I walk into the crowded club of explicitly genital-focused dance moves and exposed sweaty skin, clutching my winter coat and gloves. Dressed like a secretary on Casual Friday, I am indisputably an infrequent visitor to this place: this destination for those desperate to be desired and, apparently, the obvious choice location for my little sister, Samantha's, bachelorette party.
My older sister, Jess, buys me a beer and I dance beside the bar, poking my fingers to the beat and bobbing my head like a buoy in a stormy bay. I stand out like a tomato in a bowl of flour, but I don't mind. I'm glad I don't belong in this zoo of wild animals caged by society's sexual norms and allowances. Intoxicated wild animals, really, ready to mate and procreate. Except, instead of drunken poop throwing monkeys; girls, covered in vodka tonic vomit, run to the bathroom, accidentally wiping partially digested dinner chunks onto Jessica's silk top while she waits in line for an available stall. Instead of pill popping peacocks flipping open their fans of feathers; young men adjust the top buttons of their dress shirts, exposing their curly chest hair and shiny religious necklaces. Instead of stoned bats hanging from dark man made caves; twenty-something girls swing from precociously placed stripper poles, holding cameras above their heads and flashing photos frequently in hopes they'll take at least one flattering picture to post onto the internet later that night.
The music is so loud it vibrates my green flat shoes as I dance through puddles of spilled splashed beer to reach the pillowed ring. Inside the ring, an electronic bull spins, shakes and flips a girl, forcing her skirt to slowly rise and show everyone watching her entirely wide nyloned butt. My friend leans over the padded railing, yelling
Get off, y'whore!and I laugh at this girl's persistence to stay on rather than keep her skirt and dignity on. That is what this place is. A place where everyone is holding on so tightly, terrified that if their dance moves are not pornographically flirtatious enough and if their aging glistening faces are not in constant climactic excitement, they might miss their opportunity to find love with some dirty dancing queen or greased guido.
It is a club of strangers, performing a show of loud desperation and I have a front row seat.