Partying Fool

Of course all this partying did take its toll on us. Sally discovered she was a lesbian (may not have been clubbing-related of course) and I couldn't stay awake enough to box pastries at my job at Dean & DeLuca. Tragic.

I quit the scene after a good six months of non-stop dancing (more like jumping up and down and wiggling around), and got back to studying. Found a boyfriend soon after that and the need to go out to parties dimished so much that I couldn't remember why I ever went in the first place. Besides the boyfriend was horridly opposed to having fun of any kind, so I just never gave it another thought.

Single, and two boyfriends later, my good friend Mei gave me a call last weekend and asked me to go out on the town with her. "There's this party I want to go to and you have to come with me!" she declared. How could I refuse? Mei was a straight arrow, from what I remember of her from chemistry lab. I was sure that this get-together would be sophisticated and low-key.

Mei's changed since I last hung out with her.

The party was just like the ones I used to frequent. Sweaty bodies rubbing up against each other. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes clinging to once clean hair and clothes. I loved it.

I stayed near the bar for the first hour, nursing a fuzzy navel that I pretended to sip from on occasion, cracking lewd jokes with Mei's friends. Mei found her way to the dance floor and boogied with a tall and nice-looking guy. The rest of the males stood around with me, trying to figure me out. Was I all talk and no action? After another 30 minutes of bullshitting, it was apparent that I didn't intend to cut the rug with anyone.

One guy in particular caught my attention. He was as raunchy and unapologetic as I was. Oozing with confidence and as aggressive as an NYFD telemarketer. Oh my god, was I attracted to him, or what?

I can't remember how I was persuaded to dance with him, but I didn't object one bit. He was bold, a good mover and an intense starer. I was overpowered and I didn't mind it one bit. All this from a woman who refuses to be told what to do, a woman whose favorite phrase is "get lost, bub." All I could think of when I was blurting out my phone number to him was, "call me, call me, call me." How pathetic!

He called me two days later. Industry standard waiting period before calling a girl you meet at a club. Nice touch, very nice.

We haven't actually gone out yet, but from the conversations we've been having these past few days, he seems to be a regular Joe. But then again, that's what people say to reporters when asked to describe their psychopathic rampaging neighbor. Can't be too trusting.