Everyone has this grand notion they are somebody when going out to the club.
The gentlemen get geared up and walk around with heavy libido-laden auras while the ladies put their hottest outfits accentuating their best features and typically sport heels that rarely fit all that well. When the dancefloor is deserted and when the music ceases the guys pace cross-eyed, essentially annoying every female that passes with degradation. The girls say things like “fuck these shoes”, and “I just want to go home already”, carrying their stilettos by straps or grasping on their heels by night’s end. Frequently girl-one shakes her head at girl-two whom is talking to a guy while the girl-three mediates in between like a stay-or-go referee.
It’s normally the high-heels that seem most uncomfortable. I don’t think I have ever witnessed a girl lugging around wedges or flats. It seems like the purchase of cute heels come about haphazardly and when they get the opportunity to strut around the charming item they end up squashing their toes or causing blistered wear on the outside of their foot or at the Achilles.
Guys tend to be slightly more practical but it’s merely a sea of better looking jeans, than the everyday beat-up denim, and button-up shirts. Throw a fedora or some wrist flare, like a flashy watch, or neck-wear, like a gold chain/tie, some shiny shoes and that’s routinely the male uniform for club attendance.
Nobody is anybody. The idea of V.I.P. booths and bottle service manufactures any random person a virtual god when they get treated a little better because they shelled out the extra dough. This sense of entitlement passes around like an odorous cologne.
There is nothing genuinely substantive about the club experience; the club is dark, obnoxiously loud, making it so nobody can really see each other’s face or converse without shouting. Everything is based on looks since you can’t communicate verbally. How you move, what you drink, what you wear, how you look. It’s superficial attraction based on extroverted appeal. The dancefloor reflects fornication at its most base level. If you dance well that supposedly denotes that you have some sort of amazing sexual prowess. Sex from a club encounter is usually uninspiring—drunkenly brief and unsatisfactory.
Grinding crotch to gluteus, aiming to move in unison with the beat of the music, shows a rudimentary form of copulation. In the club there‘s no romance, only fleeting. It’s rare if you meet someone of substance, if you do meet someone modest who isn’t buying-in to the manufactured sex-scapade, it’s probably outside of the club and it’s someone who is only accessible because they got dragged out by their friend(s) and don’t enjoy the scene but felt if they were going to be bored may as well be out somewhere.
Club music has become a recycled garb of hip-hop and dance music that relies on similar beats to mix with, creating an incessant song, a plateaued vibe brought in-tune with pop sensibilities. Often music played features rap-artists lyrically flaunting how much money they have and what kind of liquor they drink; a product-placement infestation to keep people hooking-up. Fittingly liquor corporations and the proprietors of establishments rake in dough. Yet, there is something tribal about the music at the club, the pounding of the bass and mix of high-end sounds gets everyone in the groove, in an alcohol induced gradation, developing a oneness with the music—possibly the only redeeming quality within the throes of the club scene.
Guys love the songs that manifest the image of being successful while the girls like the songs that have a feminine formula—possibly more love based but moreover it’s a sex masked as love sense. If you just want to hook up with someone you go to the club. If you want to act like you are someone special, you buy into the arranged faction of the club. Either way it’s a travesty of manufactured sexual-cunning subverting the masses into posing the façade, a fantastical pursuit of solipsism.
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