Adventures of a Pseudo Socialite

          I walk into the club stone-cold sober, which I've since learned is never the correct way to walk into a club. As always I feel completely underdressed in my black tights, blue wrap around dress and scuffed black heels.  I can feel the heavy beat of Daft Punk thrumming through my body before I even reach the disco room and it's about at this point that the distinctive feeling of social anxiety begins to creep over me, like an egg has been cracked over my head and the yolk is slowly dripping down over my hair to cover the rest of me. I've already lost the group that I'd come with in the two minutes since we'd gotten through the que (which is almost a certainty in any club so full of lonely but pretentious university students), so I immediately make my way to one of the two places which are appropriate for lonely girls in a club - the bar (the other happens to be the toilets, just so you know). I order a double Jack and coke, or what my friend and I refer to as "the writer's drink" since we're the only two girls we know who have such an affinity for whiskey that we sometimes say that Jack Daniels is the central male figure in either of our lives, the only man we've ever been in a serious relationship with. This joke sometimes makes me feel uncomfortable, as it is currently more of a reality than a joke.
         So, the second I down the JD and coke I feel a rather friendly tap on my shoulder and instantly I turned to find a pair of men smiling at me. Thinking that they must be two of the guys I had been chatting with in the queue, I immediately jump into familiar conversation, only to receive no definite response from either of my gentleman callers - simply vacant smiles.
         "Wasn't I talking to you earlier?"
         "No," says the one closest to me, who has a sort of puppy-dog-looking-for-approval grimace on his face, obviously trying to hide the fact that he's absolutely every bit as socially handicapped in these sort of situations as I am, only perhaps less so, since he'd been the one to approach me. Scratch one point up for the awkward man, still zip for the American.
         "Sorry." And my brain interrupts with the thought Why should you apologize? "Well...hi then. I'm Kate."
         I love the timbre of my voice in awkward situations, particularly when my embarrassment begins to numb with the intake of alcohol, the most useful of all social lubricants. This puppy-dog, a ginger haired guy at least four inches shorter than I am in my heels, introduces himself as Owen and his friend, who looks to be more interesting, says he's called Jake.
         And immediately the not-so-cute one chats me up while his adorable friend (who seems rather perfect and is studying graphic design) stands guard.
         "Has anyone ever told you..."
         These five little words are the first red flag that a conversation is totally false, not to mention that it's going to be pretty boring for you if you're not in to some random telling you lies about the way you look or the way you move or the way you do anything or everything or whatever.
         "...that you look like..."
         Oh Christ. What if he says someone terrible, what am I going to do? What if he says someone wonderful but it's obvious that it's a total ploy, what do I say?
         And then I think about how funny it would be if he said Jada Pinkett Smith. And then I accidentally laugh out loud with one of those sort of embarrassing, really obvious bursts of frivolous giggles that sound more like a dog bark than any kind of real laughter - and this stops him dead in his conversation. He gives his friend the 'save me' glance, which his friend, unfortunately for me, ignores. He then continues with his droll 'let me tell you a little bit about myself' chat, which is obvious and rehearsed, as if he has a CD of set dialogue that he's repeated to every single prospect he's had in a club since the day he turned eighteen. I hear about the country club that his parents attend and that he used to work at, his position at his office which is, apparently, "very high ranking" for someone that's his age, I hear about his new car. And then, "would you like a drink?"
         And that's how they get you, because no matter how much I've been bored by his incessant chatter, yes, I would very much like a drink.
         "Sure, a whiskey and coke, please."
         He nods and says something to the effect of, "Ok, I think I have enough here" as he begins to dig in his pocket for change. And this is the point in our ten minute relationship where I show my true colors, where I pull the classic bit of attempting to embarrass the hell out of every man who shows me any type of attention. Whether it's for my own amusement or because of some deep inner conflict stemming from a youth full of heartbreak and a desire to never feel anything resembling romantic feelings for any ordinary man again, I'll never know.
         "Oh, you think you have enough change? Well, that's good. I mean, what else are you working that job for if not to buy ladies at clubs drinks so you can get away with cheap flattery all night?"
         But instead of looking like I've smacked him in the face like they usually do, he seems to, for some strange reason, enjoy this verbal abuse. Luckily, at this time, my friends reappear and pull me away from the situation. I have just enough time to tip my newly purchased drink in his direction and say a quick "thank you" before I'm whisked away to another dance floor. My club friends may have few other uses besides gyrating around the flashing squares of the disco floor and drinking overly-sweet alcopops, but their timing always seems to be impeccable.

         For the next two hours the agenda seems to be set and repeating - drink, disco dance, almost fall down, drink, disco dance, actually fall down, repeat repeat repeat. So by 1:00 AM I'm really quite drunk, which for me is synonymous with stubborn.
         Me: "I'm going in to the budoir."
         Random Club Friend #1:"No, you're not. You're staying with the group."
         Me: "But my poet is in there."
         Random Club Friend #1: "Who are you talking about?"
         Me: "He likes e.e. Cummings.  And Bob Dylan. And me. And he's in there."
         At this point, like always, I pretty much just run away so I can get my way, much like a six year old in a toy store might.

         The Parisian Boudoir is more in the style of a Turkish bath than anything even remotely Parisian, with thick pink and black velvet on the walls and countless pictures of exotic, naked women. The thick shag carpet always seems to be damp and sticky with spilled alcohol. It would be an appropriate place for a hookah bar and I always expect the air to be heavy with rose-scented smoke when I walk in, but to my great and recurring disappointment it never is. The overstuffed couches are always completely packed, generally with groups of girls who were obviously all attempting to out-dress each other for their night out, as well as the occasional awkward group of younger guys who've not yet mastered the art of simply walking up to a desperate girl and getting her to hang on your arm all night. There are also a rather large number of couches that are full of men and women snuggling, kissing, and drunkenly fumbling over the confusing tangle of straps which keep the balance between half-nakedness and complete nakedness. I choose a dark corner, perfect for my apathetic mindset and only enhancing my creepy vampire vibe, which I can't do much about because of my naturally pale skin and the wide-eyed, vacant look I seem to get every time I drink a bit too much.
         My poet is sitting in the corner opposite me, looking not exactly like I remembered him from the last time I'd met him and been kissed by him a little too easily, but still looking handsome enough with his shaggy, golden-brown hair and exceptionally vibrant blue eyes. He's not at all my typical hookup, but the week previous I'd danced with him and he'd broken my ice queen routine by naming a fair amount of bands that I myself, a pretentious audiophile, had found to be quite impressive. Then he'd pulled the writer card - and when I asked him what sort of writing he did, of course he responded with "...poetry". We talked for the rest of the night, with some light discussion of T.S. Eliot and some heavy discussion about when we could get together for drinks next and how, if I liked coffee then we might be able to get together for a black coffee and a film. However, no matter how drunk I am, when it comes to approaching someone that I'm actually attracted to, I turn in to quite a mouse - a romantic mouse deeply disturbed by unrequited love, but a mouse nonetheless.
         Maybe if I just take a little promenade around the room and strut by his table he'll come after to me.
And so I do. Once. Twice. But he's genuinely not seeing me, instead involved in some passionate and intoxicated discussion with the man beside him who looks like he can barely keep his eyes open for all of the alcohol he's consumed. On the third  trip by the table I look rather pointedly at him and give him a sassy smile, the most I can muster up even under my current conditions. He finally looks at me, and I feel absolutely desperate for having been as shameless as to just wander around until I'm noticed by someone that I don't even find all that extraordinarily attractive to begin with, but at least he acknowledges me and begins to rise from the table in greeting - and then comes Theo.
         He bursts through the doors of the Parisian Boudoir from the disco that I'd been in previously, and someone more appropriately dressed for a 70s disco I've never seen in my life. Not only is he wearing a pointed-collar shirt and a vest, but he also has John Travolta boots on and thick-rimmed glasses. His hair is wild from dancing, a mess of chocolate curls. But it's the thick sideburns that get me. Generally I believe that sideburns should always be rethought, but Theo is already living so perfectly and contentedly in the past that the sideburns seem to be like the icing on the cake. For some odd reason I find his ridiculousness incredibly attractive. His  greeting isn't even smooth, but he's vibrant and unique in his total and utter social informality, and I love it. I'd had a glance at him earlier in the night and thought that he was rather good looking - silly, but even more attractive for it. He must have noticed me earlier in the night as well, because as soon as he bursts through the doors he points at me - like it's some sort of blocking in a movie script where the lighting is just right and it's a long awaited rendezvous - and all it takes is a very unsure but bemused smile from me to peak his confidence. He swaggers over to me. 
         "Theo."
         "Dean?"
         "No, Theo."
         "Leo! I love the name Leo."
         "No, no, Theo!"
         But it's loud in the club and I can't hear him, so I put my right hand on his left cheek and bring his mouth closer to my ear. Then I hear him right and I feel like a dick, which strangely gives me a boost of confidence to be even more forward and flirtatious than I normally am - probably because I feel like I've started out the conversation by ruining it, and that I'd better pull some tricks out to save it from totally crashing and burning. I slide my hand down to the back of his neck and pull him slightly closer as I say the most ridiculous thing that seems to be pretty smooth at the time.
         "Oh, well, Theo is a good name too. I'm Katie."
         "Do you want to dance?"
         I can't tell what he's saying but I get the gist and follow him out of the Parisian room and into the disco.

         He is possibly the worst dancer I've ever had the pleasure of discoing with. His moves are mostly hand motions and every so often he throws in a knee pop - and the only real physical contact we have while dancing (which I was under the impression was supposed to be some sort of expression of sexual creativity and prowess) is through the palms of our hands while we sort of do a half-assed version of Chubby Checker's 'the twist'. It is completely platonic and not in the least bit sensual. And it's wonderful.
         We get another drink - Stellas - not too impressive but by now I'm barely tasting what I'm drinking. We lean against the wall, each trying to out-cool the other, wordlessly communicating that we're completely at home in the club setting, not to mention talking to strangers. By this point we're giving each other affectionate little touches - shy at first, testing the waters to see just how open the other is to more. This is always the fear. Is he actually interested or is he just being friendly? I usually think that I'm spot-on when figuring out if a man is attracted to me - but my greatest social shortcoming is that I over-analyze every situation, every segment of an encounter. But now I'm drunk and he's drunk, and I'm silly and he's even sillier and so I really don't care about anything much past flirting. When Theo leans in closer to me against the wall, I pull him in until my hips are brushing against his. My back arches as he slings his hands gently around my waist. He looks at me, his mouth moving into a lazy smile and he leans closer to my face while I mirror his smile with a cat-in-the-cream grin of my own. I can smell beer on his breath and the bold scent of patchouli radiating off of his warm skin, permeating the air around us. Then my phone vibrates. I interrupt our moment to check my texts - a sure sign that, on a subconscious level, I don't really give that much of a damn.

         Kiss Theo! - Dan

         Oh fuck! Dan is my poet. "You know Dan?" The space between us is suddenly multiplied by 1000. We part immediately as if we're two negative ends of a magnet.
         "Oh, yeah."
         "Well, he's just texted me."
         "Oh...What did he say?"
         "That I should kiss you."
         "Oh..."
         And the lazy smile is back again. His eyes narrow slightly, like a happy dog having it's ears scratched. Immediately I'm pulled in again by the gentleness of the expression, the comedic sweetness. This time, I lean in. My phone rumbles again.

         Kiss Theo! He's lovely. - Dan

         I'm away from Theo like a shot again, now turning my head and nervously looking around the dance floor like a rabbit looks around the garden when the cat is out. It's like that thriller movie where I know I'm being watched but can't figure out where that deceitful pair of eyes is positioned in the room. All I see is the flashing lights of the dance floor and anonymous faces, dresses, and drink glasses all illuminated by the multi-colored lights. Theo and I grab one last drink and leave together.
         "How do you know Dan?" I ask some time later, after a bit of meaningless chatter in which I compliment my own legs and he pretends that he wants to someday visit the Midwest and live in the United States. We're walking down the alleyway next to the train station. The alley is completely deserted but for the two of us and thousands of shards of glass scattered throughout the harmless-looking gravel road. I stop to change from my open-toed heels to my moccasins as Theo explains to me in a halting, unsure sort of way.
         "Well, he's my flatmate actually. But he didn't tell me anything about you, obviously. I mean, about you and him, he didn't tell me anything." But obviously he has, because I've yet to mention anything to Theo either.
         "Right, ok." I answer, indulging his lie.
         "Look..." He says, as I stand up from tying my shoes and he grabs my hands before I have time to shove them into my pockets to fend off the cold. "Do you have a boyfriend?"
         "No," I answer. "Would I be letting you walk me home if I did?"
         But I can't help thinking Maybe I'll have a boyfriend soon, though. An awkward, fumbling, adorable twenty-four-year-old-nearly-doctor-of-chemistry boyfriend. These are almost all of the facts that I know about Theo all rolled up into one description with 'boyfriend' tacked on the end. It's easier to pretend to fall in love with someone when you know as little about them as possible and can fill in the gaps with all of the made-up information that you want to. I sort of gaze longingly at him for awhile, pretending to be smitten. He gazes back.
         "I've got to have a wee." He says finally.
         Charming. Theo jumps a gate with some very dangerous-looking points on the top, behind which he knows there's an unlocked building with a bathroom inside. I lean against the gate and wait, looking at the hand that he kissed before he left, while asking if I would be ok in his absence, and if I would please, please wait for him. Time seems to pass by unnervingly quickly when I'm buzzing, and Theo is back in a flash before I've even had a chance to evaluate exactly what I'm feeling, which I have a strong idea is absolutely nothing at all but it would be nice to be sure.
         As Theo legs it over the top of the gate, he loses his footing on the second railing form the top and goes head over heels, falling forward. I stupidly stretch out my arms as if I have any chance of catching a fully-grown man falling form a height which is double my own - not to mention that neither of our motor skills are up to par after the Jacks and Stellas and near-kisses. Luckily, miraculously, his jeans somehow become caught on one of the university-student-impaling implements on top of the fence and he stops mid-fall with a harsh bounce, like a bungee jumper only not nearly as graceful. His mouth is half-open, frozen in an unsung scream of surprise, which quickly shifts into a horrified look of complete embarrassment as he realized that as his jeans snagged they were nearly completely pulled off, now closer to his ankles than his waist.
         Theo hangs upside down from the fence, his underwear barely covering him, just clinging enough to keep his honor intact. We stare at one another wide-eyed - me right side up and him upside down - both wondering what to do. I'm embarrassed for him, which means that he's certainly near bursting with shame. He's looking at me desperately, like I should know what to do in this situation - like it must happen to guys that I'm with all the time and I should just be able to rattle off the correct procedure in the common case of a hanging-upside-down-off-a-gate-by-the-pants incident.
         "I wish I had even one suggestion for you." I say evenly.
         "Well, fucks sake! Help me!" He's panicked now and I' m doing my best to keep my laughter in. This is difficult. My giggles are fighting to escape me, like carbonation leaving a pop bottle when it's first opened. This only adds to his embarrassment and rage, and a look of utter exasperation fits itself so firmly over his face that he looks like a stone gargoyle.
         "What am I supposed to do? Wiggle my fingers and magic you down from there?" Now I'm upset that he's upset that I'm giggling.
         "Christ! Do something!"
         I wander just a few steps away from Theo. The sounds of post-club frivolity come down the street on the opposite side. The first group that passes is completely formed of young girls, obviously just of-age for going out. They all have cheaply-made dresses on, the thin material not strong enough to withstand any sort of tear or snag - by now many of them look more like they're dressed in rags than dresses. They're bare-footed except for their stockings and they all carry equally sky-high heels, except for one girl in the back of the group who's carrying only one heel. These girls are not it. I wait.
         The next group of passers-by are a couple, the man practically dragging the overly drunken woman who's turned into some type of rag doll, her head completely limp to her chest. Her short skirt reveals far too much of her thighs through her ripped tights and her hair, which is pulled back into a low bun, looks scraggly. The bits that hang around her face look damp - I wonder if she's been sick on herself. She staggers along like a zombie in a low-budget thriller while the guy, who looks like a Middle-American jock (though I'm fairly sure he's not), supports her as much as he can, all the while looking not at all annoyed by the situation. I can only guess what his repayment will be.
         You should be real proud of yourself, buddy. Not it.
         Theo has now been hanging upside down by his underpants, ass out to the cold night air for approximately eight minutes now. Every so often I can sense him struggling behind me on the fence, like a comical victim of a crucifixion gone wrong. He's yet to free himself from his position, try as he might. Then, walking up the opposite side of the street comes a group of men, obviously drunken but still functional. They sing loud and rather bawdy drinking songs and I can clearly see them all dressed in their rugby finery, blood-red jerseys.
         "Look Theo! Here comes some help!" I say optimistically as I begin waving my hand in the air half beauty queen, half hailing a cab. Theo reaches his arm out from his position on the fence, attempting to knock my hand down out of the air, his eyes big as saucers.
         "Are you kidding!? No!" He hisses at me.
         "But why not? They look strong and..."
         "No! No! I'd rather get down myself." He pleads as I continue waving my hand and he continues to struggle from his dangling position, still attempting to stop my beckoning - though, as he soon sees, this only brings more attention to our predicament. I can't hear what the men say as they notice us but I can see their hands move up with a sort of domino effect, first one then the others. I can see silent laughter as they point as well, and I realize that they're beginning to understand the situation
         "I told you, I told you." Theo moans behind me, sounding more like a ghost then a man, absolutely mortified by the approaching group of rugby enthusiasts. I, however, run out to greet them. As the group, all five of them friends from university I soon find out, maneuver around the fence to come up with a strategy, Theo just shakes his head and keeps his eyes glued to the ground, a possum playing dead. He pretends not to hear their teasing questions as, amongst gales of deep chuckles, they begin to untangle him from the fence. Theo gives a half-hearted moan as the group lifts him up and the tallest of the five unhooks the loop of his jeans, now turn, from the fence. They gently lower him to the ground where he stands like a muppet, his eyes fixated on the ground beneath him. As I thank the men and congratulate them on a job well done, Theo kicks at the ground and picks non-existant fuzz off of his polyester shirt.

         We walk most of the way back in silence.
         "I cut my ass on the fence." He confides. I'm unsure if he's looking for something as simple as pity or something as ridiculous as first-aid.
         "I'm sorry."
         "It's ok."
         By the time we get back to my flat the awkwardness between us is palpable but no longer endearing. He's visibly limping and his face is red, whether from all of the embarrassment or from the very intense blood flow to his face during his entrapment, I don't know. He adds his number to my phone and vice versa, although by this point in the night it seems that it's become completely unnecessary, a little bit of a joke.
         "Goodnight Theo. What's your surname?"
         "Theodopolis."
         "Your name is Theo Theodopolis?"
         "No, my first name is actually Alex. Theo is my nickname. Theodopolis is my last name. My dad is from Greece. Well, not from Greece but of Greek decent and..."
         But I won't remember any of this by morning except that I spent my evening dancing with a twenty-four year old doctor of Chemistry named Theo Theodpolis. I will also make a point of confessing that I was wooed by a man named 'Theo Theodpolois' to several of my closest friends in the next forty-eight hours, most of which will not believe a word I've said, no matter how true I believe it to be.

         I lean forward and stop his blind chatter with a kiss. It's the worst kiss I've ever had.