A DuD: The Ass Menagerie (A Two-Act Play)
Act 1: The Rise of Rob (against the Psychology of the Nightclub)
When one thinks of New York nightlife, images of stunning women, high-end venues, and sophistication incarnate come to mind. And it’s true. Navigating the tumultuous NYC nightlife scene for a few years has put me in venues that cater to celebrities, the filthy rich, and most importantly, jaw-dropping women. Such high-end venues are not for the faint of heart (or faint of ego) as they are wildly polarizing: either it’s the best night of your life or you’re left feeling completely violated and ashamed. Fortune seemed to be favoring the former one night last summer as I got my proverbial mack on in such a venue.
I’d landed the sort of girl legends are made of — a girl I’ll brag to my grandchildren about. She was the type of bombshell hotty you’d see plastered in a tasteful smutty magazine. She was blonde with the stunningly beautiful face of a model but had an upgraded, silicone-enhanced body. She was too pretty for Penthouse, yet too sexy for the runway. Adding to her sex appeal were small, cryptic tattoos running up her svelte arms. I’d later learn she was 23, yet had already married and divorced a multimillionaire, leaving her a fortune to invest in every nuance of her hotness.
I was leaning against a cocktail bar when I spotted her. Although, it wasn’t even her I spotted, instead the commotion she inspired. Like a flock of swooning vultures, men flanked her from all angles. Such behavior may be standard fair at a dive bar, but it’s uncommon in New York’s black tie venues. Usually the debonair playboys that frequent these establishments are much more refined, cultured, and potent. But something about this girl provoked chaos—it was just something about her. It wasn’t just that she was hot—it was something deeper and more primal.
It was her raw sex appeal.
Girls who possess that are the goddesses of nightlife. They part velvet ropes, skip lines, and light up the faces of stolid bouncers. While processing the absurd spectacle she was causing, she and I made intense, unflinching eye contact. As an informational aside, confident eye contact is perhaps the greatest pickup line in the male arsenal. Use it.
Holding her gaze, men continued to throw themselves at her (on her?) like spineless wet noodles. Our eyes held one another’s, cutting through the clownery like a laser beam. She walked up to me, put her hand on my chest, and said, “Hi.”
As she said it, yet another grabby man-hand pulled her away. She gave me a look, mouthing, Help! I just shrugged as if to say, What can you do? Naturally, this drew her to me even more precisely because I was acting unpredictable.
When she made her way back to me, she was laughing. “Who’re you?” she giggled.
I ran my tongue over my teeth. “Bobby,” I said, extending my hand slowly. The touch of her skin against mine—even if it was just the palm of her hand—caused everything to stop. Even though techno music wailed, cameras flashed, and the world spun around us, that moment, where we held one another’s hand for the first time, hit me like a firing squad. This wasn’t some Nicholas Sparks starry-eyed lover moment either—this was a jolt of charged sexuality.
“Come,” I said, dragging her to a nearby table.
About Rob J. Rob J. is a writer and dating instructor in New York City. Themes that resonate in both his teaching and writing are masculinity, genuineness, rational self-interest, and general awesomeness.