Club Games
The club was filled with really normal people who thought they were really hip. They weren't hipsters, but they weren't your average 9-5 yuppies either. The partiers were party people all grown up who still party more than they should, but less than they were able to when they were younger. Everyone had been partying all day, a result of San Francisco's celebration of Carnival and the holiday weekend.
The Russian was drunk, sitting with her boyfriend on a long bench that was pushed up against one wall providing an excellent view of the dancers. She was bored of the party feeding its heavy bass into her ears, attempting to stimulate her senses that were already dulled from alcohol and the general sensory overload from the club's atmosphere. Her boyfriend wanted a new form of entertainment, and he wanted her to provide it for him. They began watching the dancers noticing who had rhythm, who did not, who danced in couples and who danced in groups. They both noticed a loose knot of girls, virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd except that their style of dancing was a bit more excessive, a bit louder than the rest.
The Russian and her boyfriend had a brief, inebriated tête-à-tête. They communicated with drunken telepathy, a form of communication that is only possible when normal mental barriers are broken down by alcohol in the blood. She rose, slowly, making sure of her footing, waiting a moment until the room righted itself in her eyes.
The girl with pink hair was dancing, absorbed in the club in that way only those who are familiar with that sort of atmosphere can be. She was also taking in the energy of those around her, feeling the music and keeping an eye out for someone who would draw her in--or who she could draw towards the electric beacon of her hair and absorb into the magnetic field of her dance.
It only took a moment for the Russian to adhere to the beat of the other girl's dance. Once she approached the candy flame-headed dancer, she was hooked. She knew what she was asking for just as much as her boyfriend, who watched from the bench, a spectator in the raucous sport of clubbing. Neither of them seemed to mind being observed, like a pair of strange birds from the sidelines.
After a few moments, they found themselves on the bench. The Russian had no idea what she was getting herself into, because she was drunk, and because she hadn't really anticipated that she would be drawn to someone who would want to take a step closer to her than the dance could offer. The girl with the colored hair leaned in to her ear and whispered something inaudible. It was the act, not the words, that counted. From there, her lips migrated toward the neck and the words became kisses. For a moment, they were lost in the sound, and the proximity of each other's skin, and the alcohol rising from each other's breath. But the moment faded and allowed thought to occur. The Russian's boyfriend was still watching the game. And she hadn't expected this much to occur within a span of five minutes.
"I have to go," she said, and rose from the bench, heading for some temporary sanctuary.
The Russian was drunk, sitting with her boyfriend on a long bench that was pushed up against one wall providing an excellent view of the dancers. She was bored of the party feeding its heavy bass into her ears, attempting to stimulate her senses that were already dulled from alcohol and the general sensory overload from the club's atmosphere. Her boyfriend wanted a new form of entertainment, and he wanted her to provide it for him. They began watching the dancers noticing who had rhythm, who did not, who danced in couples and who danced in groups. They both noticed a loose knot of girls, virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd except that their style of dancing was a bit more excessive, a bit louder than the rest.
The Russian and her boyfriend had a brief, inebriated tête-à-tête. They communicated with drunken telepathy, a form of communication that is only possible when normal mental barriers are broken down by alcohol in the blood. She rose, slowly, making sure of her footing, waiting a moment until the room righted itself in her eyes.
The girl with pink hair was dancing, absorbed in the club in that way only those who are familiar with that sort of atmosphere can be. She was also taking in the energy of those around her, feeling the music and keeping an eye out for someone who would draw her in--or who she could draw towards the electric beacon of her hair and absorb into the magnetic field of her dance.
It only took a moment for the Russian to adhere to the beat of the other girl's dance. Once she approached the candy flame-headed dancer, she was hooked. She knew what she was asking for just as much as her boyfriend, who watched from the bench, a spectator in the raucous sport of clubbing. Neither of them seemed to mind being observed, like a pair of strange birds from the sidelines.
After a few moments, they found themselves on the bench. The Russian had no idea what she was getting herself into, because she was drunk, and because she hadn't really anticipated that she would be drawn to someone who would want to take a step closer to her than the dance could offer. The girl with the colored hair leaned in to her ear and whispered something inaudible. It was the act, not the words, that counted. From there, her lips migrated toward the neck and the words became kisses. For a moment, they were lost in the sound, and the proximity of each other's skin, and the alcohol rising from each other's breath. But the moment faded and allowed thought to occur. The Russian's boyfriend was still watching the game. And she hadn't expected this much to occur within a span of five minutes.
"I have to go," she said, and rose from the bench, heading for some temporary sanctuary.
posted by sf blog at 9:21 AM
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