Last week, I decided this past Friday night would begin the week long celebration of my 32nd birthday. It started off fantastic. By the wee hours of the morning on Saturday, I was in a much more pensive mood. I’m beginning to think that each anniversary of my time spent on earth is meant to be a period of reflection amidst the sordid revelry. Let me explain.We had every intention of going salsa dancing at Sanctuary with some other happy couples but they ended up flaking. So, we decided to call up a newly single friend of ours for tapas at Loca Luna and dancing at MJQ. As we sipped mango mojitos and dined on plantains at Loca Luna, it seemed the theme of the night was matured sexuality. What is the protocol for re-entering the dating-with-a-purpose scene once one is past a certain age? What are the expectations? How does one plug into their inner sex appeal? What is flirtation? What games are no longer worth playing? I think every unmarried thirty-something is trying to figure this out as they determine what comes next.
We rode over to MJQ at about 11:00pm to find a pretty vacant party scene. After paying the $5.00 cover, we decided to stay put. Things normally picked up pretty quickly and we were enjoying the renovations. Much to our surprise, MJQ had updated the underground walls with colorful, spray painted murals. The men’s and women’s bathroom were now distinguishable from the outside! Upon entering the women’s bathroom, I found they’d expanded it to four fully operational stalls and painted the interior a soft rose hue. They’d also managed to hang a mirror which actually had a clear reflection. Way to go, MJQ! Additionally, they now had a coat check service. That’s about where my delight ended.We’d apparently come to the wrong party. That night, a worthy crowd didn’t gather until about 12:30. In that hour and a half we were an audience to the usual nightclub peculiarities. Folks like to line the room drinking their courage while a few rhythmically challenged creatures of the night can not help but to hop around haplessly on the dance floor. That evening, it was a young college girl who looked like she had a fire burning in her belly. I wasn’t mad at her. Ten years ago, I was that girl. Then there were the drunk chicks who were on a mission to be screwed. They’re always easy to spot. They tend to be a little bit dressier and a lot more drunk than the rest of the ladies. They part their legs wide to dance in really, really short skirts. Come to think of it, they don’t actually dance. They writhe. And they’ll do so with the first guy bold enough to buy of whatever they're selling. In the middle of watching one of these girls bent over backwards on the dance floor, I started coughing uncontrollably. Can you believe that? After six years of living in the smoking free-for-all that is Las Vegas, the cigarette smoke was actually bothering me.
I drank some water and started to focus on the music. The DJ left much to be desired. For an hour or so, he played some West Coast and East Coast favorites a la Tupac, Jay-Z and Biggie Smalls but it was nothing to turn flips over. After the nostalgia wore off, I found myself terribly bored by the ridiculously slow beats. Has hip-hop always been so slow or have I just been that much more into House lately? I waited patiently for some reggae or some Floridian booty-shaking music to be mixed in but it didn’t happen. Instead, I looked out over a scene of young drunks in a seemingly perpetual state of sex simulation. Again, I tried to focus on the song lyrics. I then came to the conclusion that I no longer wish to hear about any penis for which I do not have an exclusive interest. Additionally, I realized that some Hip Hop songs are just not meant to be listened to in a club setting. For instance, Renee by Lost Boyz is depressing. Why the hell would I want to do the Cabbage Patch to that?
My boyfriend realized a change had come over me. Inside, I’d actually begun to write in my head. Outside, I was experiencing a contact high. Since when did every third person in a nightclub find it necessary to smoke a blunt right on the dance floor? Had it always been this way? Yes indeed, I was high as hell. It was time to go. The first thing I uttered as I breathed non-Chronic air was, “I’m getting old.” I don’t know what I was more dismayed by. Was it the music? Was it the involuntary smoke out? No. I think it was the dancing or lack thereof. Don’t get me wrong. I’m as big a fan of lewd and lascivious behavior as anyone else. But, I’ve come to believe that sexuality should be more than a walking, talking commercial for doggy-style. Sensuality is so much better when it is understated. A glance of the eye. A fire in the gait. The movement of a bare shoulder. Thoughtfully applied scented oil. Clever, never obvious, innuendo. And while a sinfully, lustful sexual encounter can have its pleasures, it is so much better to have the ability to make real love all day with someone deserving of one’s time. You hear me? These days, true romance to me is falling into a drool-inducing slumber after eating spicy pepper soup and then awakening to find that my lover has placed the leftovers in Tupperware. That kind of flirtation will have me hanging naked from a chandelier with an electric hand mixer in one hand and raspberry flavored massage oil in the other. (Please direct all inquiries to outpast30lady@gmail.com. I’m not even going to begin to explain that trick in this blog.)Anyhow, maturity is having its way with me.
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