Unwilling to return to the hotel just yet and part ways with Cara at 9pm, I urged her to linger a little longer and suggested we go some place else where my "soulmates" are rampant. By soulmates, I mean "cute outlanders"—among whom might be the one to revive my dead heart in the form of physical attraction. Ah, so loosely do I use the term "soulmate" now, when it wasn't too long ago that I drank the idea of it ravenously like an elixir of life, reserving the word strictly and exclusively for one man alone, because I thought, finally, I had found him. But behold me now, a fig for soulmates!
I could only shake my head at myself in ruefulness. Here I was, longing for other men and craving only a shallow form of affection from them, when at present I had a most wonderful and chivalrous suitor who would give the whole world to me. But the only world that would satisfy me and make me happy was the one that I had lost. And just like that, the ghost of the raw pain that world inflicted upon my soul wrapped its frigid fingers around my throat, as if forcing me to remember exactly how, with calloused feet, that world kicked me from its orbit. Yet how do I still want—so fiercely and ever so desperately—to reside within its borders despite the dent it left on my chest? The coldness of its silence, when I begged and cried for mercy, ripped my heart open so violently that I had to bury it. But in the chaos of grief, despair, and the incessant tears blurring my vision, it seemed I had buried my heart beneath the soil of the very world that once gave it life. For even when dead, he still owns it.
Ah, so melodramatic! Why can I only be painfully like this when sober and not when intoxicated?
Cara had worked that day and brought a large backpack with her for her laptop, which stood as a nuisance to her as we sought to have fun that night. Many an attempt I made to convince her to leave it at the hotel where my sister's family and I were staying, which was just a few minutes' walk from the Korean restaurant, but for some reason—perhaps out of reluctance to face my sister—she resolved the problem by simply not getting rid of it at all. So we walked around the dark and dim streets with the bulky backpack behind her, searching for a club to enter, because believe me you, though I am already in my 20s, I've never been to a club. Ever. And that night, I wanted to dance, get drunk, and exchange playful glances with a cute guy.
Being the more outgoing one between the two of us, I thought Cara would be familiar with that part of the city's nightlife. As it turned out, she wasn't. Even with the help of Google Maps, we had trouble navigating to the closest club the directions on the screen were leading us to. She said the night was still early and that clubs usually open at 10pm. So resolved was I to have fun that night that the thought of going back to the hotel and parting ways with her sank my spirits. She still had to work on the morrow. Still, it wasn't without a glimmer of hope that we slowly walked the murky streets towards my building, looking up at the illuminated bar signs we passed by, when one man asked us if we wanted to apply. At first, we were confused.
"Apply for what?" asked Cara briskly, eyebrows drawn together, already looking thoroughly insulted. But the man didn't say anything and just regarded us, perhaps assessing whether it was a mistake to approach us with such an assumption. Outside the bar were a couple of girls in sexy clothing, as if waiting for customers or men to lure. By this sight, Cara and I officially thought the man meant "as whores," so we scurried away like rats caught nibbling on forbidden food.
He thought us harlots? How dare he?!
We reached another bar, its entrance marked by an illuminated signboard that bore 2D silhouettes of naked, dancing women. Against the front wall, a life-sized outline of a woman's slender back in purple neon light glowed, cut off at the neck and thighs. The feminine curve of her spine and the perky shape of her behind were boldly displayed, fully exposed. Her form reminded me so much of my own, and I stood lingering at the bar's front, my eyes fixated on the signboard—though I no longer recall the name—as if drawn to the place.
Then, out of sheer impulse, I said, "I want to see dancing naked girls."
This came as a surprise to Cara, but somehow, I managed to convince her—with not much effort—to go inside, after explaining that I've always wanted to see strippers perform. Observing with fascination our deliberation to enter the establishment, the bouncer, with an amiable smile, stepped aside and graciously beckoned us towards the doorway. We did, but for a hot moment, we were suddenly gripped with fear and almost immediately retreated the moment we crossed the dark threshold. It was here the bouncer came to our side and led the way, and a split second later, we found ourselves amidst dim, moody lighting that flickered between shades of blue, red, and purple. There was a look of excitement on the bouncer's face that didn't sit right with me as he ushered us in, and he spoke something to Cara that was unintelligible to my ears.
Inside, there was a stage bathed in neon lights, with a pole gleaming in the center, and a dancer moving fluidly, drawing the eyes in a hypnotic sway. The music pulsed—heavy bass thumping through the speakers, a constant rhythm that filled the space and made your body feel the beat even if you were just standing still. The place wasn't packed with customers, but it felt as though the moment we exposed ourselves to this sultry and intimate atmosphere, effervescent with decadence, a hundred eyes turned and laid upon us, as if scrutinising our visit. I feared they could smell our ignorance and virginity in being in such a place, for Cara and I possessed both reluctant and shy dispositions as we absorbed the atmosphere we had just stepped into with bright—though cautious—eager eyes. It also didn't help our discomfort to see that, in the open private lounges beneath the stage, though not in great number, all the customers were men—none of whom, I might add, bore the vessel of my "soulmate." Yeah, yeah, there were cute foreign guys, but they didn't rouse any form of attraction within me.
A female employee motioned for us to make ourselves comfortable at the VIP section nearest to the entrance; her presence, among the few other female workers who weren't dancers, was a relief to us. However, to my disappointment, nobody was naked.
The same employee came back to give us a menu of alcoholic beverages and I didn't know squat about what 98% of them tasted like. Though I enjoy the feeling of being drunk, rarely do I consume alcohol, and I can never tell them apart. The only one that I genuinely liked and that really stuck with me was a mojito with tequila—paired with salt and lime, of course.
"Don't they have juice?" I soliloquised as my tongue had no craving for liquor.
Cara and I went through the list but not without snickering at the section that bore explicit names first. Beverages that had "blowjob" in it or "orgasm" and the likes, they sure spark an intrigue, but I was far too prude to tell a server I want a, say, a Big Black Cocktail. Or a Screaming Orgasm.
Hmm... Fuck, I do want a screaming orgasm from a big black—
Anyway, Cara settled for a piña colada and a glass of long island iced tea pour moi. I've never had either, and upon tasting them, they both exuded an awful flavor to my taste buds. But the more I drank my long island, the less disgusting it became. It eventually appealed to me how nice it would've been to get drunk if it weren't for the limited time Cara and I had that night.
As I watched each girl on the stage move with such sensual grace, I couldn't help thinking how I've always wanted to dance for my boyfriend like that and seduce the hell out of him, but with a comical touch because I don't think I can ever be serious in such a situation. Unfortunately, the men who had the power to bring this side of me broke my heart even before we had the chance to date.
Also, I thought I had a general grasp of the allure and temptation of a female's body from a man's perspective, but sitting there, witnessing a gorgeous woman sway her smooth, delicate form to the seductive rhythm of the music—clad in provocative garments, short enough to arouse passion but just long enough to maintain an air of mystery, her high heels adding to the attraction, all of these elements amidst flickering lights that dimmed and glowed with a spellbinding effect—the whole ambiance took my understanding of the feminine allure to an entirely new level, and I felt myself so entranced and so in awe of the same gender. Or perhaps it was just the effect of the first-time experience..
"I think I might be having a female boner..." I murmured, my eyes glued to the tantalising performance before me.
Cara glanced at me with an amused expression. "Do you think, after being in an environment like this for a while, a guy—like, say, one who works here—would eventually be desensitized to women?"
I furrowed my brow in thought. "I don't think a man, a straight man that is, could ever truly be desensitized to the allure of women. It's like, it's in their nature, you know? To be attracted to the opposite sex."
"Look at that guy over there," Cara nodded toward a male employee in an open booth. "He doesn't look thrilled at all."
"Hmmm..." I hummed in consideration. "I suppose the thrill becomes dormant after prolonged exposure, but take away women for a while, and their primal excitement would most likely return."
Moments later, the dancers, who were lounging on the opposite side of the club, rose from the sofas where they had been seated and, with measured grace, began a deliberate approach toward our side of the room. Then, lining themselves up in a semi-circle in front of the three private booths in our row, right before us, they stood and waited with faces mixing between habitual detachment and occasional smiles. Cara and I exchanged a mutual look of confusion and, with anticipation, shifted in our seats in nervous excitement. Were they going to give us a lap dance or something?
The men next to us, whose recent arrival had passed almost with no heed, appeared to deliberate amongst themselves, their gazes flickering between the women as if deciding whom to select. Were we obliged to choose, too? Because Cara and I already had our picks. Haha.
Turns out it was the men's request to see the ladies for a possible companion, as Cara explained to me, just like the lady behind us sitting tête-à-tête with a man, engaged in what seemed to be a delightful and intimate conversation. However, for some reason—perhaps a change of heart or dissatisfaction—the ladies were relieved from their position, and in turn walked back to their seating area. The men beside us departed thereafter.
For a moment, the brief episode gave Cara and me a thrill we'd never before experienced. The presence of the women standing right in front of us, poised for selection, as though their very purpose hung upon our whim, made us feel as if we were included in a ritual that is typically male-dominated and, thus... superior. The illusion of power to pick anyone we fancied and dismiss the rest awoke the mistress in me I'd always known to reside in the depths of my submissive nature. I only see this stuff on TV, but... to experience it in reality, even if illusory at best, is... exhilarating.
Cara enjoyed it so much that she wished for more customers to come and re-witness the whole thing unfold. Again, it might just be the effect of a novel experience.
"Why is nobody dancing?" Cara complained later on, frowning at the empty stage. I found it rather hilarious how she would get upset whenever a performance was over and whoever was entertaining left the stage with no replacement. "Like, that's what we came here for," she added in good-humored disappointment.
"Let's take over," I prompted in jest, and we laughed, feeling comfortable with the unfamiliarity of the environment at last. "I think the place would be more fun and vibrant if there were more people," I stated, looking around.
"It's a Wednesday night, and an early one at that. More customers usually flow after midnight."
The thought that we had to depart at ten was a bummer.
"Do you think the customers here are allowed to bed the girls?" I asked curiously.
"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe there's a whole different transaction for that."
From the distant sofas, where the entertainers were lounging, I examined the ladies' faces and posture. Most of them were on their phones; occasional conversations would transpire here and there, smiles stretching their lips every now and then, but altogether they looked bored. Was it the lack of customers?
"They don't look happy," I voiced my observation.
"Who would be happy with work like this?" came Cara's rhetorical response.
I think there are women who genuinely enjoy this type of job, but I failed to see one among the faces of the women in the club that night. Maybe except the mademoiselle behind us, the one who got chosen as a companion by one of the customers; a man who looked to be a father of four children and a husband of a poor, unsuspecting wife. Or perhaps he was just a single uncle. With a bright visage stretched in beams of amusement, the girl seemed to be genuinely enjoying her engagement with the man, his arm around her shoulders, talking and laughing with their faces just inches apart. Either her fondness for him was real, or she was just a really good performer.
"What if you worked here like them, and nobody ever chose your company?" Cara inquired.
"That would be perfect. Imagine having to talk to them and pretend to be interested in whatever they have to say. That's exhausting." Between dancing and forced social interaction, I'd always go for the former. Unless, of course, the said customer is a "soulmate." Haha.
"Can you imagine yourself ever working here, though?"
"I don't know," I said. Then I thought about how broke I was. "How much do they get paid?" With the current overall money I lost from gambling, the idea became more and more appealing. "If I were to work here, I'd make sure to wear 20 layers of makeup and make myself as unrecognisable as possible."
Cara chuckled and agreed with me. "But you were right. The lighting here really does make one pretty," she added wistfully, gazing at the beautiful ladies.
"I know right?!" I gushed, again wishing for the lighting to follow me wherever I go.
In a crowd of male-dominated customers, Cara and I were an odd pair. "I bet my arse they're thinking we're considering becoming dancers in this place and just checking the waters first," I surmised, but this speculation soon proved to be true when Cara and I rose to depart, leaving the cocktails three-quarters full. Since she paid for dinner, I took care of the drinks, which were $6 a glass. But before the payment was processed, the lady handling the transaction positioned her phone's back camera right on my face and said, "Picture first."
I was nonplussed before anxiety had time to kick in. "Huh?"
Then she laughed upon seeing the now horrified expression on my face, stepping aside and removing her phone from my sight, saying she was just messing with me.
It suspiciously seemed like she wasn't..
What a joke! And to me of all people, who fears exactly this kind of stuff. As if the creepy guy at the Korean restaurant wasn't enough!
When Cara and I headed for the exit, which was also the entrance whence we came, the bouncer appeared once more and smiled at us invitingly. In a wishful tone, he encouraged us to apply, but Cara and I just laughed it off politely. However, that proved my speculation to be correct, and our assumption about the man from the other bar to be false. Turns out what we thought were "whores" before were actually "dancers."
In a way, their invitation was flattering. It meant we were pretty and attractive enough to captivate an audience.
I stayed with Cara outside 7/11 near my hotel to wait for her ride. When the transport arrived, it suddenly poured so heavily that she had to return to my side, having not brought an umbrella with her. But the weather seemed to toy with her that night; it was comical. The rain would soften into a drizzle, and just as she was about to approach her ride, it would hammer down relentlessly, forcing her to hastily retrace her steps. I could not count how many farewell hugs we had before the rain "officially" mellowed down to a walkable degree without one getting soaked. When she at last stood next to the vehicle that would take her home, I received a message from her saying that the foreign guy from the next table couldn't take his eyes off me.
Internally, I chanted: "Please let this be a soulmate. Please let this be a soulmate."
However, I was met with disappointment when I turned my head to catch a glimpse of the outlander who was apparently so captivated by my presence. Sigh. Why can't a guy I find attractive, whom I am also attracted to, be obsessed with me instead?
Anyway, to end this entry, I had a remarkably splendid evening with Cara. I told her it was the kind of spontaneity I enjoyed and that I would love to go to a club with her again next meeting, but preferably the kind of club where girls actually strip naked this time. I'm not sure if that was a strip club, the one we entered. Perhaps it was and we were just too early for the "fun" to commence. Hence we devised to hang out again the following month during the Christmas holidays, so that time restrictions would no longer hinder our merrymaking. Or better yet, we go to a club where people lose themselves on the dance floor—where I finally meet the eyes of a cute and tall "soulmate", with whom at first I exchange awkward and playful glances from a distance, before the pull of our connection—intensified by intoxication—draws us closer after midnight, and we both eventually find our heated bodies press together: his large, strong, veined hands gripping my small, delicate waist; my tiny palms splayed against his hard, muscled chest.
Fuck. Why do I imagine Sam Winchester holding me in that scenario.. The man is so fucking beautiful, I swear I can't—
And so, on that rainy November night, a plan to look forward to was thus conceived.