Fresh Meet.

I'm rather proud of myself. I did something the other night that I didn't think I could do. No, it wasn't as big as climbing a mountain or even learning to swim. Hell it wasn't even something like making the perfect gravy. Actually, I went to a nightclub all by myself. Oooh, big deal, you're thinking. But it kinda is. Let me say this: I'm not a nightclub type person. I really don’t find much pleasure in walking sideways through tightly packed crowds, waiting forever for overpriced drinks, and inhaling the rather obnoxious, and probably carcinogenic, mingling of perfume, cologne, mint gum, sweat, alcohol and hairspray. Not the most attractive olfactory experience, but apparently it’s like spraying pheromones in a monkey cage. Because the only difference between the monkey cages and the nightclub I went to is swollen red asses. At least at the beginning of the night.

But I went because I didn't really feel like spending another Saturday night at home alone. My best friend convinced me that I should take the chance. What did I have to lose, right? So, I got the most "clubby" clothes I could dig up from my closet, I didn't think a bowling shirt, jeans and my Converse All-Stars would work. I bathed in some cologne, and bought a pack of gum. Hey, I figured if I was going to go for it, I might as well do it up. The gum was a nice touch, don't you think?

I went to a place known to be a real pick-up joint, otherwise known as a “meat market.” A place where I would find people of my age group. I honestly had no intentions of ‘getting lucky.’ Oh sure, you're thinking, "Yeah right, Steve-o, you know you wanted to wet the willie." But, really, I wasn't going for that. Just wanted to get out, have a drink, people watch, and wind up with a good story for my blog. Obviously, I got one.

There are two words that describe this place: Holy. Shit.

It was crowded with people aging from 25 to 75. There were people that could have been my kids, and a few people that could have been my grandparents. Humankind in every size, shape, color and financial standing filled the place. There was slicked hair, high hair, mullets, guys in cowboy hats, women with way too much body for the outfits they were wearing, and guys who apparently lost the ability to button their shirts after the first three bottom buttons. I'm not sure how many of these people got through college or could put a sentence together, but one thing was certain, they knew how to check out the opposite sex. I always thought that it was best to be discreet when looking at a woman. I guess the rules of attraction pretty much go out the door, the minute you get your hand stamped at it. There was nothing discreet about this place. I saw guys watching women as if they were 350 pounds and eyeing up a bowl of Rocky Road ice cream. Drooling was not only acceptable, it was expected. The humanity was squished together on the dance floor, moving, sweating, grinding. Cold and flu germs being shared willy-nilly.

I'm not a math person by any means, but apparently the formula is this: The ratio of overbite directly correlates to the lack of dance technique among white men. Also, it seems, the more chest pubes or cleavage showing, the lower the IQ. Another equation is that tighter pants plus tight tops equal more bulges. Especially when the person is a bit over the average age of a cheerleader, but still insists on dyeing their hair the color it was back when they were schtupping the quarterback under the bleachers.

I guess most people were there looking to get lucky. And I don't mean lucky in love. I seriously doubt that anyone hoped to meet the person they would take home to mom for Sunday dinner. I doubt if they even hoped to have them around in time for Sunday brunch. Sloppy, anonymous, stanky and without any regard for personal safety was the theme of the night. And that was just on the dance floor.

I also discovered a unique trend where mostly bleach-blonde caucasian women in tight outfits grind their buttocks into the crotches of large, bald football player types. I saw several incidences of these public displays. I myself, not being from either demographic, was unable to participate in the festivities.

So, my night was like this: I had a couple beers, and watched in awe at the bizarre mix of male and female forms and body language. After a bit, I left the safety of my little corner of the bar and began to circle the dance floor, trying not to look creepy like some of the other wankers hanging around the edge of the floor, looking like pedophiles at a Hannah Montana concert. Suddenly, I was molested. Yes, me, in my faux dance club clothing, I was groped. A red-nailed hand reached out from the crowd and grabbed my chest. Naturally, I offered my butt as an bonus grope. The woman was extremely friendly, and even though she claimed she thought I was someone else, I used the mistake to my advantage. We talked a bit and then began dancing. Well, I was dancing. She was sliding most of herself on my thigh and torso. Then the most bizarre coincidence occurred. Here I was, on the cusp of possibly doing what I swore I didn't go there to do, when this woman's friend came over and asked where their other friend was. She pointed across the floor, and there was a woman I had met online and was supposed to meet for a date the next day. Oh yeah. A woman I was chatting with online and had planned a date with was friends with the woman who was using me as a stripper pole. She and I danced, chatted and realized we probably didn't have the right chemistry for any kind of relationship.

I left, sweaty, alone, and smelling of everything that comes before sex. Even though I knew I would have to burn the shirt I was wearing, I was definitely proud that I did it. I had ventured into the wilds of singledom alone. I had armed myself with the right attitude and made it through the night unscathed, but not untouched by the whole experience. Will I return?

Fucking A-right, I will.