We’d already gone out the past two nights in a row. Two different clubs. Not a bit of action either night. I was starting to wonder what the hell was going on. Starting to get tired of going out and “shaking my groove thang” every night for nothing. So when we arrived at Touch, I got my vodka cranberry, and went up to the balcony to survey the dancefloor. Finally wanting and expecting nothing. I stood up there, with the lights flashing down below, and thought vague thoughts about being Batman looking down on a crime-ridden Gotham City below.

My brother stepped away for a second. I didn’t know where he went. It didn’t matter. As soon as he did, this girl pops out of nowhere and grabbed me around the waist. Asking me how old I was. Twenty-four, I told her. She said something about how I looked much younger. It’s the haircut, I indicated, having noticed the same effect earlier in the evening. I told the hairdresser how I wanted it, I elaborated. But she just grabbed the buzzer and went crazy. There was nothing I could do to stop her.

Pretty much immediately, she went in to ask me what I did, and where I lived, and blah blah, all the while, her hands moving around on me. Stained glass, I said. I work for my brother. What do you do? Conversation manager, I thought she said. No, no. Compensation manager. What does that mean, I said? It means bosses call up asking me if they can give raises in their departments, and I say no. I laughed. Why are you laughing? She asked. I don’t know, it’s funny to picture you sitting in your office just answering phones, and telling everybody “No.” Cause there she was, telling me yes in every possible way.

Damn, I don’t even remember all the details anymore. She was that super-aggressive, pretty much full-on crazy girl, that same type that I seem to attract like flies on shit. I was gonna say honey, but shit sounded funnier. Anyway, it had been a while since I’d interacted with a girl like this. With a girl who was all about it, and had seemingly come down from outer space to get it. Ordinarily, I might have been better able to provoke and fight her, which is what girls like that want. But, it took me by surprise, actually. I’d been caught off guard, and she pointed it out. I shifted around awkwardly. I ended up doing a lot of that.

Especially when she was asking me if I had a “dickie,” which I immediately understood to mean condom, having never heard the term before. Nah. Don’t carry em on me. Why not, she said? You’re like ridiculously good-looking. Thanks, I said, embarrassed. She repeated it, only heightening my embarrassment. Maybe that’s why these types of girls like me, is that I can both stand up to them, but also they can push my buttons like that. Anyway, she claimed that if I had had one, she was going to take me downstairs to the bathroom and fuck me in the stall. I just kept saying “Yeah, I don’t know.” Cause she totally had me reeling. Had I been thinking on my feet, I would have said something like, “Well, I know some other places you can come fuck me.” Or something more leading like that. But I pretty much bombed what was a softball lobbed square over home plate.

Plus she kept saying all this stuff about tieing me up, and how good she was in bed. And I was all like, “Oh yeah? That sounds like a lotta fun.” Oh, and I forgot, she kept giving me pointers on how to be “smooth”. It was pretty funny. That’s what she kept saying, that I needed to be “smoother,” and have more “moves.” I didn’t bother trying to explain to her that I didn’t ordinarily make moves on strange girls at clubs. She wouldn’t have wanted to hear that anyway though. She put her mouth on mine a couple times, and leaned in so I would kiss her neck, and let my lips brush up on her ear and stuff.

Shit, there were so many amazing and weird parts of the conversation. I totally forgot a bunch. One of the other things she lead in with, was did I have a problem with aggressive girls, because most guys did? No, no. Of course not, why would I? I love aggressive girls, I explained. Because I’m very laid back myself, so they just make sense to me. And they always have. It was the truth. I didn’t try telling her anything but the truth. Why bother lieing to a stranger, I figured. She launched into a follow-up series of questions, like did I mind if a woman was the primary breadwinner in a family, and what if she made three times as much money as me? And I was, fuck no! Why would I mind? And I’m sure you make way more than three times as much money as me, so don’t worry.

Oh, and she said my hair was too short for an artist, after I told her what kind of work I was doing. How long should an artist’s hair be, I inquired, pointing to my shoulder. No, no, she indicated something around ear length. Too long, I said. Well, if you’re an artist, you should have longer hair, cause that’s sexy. Your short hair now would make more sense if you were in business or something. But, don’t get me wrong, it’s still sexy.

Did you notice my shoes? That was another thing she demanded of me. I actually had. But she didn’t ask me if I liked them, because it was understood that I would like them, because they were nice. She merely asked if I had noticed them. I had. Shoes say a lot about people. They were white, like the rest of her outfit. Some kind of flowery number with a good size heel on them. They really were great shoes. And I knew, having recently dated a girl with excellent taste in shoes. Just the night before, my brother and I had been discussing how important a girl’s shoes were that she wore out to the club. Here was proof.

She lived in Erie, PA. She was here visiting her friend. Erie is a good two hours north of Pittsburgh. We’d driven through it, I explained – on our way to Toronto. She worked for a bank. Which one, I asked. One I’ve heard of? PNC Bank. Oh, I exclaimed. I use National City. We both made faces like this conversation was over. I said I better go, jokingly. Well, I actually don’t even use them myself, she reassured me.

Anyway, at one point we were looking down at the dancefloor together, pointing out different people down there. She said a bunch of stuff about having no problem with bisexuality, and said that I should go down there and hit on these two girls, because she’d like to see that. I told her I wasn’t gonna run around the club trying to impress her. She made a face like she didn’t like that, but she obviously did. At one point also, this hot waitress with basically nothing more than a bikini top came over to fill up our drinks. I didn’t get a refill. Neither did she, but she did try to pick up the waitress. Put her arm on her waist, and said what a great body she had, and a bunch of other stuff. I stopped listening. I don’t think the waitress was sharp enough to realize what this girl was trying to do. Or she just didn’t care. I couldn’t tell. Usually I can tell things like that.

Eventually, she got tired of toying with me, or had to go, or a combination of those. This was shortly after I had failed the condom test. She seemed to get pretty inflamed that I didn’t have one. Seemed to think I owed it to the world or something to carry one around. As though I was expecting to get laid at all times. Maybe I do owe that to the world though. Who knows. In any event, I wasn’t gonna let her scoot off into the night without really kissing me at least once for real. So I grabbed her as she tried to go, and pinned her back up against the rail, and put my tongue in her mouth in a good slow kiss, my hips pressing against her strongly yet softly. It didn’t last long, but it was all there in those few moments of closed eyes, and blocked out background noises.

I let up. She pulled back. This kind of stoned startled look on her face. Damn, aren’t you good at that, she blurted out. I should have had some kind of witty rejoinder like “That’s not all I’m good at,” or something like that. But instead, she responded to her comments herself, saying something about how she was starting to get wet.

And then she walked off. Wanting me to chase after her or something. I’m not one to chase though. Not in a situation like that. Maybe if she was from around here, or if I thought she was gonna actually follow through on any of the million and one dirty things she had threatened to do to me. Maybe. I don’t know. But I just let her walk down the stairs and out with her friend. And that seemed like the right thing to do, there in that moment.

I stood around for a couple more minutes on the balcony, the flashing lights, looking back down at crime-ridden Gotham City below me. Then went downstairs to wash up and join my brother, who’d already left to go across the street to another club.