As another one of our adventures to check off of our to-do list, Ai and I decided to go clubbing and get the full effect of NYC nightlife.
As we pulled on our dress clothes, we were less than enthused. It was already 11pm and after moving to the city, we’ve become old people who watch Netflix until 10 and then surrender to the warmth of our beds.
But in the city that never sleeps, this night was nothing short of entertaining.
As soon as we got on the subway, we realized we were the only ones sober. A couple tried to sell their homemade incense while we crossed into Manhattan until the husband surrendered to the cart’s intoxication. “Guys, we got vanilla flavored, chocolate flavored all for a dollar…. Man, all of you are drunk as Hell….”
There was a guy hoarding a life-sized M&M that he had stolen from the M&M Store. There were women who found sitting down a challenge. And there was an executive drinking straight liquor out of a brown paper bag.
It was an adventure, but I found out that the inappropriate executives aren’t far and few between.
As we stepped out into the Meat Packing District, we suddenly became alive. We weren’t tired anymore. In fact, everyone and their brother was out tonight, dressed in their best. Women roamed the streets in worse than the hooker attire dad and I saw last year on our visit in an upscale lounge. Old men in mid-life crisis drove past twenty-something’s revving their lipstick-red Ferraris and blasting techno music like it was from their generation.
I felt like I was in Las Vegas without all of the lights and “Go Go Girl” flyers being flicked in my face.
As we stood in line for the club, I watched as the bouncers weeded out half of the line based on beauty and age. Seeing as we were both skinny and young, we got in with no questions asked, but before us stood a senior citizen with a cane and his twenty-something-year-old mistress.
I first thought the cane in his hand was the equivalent of a “pimp cane” from rap videos. However, after I saw that he couldn’t balance without it, I stood corrected.
I watched as he slipped five hundreds in the bouncers pocket along with the $20 cover charge for his gold-digger. The bouncer let him pass, but that wasn’t the last we saw of him.
In fact, the night went downhill pretty fast.
My face got scratched its entire length from a trophy wife’s ring as she flailed about. I collected glass in my leg from three sloppy bimbos dropping every drink they bought on the floor. When they weren’t breaking glass, they were pouring half their drinks down my back and in my shoe.
There was a point during the night where I was tempted to drink the $40 of collected liquor from my heels. Add that to my list of “How to Make It in NYC as a Cheapskate.”
But while the club played awesome music and young financial executives pretending to still be frat boys entertained me as they ordered bottle after bottle at their table, I soon felt like vomiting.
The old man, standing with his cane while his mistress grinded on him bent over, took it upon himself to slip his shaky hand under her dress.
I’m sure I don’t need to give any more detail. We are all adults here. Hell, the old man has been an adult four times over. They did everything with her returning the favor (I didn’t look long enough to judge how well that went).
I stood there petrified. It was like a train wreck. I couldn’t look away. My brain was like, “He can really still do that, but he can barely walk?” while simultaneously thinking, “I’m stuck in an amateur porno.”
We left soon after as I dabbed my leg and foot-farted with each step of my sticky shoes. The bouncer looked at me on the way out and said, “Miss, are you OK?” I told him I was fine and he proceeded to tell me that I was a horrible liar.
At least we know one person will die happy if he croaks tonight.
The next time we go clubbing, I’m going to create a shoe device that collects slipped alcohol. Also, I am investing in a pair of horse blinders from Columbus Circle. Dirty old men are everywhere. I better be careful or soon I will get sucked in to the purr of their sports cars and start finding the smell of mothballs arousing.
Maybe it’s a sign that I should hit up Times Square again to have a chat with James Deen and his trusty intern.