The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER TEN

The vultures don't just exist under the night club stairs, but also hovering over the rails of the second floor balconies, stalking the dance floor below for the perfect prey to sink their claws into. Okay, maybe it's not so violent, but most guys tend to cluster and chill on the second floor balconies, occasionally pointing out "hotties" and trekking back down the stairs to shoot their shot with said "hotties."

     I keep my phone poised against my ear as I not only lean on the silver railing, but also closer into one of the large square columns that keeps the open balconies suspended right over the bars. It looks like I'm talking on the phone but really I'm just talking to myself, recording my observations of gender relations on the dance floor.

     All the groups of friends both on the dance floor and on the sidelines resemble a little bit like crop rotation. Each group tends to stick together as they maneuver around the club. It's only when certain songs pulse out of the large black speakers that sort of water and oil gender relations mix together based on my bird's eye view of gender expressions.

     This one girl is wearing black jeans similar to mine except mine have rips in the knees, and she's also a better dancer than me. She sways along and laughs with her friends until a guy comes up behind her. I appreciate the way he hesitates but shake my head when he still gently lays his hands on her hips. His trepidation grows when the girl jumps away, and I think she even notices, but she still gently turns him down with a small smile and quick shake of her head. He shuffles back to his group of friends at the end of the dance floor who only fuel more fire to his red cheeks with their laughing and hollering.

     Another girl looks like she stepped out of a magazine, with a corkscrew curly mane of hair bouncing along with her every step and silky smooth chocolate skin behind the bright red of a maxi dress. It's no wonder everyone, regardless of their gender, seems to be lulled toward her general direction like moths to flame. What ticks me off is the way this one guy in a black button up saunters up behind her on the dancefloor, matching her in height and stance, but with a smirk that's visible from miles away. It also doesn't help that I can see the way he directs that smirk at his friend's standing a few feet away at the edge of the dancefloor. I'm tempted to stomp my way over to the other side of the balcony just so I can barf my piña colada right on their heads, but instead my stomach dips as the guy's large hands hover over the girl's hips.

     "Yes!" I slump further over the banister in attempt to conceal my cheer when her fingers clamp around his just before they can touch the cotton material of her dress. My chest swells with even more pride when she whips around and ends up whipping her hair into his face. He remains frozen in place, while her smile is strained as she shakes her head and saunters off without a glance back.

     "That f*cking hurt," some guy spits as he stomps back up the stairs, rubbing his stomach.

     "Gotta watch out for the elbows," his friend says in between fits of laughter.

     Sometimes the "I'll just dance behind you until you notice" technique works. Sometimes it's nice for someone to look at a crowd of dancing drunken bodies, and somehow, for some reason, pick you, or essentially "yours," as the one they want to dance with, and maybe even take home.  But it's another night club ritual that often lacks consent that is all too foreshadowing of the sometimes lack of consent that happens once people leave for the night. I try not to make a habit of rubbing my eyes, but my mascara didn't cooperate with me today, and when I happen to get a stray eyelash I silently wish the technique was "I'll tap your shoulder from behind and hope you say yes when I ask you to dance" instead. I also can't help but wish for another piña colada because my baby pink, off the shoulder, long sleeve top may have led to me chug my first one.

     "Damn . . ." I hear a low whistle somewhere on my right. "Look at that ass."

     "I'mma tap that."

     "You would tap that." There's some shoulder slapping and snickering.

     "You should be out there shaking that thing!"

     I flip my hair over to one side to reveal my phone as I slowly straighten to my full height. I internally cheer again because my strappy black heels make me a few inches taller than the guy in a light blue polo shirt who decided to come up beside me a little too close for comfort.

     "You heard me." He winks but holds his hands up as he backs up, thankfully taking the hint.

     I throw him a quick curve of my lips before slowly dragging my sweatshirt and cross body bag along the banister as I slide around to the other side of the column so I'm no longer in his or his friend's line of vision.

     "Sorry," I mumble when I bump shoulders with someone, but jump back when that same person wretches back my right arm. The fact that it's Jack and not light blue polo guy should make me relax but I can't because his eyes continue to ping pong between the blinking red recording light on my cell phone screen and my face.

     His eyebrows raise as he tilts his head to the side—too much—like a kid when they catch their parent's in a lie. He keeps his fingers wrapped around my wrist as he brings my phone up to his lips. "Gotcha."