By the time I walked into my friend’s birthday bash of debauchery, Wild Child A was already on the high couch, gyrating. Her arms in the air with a cigarette held like a beacon for the men in the room.
Below her was a salivating huddle of people whose faces I could not see. Introduction was futile. The music was too loud to hear names.
Wild Child A called to Wild Child B to join her. They did some mock lesbian-tangling dance while the huddle cheered. Then the birthday boy joined them and did a his-front-to-her-ass gyrating.
When a remix of Another Brick in the Wall played, to our right, there were some synchronised head banging and high-hand signs.
And they sang long after the song was over.
I often whine about how I never had nightlife. One, which wasn’t spent poring over proofs with Cohen groaning in the background.
I was never cool enough to pub-hopped. I was pun-hopping. Ahem. Ignore that.
And when I do get a chance to go, I hate it. I hate the crowd. I hate the darkness, the loud music, the whole strange-elbow-in-my-ear experience.
I wonder what the women are doing. I may wrap myself over a dark, mourning poet in a jiffy in an extremely drunken state. But woman, please, have some class.
That’s young K-Fed you are tonguing there. And god knows what toilet bowl he’s been licking.