A Soggy Love Letter to the Club


Debauchery keeps me sane. Which may explain why I don’t mind visiting the local bar. A few hours ago it was a Friday night. I was in desperate need to unwind from a day full of what felt like gnomes gnawing a canal toward my heart. Which vice do I choose to ward them off.

I should have prayed, but instead I went to the club. The first hour was jubilant. I ate. I sipped. I twirled. And then here he comes. The guy who introduces himself by way of an ambitious pelvic thrust. Debauchery keeps me sane. I said.

So, I stand there and give his denim a few seconds to dry-holler at my fishnets. I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing, but whatever it is, I find it to be something worth blogging about. So, I indulge.

He visits me in five to seven minute intervals. Each time either “uuggghhhhing” in my ear, laughing at a joke I did not make or is finding it more interesting to dance with the back of my head, as opposed to the front. Where my face is.

The security guard approaches and asks if the guy was harassing me. My response was “a little bit…he’s okay, but doesn’t know when to turn it down”. The guard assures me that if the ambitious pelvis bothers me again, he will get air-lifted out of the club. I say okay, slightly feeling like a snitch.

Five and one half minutes later and here he comes again, swaying my way with drink in hand and eyelids low. I laugh at all of his jokes except for the ones he’s telling.

My fingers ghost across his palm to gently lift his hand away from my waist. Again. and Again.

Security motivates him away. Only to have a robust woman replace him and practically stuff one of her breasts into both my nostrils. However, I felt the need to sniff because after all, she did save me from another non-conversation I was having with someone who sounded like Darius off of Mis-Adventures of an Awkward Black Girl. Honestly, out of all of the characters on that show, Darius, was the one who I found to be the most unbelievable. And here I am. Leaning in, almost falling over, so that I can better comprehend what this low decibel speaking man was saying.

His name was Stacey.

Last night was full of thongs the color of highlighters, concerningly high platforms and Air Force Ones. I listened to about ten or more songs that made little mention of my brain and the thoughts inside of it. I tattled on someone. The music soaked up my alcohol faster than Pinky does most bodily fluids. (I dare not link her name to a visual reference). And after all of that, I left with something to write about. Thank you club.

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3 thoughts on “A Soggy Love Letter to the Club

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