on, all she did was lick your face.”
But we all know that’s not all she did. Imagine one of the most awkward, uncomfortable, and vaguely sexual experiences you’ve ever had. Now imagine that your partner WROTE A HIT SINGLE ABOUT IT and you have to remember it every time you hear an eight-year-old sing it in the supermarket. I know you don’t even know my name Katy, but it does matter. It’s Jessica, and I hope you get hit by a bus.