A few months old…
“I wanna make love in the club”
Rave night. I’m posted up by the front door and not in my usual spot on stage, thus I’m a bit more “accessible” ahem. One twenty something chick in tight jeans and tank top, is dancing for an hour or so in front of me like the typical lunatic on E whose pulse thumps to that techno whatever the hell club music it is. She’s gyrating, contorting, sweating - ewww…and in between it all, she wants to talk to me, to touch me, to hug me…ewww.
Anyway, I’m standing there, bored to tears, repulsed by the monotonous thump of techno/club music assaulting my ears - no one is kung fu fighting and no one even looks angry! Zzzzzzz. I thought things were starting to look up when she approaches me and asks, “can I take off my shirt?”. LOL. Usually unflappable, I had to actually pause to consider this request for a moment. Could she? Would it violate “club rules” (LOL “club rules” = “jumbo shrimp”).
Well, I do the math and conclude that there was already one chick in there with nothing more than stockings and underwear along with others in various stages of provocative(un)dress. Still performing additional “club algebra” of my exhaulted authority of all those I survey, I conclude she is cute, has a nice figure, carry the two, divide the 3, determine the value of x and like a computer, reply, “sure” - while fighting my inward grin from bubbling to the surface.
What happens next was not part of my algebraic club equation - she removes the tank top only and is dancing in the bra! Okay, I muffed that one.
She had nice perky breasts that would have looked fantastic no doubt as she gyrated and perspirated - I could almost picture the sheen of perspiration glistening over her taught perky bosom, her erect nipples, but it was not to be 
Anyway, she presents with yet another variable not considered in my equation; she has the audacity to ask me to hold her sweaty, funky, dirty tank top. “No”.
So, she’s continuing her deal, dancing, running amok, clad now in jeans and a bra and I soon turn my attentions elsewhere as topless dancing was not to be in my future tonite. But alas, she makes a reappearance in my world a short time later. I’m standing on a chair, high above, watching the undulating bodies and club kids moving about as if on an ADD bender with no Ritalin in site below.
She beckons that I bend over so she can talk to me. I reluctantly bend, perturbed at the interruption, but who knows, maybe she’s going to request that she finally remove her bra too! She asks, “is there anywhere in the club we can go have sex?”. Ding ding ding ding. Correct for $500 is my immediate thought…until I realize by “we” she meant the dude standing back 10 feet. LOL.
Now, in all seriousness, she was sweaty, her breath stunk and I was NOT going to have sex with her, under any circumstances (had a S/O I was very committed to). However, I must admit, out of the wonders of biological programming with its roots to our oldest ancestors who walked ahem, erect, the General downstairs immediately was called to his post and immediately issued orders of readiness, from Defcon 5 to Defcon 4.
The General, now at his command post, declares, “command, we got a bogie at 12:00, pretty face, cute body, possibly under the influence of “hug drugs” - please verify contact”. Soon, probes are dispatched and report back to the General, “contact verified”. The General, alarmed, says in a hurried voice, “get the President on the secured line”.
The President, hearing the report of the General, but knowing his favorite General has a penchant for exaggeration and hyperbole, cooly reads over some additional intelligence reports and, reassessing the situation issues orders to, “stand down. Set Defcon 5. No imminent threat. Cute girl. Nice body. Positive for hug drugs. High risk of contamination. Smells bad. Homeland Security housing much better specimen. Abort abort. Copy. Abort.” And so, the General, being a loyal soldier, stands down.
This has all occurred within 3 seconds, the efficiency of this ancient biological communications system umatched by anything in the modern world. My higher reasoning powers almost instantaneously back “on line”, I give her the “have you lost your fucking mind” look, and retort, “hell no, get a fucking motel room”. And so she retreats, walking away dejected, and judging by her disappointment, she apparently expected a positive reply. E must be a wonderful drug.
I can only liken it to walking into Burger King, summoning the manager, and asking him if there is anywhere in the restaurant I can go have sex. SMFH.