Nightlife

I want to praise the bar staff. Specifically, the waitress; her tight shorts that round up the buttocks, curving in tight against her protruding behind. Her wavy hair hangs down one side over her ear and down to her breast, glossy and shiny. She bends for customers -- a slight bend and twist of the knees.

There’s also the firm, fiery young woman, with the zeal and authority of an office career woman, well-aware of her poise and sexual dominance. She dominates the other service girls with her slender figure, towering on six-inch heels. She has an air of authority, oozing sex. She knows it. Speaking through thick-caked red gloss lipstick, she goes to whisper -- though from a distance -- bringing her cupped hand up close to her mouth.

“You might want to move table. The roof is leaking here.”

I understood after the second seductive utterance -- she spoke as if saying, “Hey boy, let’s go back to my room.”

We were cheapskates in the lively, young and yuppie establishment. Rich and decadent men and women were buying whiskey and mixers, all classy with a touch of s**t; dressed up for the fancy dress of nighttime partying with friends -- all quite doll-like decorum.

The bass player, handsome and knowing it, with his smartly pressed clothes -- shirt, sunglasses, creased front line on trousers --bounces energetically, funking it up. He probably has to keep his arrogance in check to get the girls. There’s a thin line between bouncy dance confidence and arrogance. He’s cool. 

The rest of the band play on. There is an essential tender piece of womanhood, in a close fitting white crystal dress, which leaves little room for error -- the breasts held in. The hem of the dress covers the imagined heaven. Fragile, she sings delicately -- smoothly -- but as if wanting some energy to come and meet with hers. 

The fat, curly-haired camp guy up front, playing the generic camp -- not necessarily gay -- stereotype, twirls and prances in fancy jazz hat, from under which cheeks and curly hair protrude. He loves the attention.

“Who doesn’t?” asks my wife.

I sit with her and her lesbian friend. We tell the towering authoritative model woman, with the stern face and candy lips that if she could tell us when another table becomes available we’ll move. We don’t know if it’s the rain or the fact that we’ve only ordered two tonic waters and an orange juice which has led to her suggestion. Either way, my tough female companions don’t care.

The animal longing and show will go on long after we’ve gone home. But we stay a while to watch.

Across the bar floor and looking up there is a veranda, behind which are three differently styled imitation rooms. The facing side of each room is open, enabling a view of the band and the guys and gals below. To get up to this VIP area one must climb up twisting iron steps. I see a group make their way up, even struggle on those steps, in skirt and high heels; in old skin and pores -- the older gent, mid-forties, is not a sportsman. They look around and delay taking seats.

The service girls readily follow, quick to take orders and bend and listen, and make suggestions. Like the thorough and conscientious personnel that they are; the beautifully dressed dolls briskly go down for the orders.

A few minutes later the older gent gets up and looks at the wine rack in the adjoining musky room -- a whole wall of wines. He ponders, happily in his playful role of wine connoisseur. Smiling at the shelf, he is acknowledging the act he’s in. Playing the part he takes a bottle. Handles it. Fondles it. Turns it around in his hand. First finding the front label, and then as if it can add something, turning it gently, caressing the paper with his thumb and looking at the back. No doubt it tells him 'peachy with a hint of aged oak... aged and matured for your pleasure.' He feels good in himself. Good in his sense of refinement and antiquity, hinted at in the label and the wine rack, and woodenware -- table, chair,  and smell, permeated with whiskey and wine and beer molecules, and the background almost subconscious sense of femininity which he sniffs out.

He looks back to his table of friends. “This one?” He gestures with his holding of the bottle, a slight raise, a quizzical look at the bottle, and then at them, then back at the bottle. There is not much response from them. He takes that as a ‘no.’ To reassert his integrity and independent decision making skills he gently puts the bottle back in its alcove. He picks up another. Ponders. Goes to fondle a third, after a scouring of the eyes over the multitude. Finally, he decides on the second. He joyfully goes back to the group with his trophy. Proud chap. Good work sir.

I imagine him later in the night, and if not him another, happy in drunken spirits, trying to climb back down those iron steps. The joys of inebriated ineptitude. Pain is nothing. Buffoonery is king. And beyond this, friendship -- the gentle caring of friends helping a drunk man or woman down “the iron steps.” This is why drunkenness is so good for bonding. When else do you get to carry someone? Really put their arm over your shoulder. Hold it in tight at the wrist with your left hand. Right arm around their waist. Perhaps a bit higher. Up close to the rib cage; not wanting to touch too tenderly the tender waist flesh. 

There are a multitude of considerations when determining where to put the right hand but most of this happens in a drunken instant. You just know where to put it. Hungry for touch, one might want one’s hand up close to their breast, fingers spreading over the ribs. They might, in fact, want your fingers in close to their navel, creating the electric surge of passion from the centre of the body up, and down. Should one be cautious, or risk it all? You may never touch your work colleague like that again. They may never want you too. It's possible, however, that they have been aching for it. They will remember the contact for years to come. 

Reviews

[LKBillips]

A stream of thoughts good and bad that are utterly truthful in their progression and interpretation. Really found this piece interesting. Good job~

[Joshua Knight]

Thank you. It's good to know that you found it interesting :)