For Ian

Alright, alright. Since Ian wants to know what else happened that night, I'll actually finish my story this time.

SO. The manly new york accent belonged to Raphael (or something), a bouncer at the club. Since I had read so many scathing reviews of the bouncers at Webster Hall, I was surprised he greeted me with such cheeriness.

"I'd be sad to see you have to go home and not have a good time tonight!" he boomed.

"I guess."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

*long pause* "...You could still have fun!"

This made me laugh, and since I didn't want to disappoint Raphael, I joined the line to get inside the club. I paid the extraordinarily high amount of money and walked in, X's on both my twenty-year-old hands. I waited in line for the coat check, squashed between a million Belgians who had arrived via limousine. I paid the coat check my last four dollars and was finally ready to dance.

This place was huge, and its main inspiration seemed to be a fun house. The bottom floor had a bar in the middle of it with stages all around (I later learned that these were for strippers. And not just those warm-up-skimpily-dressed dancers they have in all clubs. Legit naked ones with pasties and money in their panties.) A band played on the largest of the stages (for now.) The next floor had popular music blasting in a large open room with lights that flashed a million colors. Bodies bounced, glistening pink, yellow, blue and orange. There was a bar around a corner and some stairs, which lead to a small hallway with piercing yellow spotlights shining on the wooden floor. The hallway lead to a ballroom that must have been three stories high. A DJ on a massive stage blasted electronic music so loudly that I could feel my bones rattling. A huge screen projected swirling lights and the whole room was bright and loud. This was where most people seemed to be at the moment, so I stopped and started to dance along with them.

I noticed a boy in an orange shirt was moving closer to me, but I ignored him until he was right by my side. He locked eyes with me and shouted a request to dance. As any girl knows, a boy in his early twenties who actually asks your permission before grinding up on you is a rarity, so I decided to concede and dance with him. This was a mistake. He glued himself to me so closely that it felt more like we were hugging than dancing. And there has never been a man who has smelled more like a vagina in the history of the world. It took thirty seconds for me to declare a need for the bathroom and retreat back to the lower levels.

The middle level was filling up fast. Kids younger than me sipped beer and clambered over the couches in the far side of the room, dancing. I stayed for a minute on the sidelines and realized that this DJ was quite talented - he mixed up popular songs without completely distorting the music. We were actually able to sing along! I started dancing with a tall, stylish man who, unlike the mangina upstairs, could actually dance. I learned later, when he bought me a water, he was from West Africa and was staying in New York for two months. I forget his name, but I do remember there were a lot of O's in it. He was a nice guy. He walked me home. (Which was more of an annoyance than a help, since he walked so much slower than I did.)

However, there was a point at which Mr. O and I were separated. During this time I was excited to be able to dance by myself, but every five seconds I had to push another guy away from me. They snuck up like crabs on the beach at night. I was not pleased. But the music was great and sometimes I could get in a whole minute of dancing without anyone creeping up behind me.

Once, however, I took a break in the lounge by the bar. I was about to start playing some Angry Birds when someone plopped down beside me and pressed his leg into mine. I looked up. It was Mangina.

"Where'd juu go?" He slurred.

"I had to go to the bathroom."

"Where... what school do you go to?"

"NYU."

"No way! I just... graduated from there! I got a job... in the office!"

"That's nice. I have to go. Nice talking with you."

The best part of the night by far, though, was when I spotted two tiny, buttoned up, white-shirt-black-pleated-pants-wearing Asian men standing in the crowd, ignored by everyone else. And I got them to dance. I locked eyes with them, smiled, and waved at them to dance. They were absolutely terrible dancers, but in the best possible way. We formed one of those circles friends make at eighth grade dances and mimicked each others' dancing. A Persian guy stood off to the side and I motioned for him to join our circle. Soon others joined. Some guy began to try to teach me to swing dance. It was a lot of fun. Then Mr. O found me and joined in, which I guess made Persian Guy jealous, since he kept trying to pull me away from Mr. O. That was when I thought it might be time to go sit down.

While Mr. O was getting me my water, Persian Guy knelt down on the floor beside me.

"Will you dance with me?" He pleaded.

I didn't want to dance anymore. I put on my best sophisticated Audrey Hepburn face. "I'm taking a break right now."

"Please. There are not other girls like you. You are very special. I am not usually on my knees asking girls to dance with me."

"Well, thank you," I said, enjoying the ego boost but unwilling to be manipulated. "But I don't really want to dance right now."

He nodded, and got to his feet. I drank my water and tried to listen to Mr. O's story through the club music and his French West African accent. After that, I felt a wave of fatigue. It was time to go home.

As I left the club, Raphael the Bouncer stopped me.

"Did you have a good time?" He asked.

"Yes, thank you."

"You're leaving early."

"I... have to get up early tomorrow morning. But thank you."

"No, thank you. I'm glad you had a good time. My name's Raphael and I'm always working here."

I smiled and turned toward home.