The time I popped my nightclub cherry


Contains some coarse language, sexual and adult references

After my last post ‘do women dig nightclubs’, I thought it might be best to continue the tradition of that post by talking about the time I went to my first nightclub. So, here goes…

It’s 2008. It’s November. The year is almost up. Nick, a friend of mine at the time and I decide to go to a nightclub. No, we did not go together-together. Did you see what I just did? Now, I ain’t homophobic, but at the very inkling of the idea that someone is going to interpret two blokes going somewhere as anything but two blokes going somewhere, even the most un-homophobic individual can suddenly become the most defensive in less than half a millisecond. Of course, this goes for more than just the written word or communication in general. I have heard that some blokes don’t like travelling in cars with other blokes, because if the bloke behind the wheel is driving too fast and the car is pulled over, the cops might think there was a little more than driving going on inside the vehicle. I have also heard that some guys don’t like having their prostate checked because although the experience is meant to be quite awkward, daunting even, especially if something untoward is found, it has been suggested by some that if there is really nothing wrong going on in there, the whole experience doesn’t actually feel all that bad – which is what blokes are most afraid of. I guess on one hand a person could argue that if a bloke liked having a hand shoved up there, he might like having something else shoved up there too…

…But, back on topic. The both of us were good friends at the time, and we have not spoken since, and judging by what happened, it probably ain’t all that hard to understand. Brother from another mother is the term Nick used to describe me. Anyway, at the time, and to this day, I did not own me self a pair of wheels, and so Nick had to do the driving.

Now, don’t ask me the name of the night club. I have forgotten…at least that is my story. No, we didn’t burn the place down – but we probably did tarnish the good reputation of the establishment, along with our own by being there that night.

At the time the both of us, well, let’s just say we were not looking good in the romance department. The both of us were looking at a life in which it seemed almost impossible that we would ever have sex. I mean, being a heterosexual man, you can’t have sex without a woman being involved, right? And that was the problem. There were no women involved in our lives period. So, the year was coming to its conclusion and the end was nigh. Why not go to a nightclub to see what could be seen. To experience what could be experienced.

I learnt a couple things when I arrived. One, the queue that was outside – it went for miles, totally. Plus, it was moving incredibly slowly. You could have reserved your place in the line, gone and done your grocery shopping (had the stores being open) come back, and your place in line would still be there like a legless dog – right where you left it.

Two, how to describe door bitches and blokes? (Is that what they’re even called, you know, the guys who stand at the doors to a club as security to keep the invalids from entering). Well, how to describe ‘em? 100% muscle, 0% brain. At least that is how they look – in reality, not much gets past ‘em. Probably because they’re all so huge, but it did not simply mean in the physical sense. You really can’t trick ‘em. I guess in the advertisements sections they asked for the smartest, biggest, scariest most bad ass people imaginable – who look incredibly dumb. That way, people just generally assume their lack of intellect and do not plan to be apprehended by a smart guard.

Three, the stamp they apply to your wrist? For one, they shove it down so hard onto your flesh, it is almost as though they are intentionally trying to break your hand. I guess those guys who stamp your wrist know that if the nightclub business ever goes under they can always get themselves a job at Madame Estefan’s House of Pain. Second, they specify how it is waterproof, sweat proof, but at the same time washable? Yeah, well, let’s just say that I scrubbed at it a couple occasions after this night, and two weeks later it still looked to be permanently etched into my body, kind of like that tattoo of an ex-girlfriend that seems like a really good idea at the time. Let’s say, I know how Lady Macbeth felt, and the next time I read such a piece of literature I really felt for the old gal.

Four, the word ‘loud’, even with the word ‘very’, or ‘excruciatingly’ placed before it – does not even begin to describe how ‘loud’ a nightclub is. The music is like a billion decibels. The people screaming and jumping around make it even louder, and I suddenly realised – all those times I thought I felt an earthquake – it was probably a cool couple hundred people combined jumping up and down in a club together. So next time you feel the earth move – check your nearest night club before you assume it’s anything but a stampede.

Five, there really isn’t much space. It’s a ‘balls to the wall’ experience, literally. You find yourself pressed up against the walls of the club with very little oxygen, and everyone is trying to steal yours right out from your lungs in a vain effort to survive the night.

Six, the lighting no doubt has the capability to cause seizures and/or embolisms and/or schizoid episodes and/or psychopathic behavior. So, if you’re ever at a club and a deranged psychopath comes at you with a knife – it ain’t their fault – it’s the lighting!

So, there we were – Nick and I – finally inside the labyrinth that was totally beyond the beyond. Whatever we had expected – it was anything but. We made our way to the bar, ordered ourselves a couple drinks and spun around on the stools to get a look for the place.

I will say this. When you walk around your neighborhood, you see some foxy ladies who you think are out of your league. At high school, you see some even foxier ladies who you believe are completely out of your league. At a night club – you will see ladies so fuckin’ foxy that to even call them ‘fuckin’ foxy’ will not begin to describe just how ‘fuckin’ foxy’ they really are!

I never realised women could come in so many different shapes and sizes. Big ones, fat ones, skinny ones, short ones, straight ones, diagonal ones, irregular ones, triumphant ones, ones that resemble the Bermuda triangle (people walk around ‘em and never come back), ones that resemble super models, ones that have the runs (I mean they are puking up shit from their mouths). There are so many that eventually, you come across some that defy all manner of description.

So, what did Nick and I do exactly? Well, we simply sat there for a few minutes. Never had we seen so many foxy women. As for dancing – well, that was the last thing on our minds at that point. On the other hand, neither of us were really good dancers. I mean, the best I could do at the time was the ‘shake my head in disbelief’. What? You haven’t heard of this one? It’s simple really. You turn your head to the left. Then you turn your head to the right. And then you proceed in continuing this over and over again.

Simply put – Nick and I were not at the nightclub long. We came to the conclusion, quite quickly actually when I come to think about it, that we had as much chance as hooking up (is this the right lingo ‘ere?) with one of the ladies there as we did of staring in our own reality sitcom. So, with that in mind, we left – and basically pretended this never happened and swore a vow to never speak of this again!

The End!

Naughty Nefarious, signing off – and feeling a little embarrassed after sharing such a moment with you as he does so.


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