The
other week I went to that one late-night club that I like, after some time at
my one (half Sudanese) (half British) friend’s (half Sudanese) (half British)
sister’s go-out-for-dinner b-day party, and after one drink at a Mexican
restaurant that was shutting down, in order to kill a bit of time for the club
to fill up.
When I
walked in, my eyes were bowled over by 80s neon colors everywhere, glowing even
more since they were bathed in black light: there was paper chains the kind
like you’d see on an old-fashioned Christmas tree, and a ton of plush hearts
suspended from the ceiling that were artfully bound in industrial twine, and
even a black square covered in a woven pattern of industrial twine.
And, of
2 drag queens who walked in together, one had on a blonde wig that glowed an
unearthly white.
Towards
the end of the night, I was talking with a (mid-20s) (Mexican-American) guy who
was born and grew up in the city, and he was telling me how neither him nor his
friend who he came with have cell phones and they were talking to some girl at the
last club after they went there after they got out of work, and now they were
waiting around to see if she’d show up like she said she would.
Then –
and I’m not sure how we transitioned topics, maybe it was from him pointing out
his (Mexican-American) friend – we started talking about whether overall
Mexicans tend to be hairy.
I have
theories about that – the more Aztec-looking they are, the less they have – but
I didn’t get a chance to offer that up, since the next thing I know the guy is
telling me that he likes rimming and this one (Mexican) girl he dated had the
most perfect round brown ass, and there was like this light black peachfuzz all
over it that you could see when you went down on her, on that particular side.
He also
was saying he likes to get rimmed, but you can’t depend on that too often.
At that
point, he had mentioned a bit earlier that he had a girlfriend, and I mentioned
that I hoped for his sake she did that.
“She
does, but I kind of have to make her,” he was like, "because she's my girlfriend."
“Well,”
I was like, “I hope at least for her sake that you shave your ass and wash up a
bit, for her sake.”
“I try
to clean up,” he was like, “But there’s only so much you can do.”
Then, he
shrugged and was like, “Sex is dirty.”
For a brief moment it seemed like he was just explaining
his inability to clean up by talking about the nature of the body parts
involved, but suddenly a quiet self-satisfied smile flashed across his face and
it seemed like I wasn’t there any more because the phrase or the idea got him
off and took him to another place where he made a woman go down and root around
in the matted shit-clumped hairs of his asshole, and from wherever he was, he
kind of repeated himself again to himself, but just a little louder, “Sex is
dirty.”
At some
time during the night, too, he said he had recently come back to brown girls
and their “sweet brown pussy”, and he was currently dating an Indian
(-American? from India? Native American?).
(Now that
I think of it, maybe it’s best if she was from India, since people who come
from that part of the world are often accustomed to unsanitary conditions.)
And to
think we had that conversation while surrounded by futuristic neon. The broadly-built lesbian coatcheck girl even
had a neon traffic jacket like road crews wear, but that was it, nothing under it, each side of
the vest swinging over to cover a tit.
I
complimented her on it, and she said she’d had it for a while.
That
club really is like another world. Often
times I wake up the next day and wonder how I’m still on the same earth.
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