Last week at myNightclub I saw a male-female couple fake fornicating on the dance floor. I mean, on the actual floor. For the sake of gratuitous graphic description, she was on her back with her heels in the air and he was doing the missionary jackhammer. [Oh, please, we all know that you only have to fuck like a jackrabbit if you are hung like one.] I can only guess at the couples’ ages because, aside from a cursory glance, I really don’t pay attention to what is going on around me as I am in myZone. However, I will go so far as to guess that they are mid-to-late twenties. They are definitely well past the age where faking public sex makes any sense at all. Also, recently, there has been an outbreak of young guys — I’d say in their late teens to early 20s — rolling around in what they apparently think passes for amateur break-dancing on the dance floor. Which is really annoying because they take up a lot of room as they stand around in a circle and watch while one of their little clique shows off his mad skillz. [I’m guessing that when they get home they stand around and circle jerk.] Point being, there is a large and mostly-empty stage on which they could perform their adorable little floor-cleaning act.

Have I mentioned that myNightclub is a D.I.V.E.? A popular dive. A fun dive. But, beyond any question, a dive. The ladies room is filthy. Rarely are there more than three working toilets out of the five. Most of the time the toilets are blocked, there is trash and toilet paper all over the floor [that is when there is actually toilet paper available], and the stall locks have been broken since the Ice Age. [Guys: most women have to “sponge dry” as opposed to “shake dry”.] Women apparently are not-so-secret slobs. I avoid using the bathroom there to the extent made humanly possible. I have a bladder the size of a peanut so that is not an easy feat. I will pee fifteen times before leaving the house; squeezing out every droplet that I possibly can. I would [almost] rather wear a portable catheter than use that bathroom. One time, due to my peanut bladder, desperation, and the waiting line, I actually said “fukkit” and used the men’s room. I drafted an innocent bystander to guard the stall door while I was inside — in case some random queer sashayed in and tried to fix my hair while I was helplessly stuck in an awkward straddle hovering above the commode. [Yes, of course I left the seat up!] Amazingly, *their* bathroom was not a scene from the latest B-grade horror flick. Not that it was “clean” exactly — the floor was coated in a 1/4-inch layer of urine.

Now, when you take into account the condition of the bathroom floors, add to that the filth picked up on everybody’s shoes from outdoors, throw in a pinch of spilled drinks and discarded cigarette butts, a soupcon of fresh vomit . . . well, let me put it this way: *I* would not pick-up a hundred dollar bill if it was on the floor at this place. LET ALONE get on the floor and roll around. Not even for pretend sex.

This entry was posted on Monday, March 19th, 2007 at 1:55 pm and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.