My friend is an aspiring writer. I suggested he write a short story about guys trying to score a chick at a club. Okay the result is a little shocking but it oozees reality. I'm posting it here for your perusal. Three reasons for posting:
1) Don't feel bad about being rejected in a club, she may just be a biatch like this one.
2) Wondering how you DJs would handle this chick.
3) It's a damn good bit of reading for any club PUA. Beware the biatches!
A little warning.... it's a VERY long post.
Nice Girls & Nightclubs
The music paints a primitive beat as I walk the wet shining pavement. A black cab swings past with a glossy swish under its tires, neon lights reflect on its lustre skin like a parody of an underwater world. For a brief second I see my reflection in a side window, my features grotesque and misshapen, a blur of colour and eyes and hair, then its gone. My other self sliding gracefully over the cabs chrome bumper before being deposited in a puddle by the kerb. I pause briefly to look at this new friend, a new me that’s suddenly been born in a gutter pool of rainwater, and I study its delicately elongated features. Lipstick, eye-shadow and legs. Long hair shining with a thousand tiny crystals of moisture. A mouth that has never smiled. A single drop of rain falls to the puddle and sends my friends features into a frenzy of ugly mood swings. The mouth that never smiles becomes twisted and aggressive, the eyes roam searchingly without ever breaking my stare. The face looks as if it’s trying to unravel itself. I think the new friend is pretty, and wonder if I could have her twisted appearance. Somewhere in the city a car horn calls out its single tone plea, and I walk on.
The nightclub’s low double door entrance is guarded on either side by black-jacketed sentinels. Beyond the doors is only darkness, but the beat of the music is louder. The invisible waves of sound seek only escape, away from the dark, away from what lies within. They seek solace in the wet street where they dissipate among the crawling taxis and buses, they hide among the pedestrians, fearful lest some guardian attempt to take them back to the shadowed doorway. An old part of me knows how they feel.
The sentinels of the doorway do their job with the enthusiasm of the damned, for that is what they are. I imagine they will stand on this street forever, black jackets gleaming dully in the nights brash neon glow. Their eyes flicking from person to person, summing up, categorising, mentally photographing some, immediately dismissing and forgetting others. Their faces remind me of my reflection in the gutter, always changing, twisting, morphing from expression to expression. They greet some with the eye of recognition, a smile, a handshake, a few words of greeting. Others are met with a stolid face of granite, a silent warning only to be heard in the eyes hard stare. Their job is that of choice and prerogative, but their faces cannot mask the tiredness they feel, nor the dread of what they know inevitably will come. Their fake emotions that they stick so crudely on their faces are peeling at the edges, and their deserved despair leaks out like blood from under an ill fitting bandage. I walk past them without returning either of their half-smiles, I wonder if the contempt I feel is etched on my face. I hope it is.
I am swallowed by the darkness.
The wall of heat and sound meets me like an old friend. The air is so humid I can feel it caress the skin on my bare legs, almost immediately banishing the drops of rainwater that had clung to my shins and calves like parasites wanting to see a new world. The moisture on my face is as quickly removed, but to be replaced with another liquid. This time my own. I feel sweat on my back begin to form. The hot air runs its familiar fingers up my arms beneath the dressy jacket I wear, and I fight the urge to shiver. To shiver is to lose control. I never lose control.
The music becomes deafening, the beat heard on the street bearing no resemblance to the audio roar that now presents itself. I am caught in a corridor with a stampede of sound rushing past me, and I know that if I was to reach out quick enough, I could catch and perhaps imprison a defenceless errant sound wave. I resist the temptation. Instead I slide off my jacket and allow the thick warm air full access to my body; let it reach behind and over me, enveloping me in its welcoming arms. I want to throw back my head and outstretch my hands to its touch. It feels safe and powerful, I am caught in the breath of the nightclub as it exhales to the street. My lungs breathe deeply.
Down a wide staircase I lower myself deeper into the club. Halfway down the musical thunder increases volume another notch, and i'm aware i'm very close. The darkness has become punctuated with the greens and reds of neon mood swings, and a steady strobing is faintly visible reflected off walls long ago painted black. The sad walls are now chipped and peeling, littered here and there with fly posters encouraging me to attend band nights that were held last month, and stained with a hundred years of washed off vomit and piss. Mounted high above is a painting of a dog playing cards, the frame like the walls, neglected and shabby. I look into the dog’s eyes and see the misery that it must feel, and the shame of what it must have seen. I try to feel pity for it, but instead I find revulsion for myself for even trying.
Ahead of me the stairs take a turn to the right, and I already know what lies round that corner. The lights are brighter there, but the shadows are also darker. Red and black, green and black, white and black. A story is being told on these walls, one that has been told every night since time began. I imagine that this is the gates to Hell, and around the corner Old Nick will be waiting for me, a welcome smile on his bulging horned face. If I ever felt enthusiasm I would do so now. I quicken my step and hurry down the stairs to join my fellow lost souls.
I am assaulted by a thousand sensations as I turn the corner, my senses momentarily blocked by the sheer volume that they’re trying to process. My brain reels at the solid wall of sound that crashes against my ears, sending thoughts flying from the conscious and flattening the sub-conscious against the back of my skull. The air, warm in the stairs, has become an inferno, ladled with the stink of a thousand sweats and the heavy musk of perfumed alcohol, cigarettes and cheap aftershave. I can feel my long hair move slightly in the almost solid atmosphere, riding the waves of sound and heat. It feels like it’s trying to escape this man made kaleidoscope of smell and sound. My eyelids want to flutter at every crashing thought blocking beat of the music, and i’m sure I can feel the sound waves hitting my stomach beneath my dress. I am overwhelmed for a second, as I always am. But only for a second.
The stairs continue down for another six steps to the floor of the nightclub, but I pause for moment, surveying from my vantage point above the heads of others. The strobe lighting causes me to see in snapshots, still photographs in shades of white that are filled with the unmoving statues of what once were people. They are caught for eternity in random poses, some dancing, arms and legs out flung in desperation, some drinking, glasses pressed to lips with eyes roaming, Some are talking, their words frozen in their shouting mouths as they try to make themselves heard above the ever present music, and some are sitting doing nothing, the only ones who remain animated as the white light freezes time. They are all caught forever in neon negative, dancing, smoking, drinking, talking, all staring blankly into nothingness, waiting for the unyielding light to blink, and return movement to the club once more.
I look out over the sea of twisted arms, heads and body’s and feel an inane burst of excitement within. Nothing is visible to my naked eye, and nothing is hidden. I’m looking into a steaming cauldron of snake-like limbs that move in jerky static motions in time with the strobes. Their arms feel like their reaching out for me, beckoning me onwards down the stairs, wanting to devour me and make me one of their own. To swallow me into the fetid stink of light and blackness and noise. Familiar contempt grows in my stomach, but i’m no longer sure if its contempt for the souls swirling around me, or contempt for myself. I want to jump into them. I want to be swallowed. I want to be lost within their stretched limbs. I want to be a statue of white light. I want to be devoured by the nightclub.
The cloakroom is to one side at the bottom of the stairs, and I wait, jacket over my arm, in the line. A gaggle of giggling girls are in front of me, waiting for their turn. I cant hear their laughter, but the strobes freeze their faces with ugly toothy grins plastered across their features, hair wet from the rain is already being fawned over, and I can imagine that they’re already planning the make up rescue job that will be coming up in the toilets. I feel disgusted that I have to be in the same line as animals like these. One of them wavers unsteadily on heels that are far too high, and for a moment I sub-consciously pray she’ll fall over. Hopefully crashing down to the right where she will catch her face on the bottom step of the stairs for maximum damage. My fists clench as her balance totters to the point of no return, my heart almost stopping in gleeful expectation of what is to come, then her friends grab her arm and pull her back to the vertical. They giggle some more, and I unclench my hands in disappointment. Together they hand over jackets and like a mobile self-contained hen night, they stagger arm in arm towards the bar. I decide I hate girls walking arm in arm.
(CONT...)
1) Don't feel bad about being rejected in a club, she may just be a biatch like this one.
2) Wondering how you DJs would handle this chick.
3) It's a damn good bit of reading for any club PUA. Beware the biatches!
A little warning.... it's a VERY long post.
Nice Girls & Nightclubs
The music paints a primitive beat as I walk the wet shining pavement. A black cab swings past with a glossy swish under its tires, neon lights reflect on its lustre skin like a parody of an underwater world. For a brief second I see my reflection in a side window, my features grotesque and misshapen, a blur of colour and eyes and hair, then its gone. My other self sliding gracefully over the cabs chrome bumper before being deposited in a puddle by the kerb. I pause briefly to look at this new friend, a new me that’s suddenly been born in a gutter pool of rainwater, and I study its delicately elongated features. Lipstick, eye-shadow and legs. Long hair shining with a thousand tiny crystals of moisture. A mouth that has never smiled. A single drop of rain falls to the puddle and sends my friends features into a frenzy of ugly mood swings. The mouth that never smiles becomes twisted and aggressive, the eyes roam searchingly without ever breaking my stare. The face looks as if it’s trying to unravel itself. I think the new friend is pretty, and wonder if I could have her twisted appearance. Somewhere in the city a car horn calls out its single tone plea, and I walk on.
The nightclub’s low double door entrance is guarded on either side by black-jacketed sentinels. Beyond the doors is only darkness, but the beat of the music is louder. The invisible waves of sound seek only escape, away from the dark, away from what lies within. They seek solace in the wet street where they dissipate among the crawling taxis and buses, they hide among the pedestrians, fearful lest some guardian attempt to take them back to the shadowed doorway. An old part of me knows how they feel.
The sentinels of the doorway do their job with the enthusiasm of the damned, for that is what they are. I imagine they will stand on this street forever, black jackets gleaming dully in the nights brash neon glow. Their eyes flicking from person to person, summing up, categorising, mentally photographing some, immediately dismissing and forgetting others. Their faces remind me of my reflection in the gutter, always changing, twisting, morphing from expression to expression. They greet some with the eye of recognition, a smile, a handshake, a few words of greeting. Others are met with a stolid face of granite, a silent warning only to be heard in the eyes hard stare. Their job is that of choice and prerogative, but their faces cannot mask the tiredness they feel, nor the dread of what they know inevitably will come. Their fake emotions that they stick so crudely on their faces are peeling at the edges, and their deserved despair leaks out like blood from under an ill fitting bandage. I walk past them without returning either of their half-smiles, I wonder if the contempt I feel is etched on my face. I hope it is.
I am swallowed by the darkness.
The wall of heat and sound meets me like an old friend. The air is so humid I can feel it caress the skin on my bare legs, almost immediately banishing the drops of rainwater that had clung to my shins and calves like parasites wanting to see a new world. The moisture on my face is as quickly removed, but to be replaced with another liquid. This time my own. I feel sweat on my back begin to form. The hot air runs its familiar fingers up my arms beneath the dressy jacket I wear, and I fight the urge to shiver. To shiver is to lose control. I never lose control.
The music becomes deafening, the beat heard on the street bearing no resemblance to the audio roar that now presents itself. I am caught in a corridor with a stampede of sound rushing past me, and I know that if I was to reach out quick enough, I could catch and perhaps imprison a defenceless errant sound wave. I resist the temptation. Instead I slide off my jacket and allow the thick warm air full access to my body; let it reach behind and over me, enveloping me in its welcoming arms. I want to throw back my head and outstretch my hands to its touch. It feels safe and powerful, I am caught in the breath of the nightclub as it exhales to the street. My lungs breathe deeply.
Down a wide staircase I lower myself deeper into the club. Halfway down the musical thunder increases volume another notch, and i'm aware i'm very close. The darkness has become punctuated with the greens and reds of neon mood swings, and a steady strobing is faintly visible reflected off walls long ago painted black. The sad walls are now chipped and peeling, littered here and there with fly posters encouraging me to attend band nights that were held last month, and stained with a hundred years of washed off vomit and piss. Mounted high above is a painting of a dog playing cards, the frame like the walls, neglected and shabby. I look into the dog’s eyes and see the misery that it must feel, and the shame of what it must have seen. I try to feel pity for it, but instead I find revulsion for myself for even trying.
Ahead of me the stairs take a turn to the right, and I already know what lies round that corner. The lights are brighter there, but the shadows are also darker. Red and black, green and black, white and black. A story is being told on these walls, one that has been told every night since time began. I imagine that this is the gates to Hell, and around the corner Old Nick will be waiting for me, a welcome smile on his bulging horned face. If I ever felt enthusiasm I would do so now. I quicken my step and hurry down the stairs to join my fellow lost souls.
I am assaulted by a thousand sensations as I turn the corner, my senses momentarily blocked by the sheer volume that they’re trying to process. My brain reels at the solid wall of sound that crashes against my ears, sending thoughts flying from the conscious and flattening the sub-conscious against the back of my skull. The air, warm in the stairs, has become an inferno, ladled with the stink of a thousand sweats and the heavy musk of perfumed alcohol, cigarettes and cheap aftershave. I can feel my long hair move slightly in the almost solid atmosphere, riding the waves of sound and heat. It feels like it’s trying to escape this man made kaleidoscope of smell and sound. My eyelids want to flutter at every crashing thought blocking beat of the music, and i’m sure I can feel the sound waves hitting my stomach beneath my dress. I am overwhelmed for a second, as I always am. But only for a second.
The stairs continue down for another six steps to the floor of the nightclub, but I pause for moment, surveying from my vantage point above the heads of others. The strobe lighting causes me to see in snapshots, still photographs in shades of white that are filled with the unmoving statues of what once were people. They are caught for eternity in random poses, some dancing, arms and legs out flung in desperation, some drinking, glasses pressed to lips with eyes roaming, Some are talking, their words frozen in their shouting mouths as they try to make themselves heard above the ever present music, and some are sitting doing nothing, the only ones who remain animated as the white light freezes time. They are all caught forever in neon negative, dancing, smoking, drinking, talking, all staring blankly into nothingness, waiting for the unyielding light to blink, and return movement to the club once more.
I look out over the sea of twisted arms, heads and body’s and feel an inane burst of excitement within. Nothing is visible to my naked eye, and nothing is hidden. I’m looking into a steaming cauldron of snake-like limbs that move in jerky static motions in time with the strobes. Their arms feel like their reaching out for me, beckoning me onwards down the stairs, wanting to devour me and make me one of their own. To swallow me into the fetid stink of light and blackness and noise. Familiar contempt grows in my stomach, but i’m no longer sure if its contempt for the souls swirling around me, or contempt for myself. I want to jump into them. I want to be swallowed. I want to be lost within their stretched limbs. I want to be a statue of white light. I want to be devoured by the nightclub.
The cloakroom is to one side at the bottom of the stairs, and I wait, jacket over my arm, in the line. A gaggle of giggling girls are in front of me, waiting for their turn. I cant hear their laughter, but the strobes freeze their faces with ugly toothy grins plastered across their features, hair wet from the rain is already being fawned over, and I can imagine that they’re already planning the make up rescue job that will be coming up in the toilets. I feel disgusted that I have to be in the same line as animals like these. One of them wavers unsteadily on heels that are far too high, and for a moment I sub-consciously pray she’ll fall over. Hopefully crashing down to the right where she will catch her face on the bottom step of the stairs for maximum damage. My fists clench as her balance totters to the point of no return, my heart almost stopping in gleeful expectation of what is to come, then her friends grab her arm and pull her back to the vertical. They giggle some more, and I unclench my hands in disappointment. Together they hand over jackets and like a mobile self-contained hen night, they stagger arm in arm towards the bar. I decide I hate girls walking arm in arm.
(CONT...)
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