After enjoying a delightfully decadent dinner, we stopped in to a few clubs,* looking for a perfect mix of music, drinks, and dancefloor that seemed to be mutually exclusive. But we were steadfast in our determination, and at one point we walked past a lively group who was also celebrating a birthday, and when they beckoned us to join them in their lair, we agreed.
It was, as Tammy described it, a very urban* bar. We looked around, shrugged our acceptance, and headed to the dance floor. But I was ill prepared to shake my groove thing without a drink in hand, so I stopped at the bar for cold beers. I joined my friends on the dance floor and handed over the lovely cold bottles, took a swig and was ready to get my boogie on*. I was immediately tapped on the shoulder by a big burly bouncer and scolded that there were no drinks allowed on the dancefloor. What the????**
We found a good spot on the sidelines where we could shimmy and drink and watch the peeps. And that dancefloor was good watching! So, dancing now involves a lot more butt action than it did back in the day.** But I’m no prude, and although Baby was technically put into the corner, I could still bounce and groove along with a semi-smile on my face while keeping a close eye on all those gyrating butts.
However, butt dancing was not the only action going on all up in that hizzie*** I really don’t think I can tell you about what we soon noticed was transpiring in an area entirely too close to my little circle of sistah-love. I can’t even type it, because my hands are too busy flapping in front of my horrified face in the universal expression of EWWWWWWWWWW, trying desperately to block out the vision that is forever emblazoned in my memory. Suffice it to say that the action was ….. intimate, and the setting was so, so, so, so NOT.
Wha-wha-wha-wha-WHAT THE HELL?!?!
It was like a train wreck, we wanted to look away, but we couldn’t. We all just stood there looking like this
(but with make up, and good hair)
I can’t talk about it anymore. I need to go wash my eyes out with bleach. Again.
We were not long for that place, and since none of us can recall the name the bar with any certainty, it is entirely possible that the whole thing was some crazy shared hallucination. Right? Yeah. Let’s go with that.
On our way home, we passed another bar and were once again lured inside*, but this time it was the sound of Pour Some Sugar on Me, and the enchantment of an 80s cover band!** We went home cleansed of those horrific visual images and hoarse from the singalong encore medley of Sweet Caroline, 867-5309, and Don’t Stop Believin.’
*See how hip I am?
** See how unhip I am?
***What the fuck am I talking about?