The risotto was okay. I don’t think it matched whatever the amount of its high price tag. (The girls and I could probably have bought dinner for all three of us, plus leftovers to take home with the price of my risotto. And that wasn’t including the wine.)
When we got to the point that the restaurant tried to sell us dessert, I opted out. Although they had Lava Cake, one of my personal favorites, I just didn’t have the urge to expand my tummy in the slinky black dress I was wearing. Besides, the risotto had left me feeling stuffed, even though I’d only eaten a third of what was on my plate. But piggy me had also nibbled (consumed) a second bun. That was after the waiter had exchanged our basket of buns for fresh ones, just out of the oven. (Temptation overload. The way those buns smelled, oh, my!)
Timothy agreed that he didn’t really want anything to top off the meal either, so we opted for coffee and sipped the delicious brew with pleasure. I took note that Timothy drank his just as I did, black — no cream, artificial sweetener, or sugar.
The night was still young. He suggested we visit a nearby nightclub. I’d never been to one before so it sounded like a good idea. But when we walked there, the first thing I noticed was that there was a long line of people waiting to get in. Timothy walked us straight up to the front, flashed some kind of card at the bouncer, and we were waved in. The power of money? Or was it something else: like connections, prestige, bribes? Always curious, I wanted to ask, but we were already heading inside, and Timothy was easing my coat off me.
My first reaction to the place was an ear-cringe for the volume. Music blared from speakers hung on every wall. The noise was vibrant in its beat, although the loudness attacked at a primary level, like a kindergarten playground. Screams, laughter, giggles, clinking glasses, feet stamping and low-toned conversation seemed to echo the noise all around us.
Big screens clung to the wall beside the speakers, displaying scenes around the club. Mostly they showed the contortions of dancers, many of whom were practicing pre-sex body rubbings against their partner. The costumes the women were wearing displayed firm breasts, most of them heavily perspiring and almost completely dangling outside of their overly tight and thin dresses, some which were more like transparent shower curtains than clothing.
In the center of the arena, up on a high stage, stood a rock group in shaggy jeans displaying rips and gouges. Their tees had been painted with graffiti. One of the men was growling into a microphone while massaging his privates.
I did not belong in this place. My reaction hit with a wave of revulsion. I despised everything the place stood for: the noise, the tension, the anger, and the way hundreds of bodies were pressed too closely together in what seemed more riot-like or sexual orgasm than a simple, pleasurable night out on the town.