True Stories from the Discotheque

Picture it. NYC. The year is 2000. Fresh off the Y2K hysteria that turned out to be a lot of anticlimactic hullabaloo, the party scene is in full swing once again. Not that it ever truly went anywhere, but those of you who say you didn't stock up on those canned goods and bottled water might be stretching the truth just a tad. And those of you who weren't secretly hoping the New Millennium would all but wipe out that sorry-ass credit score are just flat out lying...

Anyway, I hit the club with my brother-from-another, Staybent. The drinks were flowing. The music was blaring; and everyone was still partying like it was 1999. For some reason, I can remember Black Rob's Whoa playing repeatedly throughout the night. After 2.5 hours, it was starting to get on my nerves. So much so, that I was determined to find my wingman and get out of there as soon as I found the little girls' room. Navigating through that murky sea of drunk folk however, proved no small feat.

As I was making my way through the crowd I felt a firm grasp on my elbow. I follow the hand to see who is attached to it. It was some dude I used to work with back in my flower slingin' days. Sidebar: I once got a crank caller in the wee hours of the overnight shift. After my standard greeting, 'Thank you for calling 1-800-Flowers. How may I assist you?' a sleazy voice asks if I know the difference between an 800 number and a 900 number. Before I could hang up he barks into my headset- "It means I get to fuck you for free! Hahahaha." Click. One of the more memorable cranks, I must admit.

So, this dude holding my arm starts to go on and on about how he always wanted to talk to me at work but couldn't work up the nerve, blah,blah,blah. By now he is leaning in and completely invading my personal space. This must be fate, blah,blah,blah. Let me call you, please. Ad nauseam.
I employ every line in the book to deflect his advances. He then resorts to scrawling his number onto a napkin. He folds it into my palm with a salacious grin and whispers, "Just take it. You never know when it will come in handy." I wave him off, my quest to get home undeterred. I felt like Dorothy, only three clicks of my Eff-me pumps got me nowhere. I tried.

I locate the Ladies Room and after four very tall Belvedere and Crans, I rush into the stall to handle my ladylike business. My relief is quickly replaced with despair when I find that there is NO toilet paper in sight and I'm alone in the bathroom. Great. What to do... Then I remember the napkin in my clutch purse. Ever so carefully and ink-side down of course- I do what needs to be done and hot-step it out of there. Oh, the irony of his words. I never saw him again but to this day- I wonder if he'll ever know just how close he got to the good stuff.

Now dat's Whoa!


Photo courtesy Corbis