It’s been two days, and my legs still hurt from walking around in those heels and I don’t think this glitter is ever going to entirely wash out, but I Went Clubbing.

Sort of. I mean, I was in a club and clubbing was happening all around me, but I stayed in a corner and tried not to look as though I had been accidentally transported in from Puritan England circa 1575 and was truly wondering what sin I hath committed that would cause my God to cast me unto the fiery pits of this tiki-themed hell.

Shan did tell me I could leave if I was anywhere near as uncomfortable as I looked, but I managed to stick it out for almost an hour. I didn’t dance – I only dance when it is wholly inappropriate to do so – but I did WATCH, and also narrated what I was seeing on Twitter in the style of an old Wild Kingdom broadcast:

• The plumage on display pales in comparison to the intricacies of the mating dance – it is here, in this primitive den, where life begins.
• In the distance, a lone bird cries out and is immediately cross-faded into the throbbing beat of the night.
• A pair of creatures pair off and begin to mate, grinding their organs against the tiki-themed bamboo pillars that festoon the seething pit.
• They’ve multiplied! The cross-faded loon has lured more potential mates to the floor and the game begins anew; strobe lights marking faces and serving to both highlight and disguise the weaker specimens in amongst the prize females dripping with precious jelly.
• Young males, bedecked in traditional “bling”, dance in a circle with one another; perhaps attempting to entice the female with disinterest.

I was both frantic and somewhat saddened to make my escape – the study of humanity at its most hip and/or primitive was fascinating, and in all honesty if I had ear plugs (it was fucking loud) and had my laptop, I would have stayed. Seriously. I really, really wish I could have live blogged what was going on in front of me – there was SO MUCH HAPPENING:

• Couples with curfews pairing off well before midnight and engaging in enough public foreplay that poor Lani Two Skirts had to run away, embarrassed by the not-at-all-discreet groping going on behind her
• The young Jewish gentleman doing a dance I have named The Nixon all by himself in a circle, oblivious to anything or anyone around him
• All. The. Vaginas.
• The $10 drinks people looked honoured to buy
• How very, very, very OLD we all felt

I realized much too late that for all the effort put into looking our sluttiest for the evening, we completely missed the mark. I had tried on every dress in my closet before, with the help of Renee and Heather, deciding on the one that showed a truly obscene amount of cleavage; pairing it with some saucy high heels and ridiculous accessories – but it was all moot: Club Slut is absolutely nothing like Everyday Slut. I am fluent in Everyday Slut – it’s the kind that gets me dirty/shocked/occasionally admiring looks when I walk down the street because my boobs are buoyant and plentiful – but Club Slut requires you to be chastely covered up top, but paired with a skirt that barely skims the mons pubis. This is not something I would ever do – my breasts may be for everyone, but my pubic mound is NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.

I do wish that I was able to relax and enjoy Shan’s stag with the rest, but I was so far out of my element. If I’m ever called upon to Do Clubbing again, I’ll be sure to bring my laptop so I can properly document all that happens around me – all I could think about (other than escaping) was how awesome a blog post it all would have made. Next time! Except I hope there isn’t a next time – I hate clubbing. Seriously.

You know, I never got a stag party. I wonder if I could have one ten years after the fact .. all my ladies like LAN parties, right?