Party Central, USA
Last night was supposed to be a nice get-together dinner with some old writing friends of mine. But one dropped out, and plans got rearranged and suddenly it was an all-night-super-party-time. Tom decided to join us for dinner, and then insisted we all go out afterwards.
I'm not exactly the nightclub type, myself. I knew that I was out of my element when I pulled my battered Ford Focus Hatchback into the parking lot full of BMWs and Lexii. When the valet guy asked me if I wanted the twenty dollars "deluxe" parking or the ten dollar "regular" parking I felt like asking if there was a cheaper option.
Tom knew the doorman, so we were just waved in past the line outside. Once inside, we were in a crush of hip kids, each bustling against one another in a constant attempt to get somewhere else. I am pretty sure I was the only guy in there, wearing a tie. Lots of people kept coming up to Tom, asking him for autographs and stuff.
Eventually some girls struck up a conversation with a few young ladies. One, named Persia, introduced herself by grinding her crotch against mine. Then she instructed me to hit her hand and call her a "bad kitty". Her friend remarked casually that she liked this.
Persia danced with me a while more, pausing occaionally to look me in the eyes and call me a brat. I was struggling to keep up with this. All I know was that a few hours later, Persia was on stage, and her friend was giving me dollar bills to tuck into her pants.
It was an interesting evening, sure. But I was glad to get my dinky little car back from the valet guy and move on home. The beat of bad hip-hop still throbs in my veins, the strobe lights still blink in my eyes, and I'm thankful I have nobody calling me a brat anymore.
posted by opus at
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