First Date at the Electro

God, she looks fantastic. Her hair is loose, her white sparkled dress is tight, her curves are emphasized, she just looks really great. And she’s smiling, and that helps so much. When she smiles, you can at least imagine that she’s having a good time. It makes the night go a lot easier.
I picked a dance club to take her too, that way there’s an absolute minimum of talking. I can’t hold a conversation with people I’ve known my entire life; I can’t imagine having anything to talk about with someone I just met, thought was attractive, and asked out, no matter how much she’s smiling, and how cute she looks. Even if I was being tortured and interrogated about what I did yesterday, my responses would be monosyllabic at best. So dance club, it is. You get her there, you move your body a little, and next thing you know she thinks you’re the best thing since toasted bread. And you’re in. No conversation required.
I pull her up to the bar and tell the mack, “two.” The eyes he gives her makes it clear he knows that I mean, “be a doll, and put a roofie in one.” She looks fantastic. The mack knows the score. Or he knows me and knows my score. He pours her a stout something-something and dilutes mine a little so I don’t make any stupid mistakes. The International Conspiracy of Men: This Hand Washes That Hand. Thanks, mack.
The music blares some hideous so-and-so with a backbeat. It’s so loud you can’t even really hear it, it’s just muddled vibrations through air and you can only pick out the slight treble here and there. Still she leans close with her drink in hand and says something completely inaudible. This is another reason to opt for the club on a first date: if she wants to talk, the only way is to get really close, licking your ear to get her point across.
I scream, “what?”
And she gets right in my ear saying something like, “I really like this song,” or “I’ve got a sexy thong.” Then she takes a coy drink and flits her eyelids at me. She puts down all the road signs: playing with the hem of her dress as it inches up her white thighs, drinking quickly and keeping eye contact as she puts it away. She even pulled down the front of her dress to expose her dragon tattoo on the leftmost of her exceptional cleavage. The mack paid her no mind, just let her do her thing, he’s done his part.
“You’ve got a lance?” she yells.
Yes, ma’am, I think. “What?”
“DANCE! Want to dance?” Dancing is a beautiful thing. It’s legitimate public eroticism. She bumps and grinds against you just like you would at home in the throes of a sexual revolution. The hormones rage harder than a middle school church camp. Strippers don’t do as much. Prostitutes barely do. It’s all about the contact and the emotion that goes with it. Strippers and prostitutes don’t really have a leg up in that field of contact and emotion.
So we go to the dance floor. And she’s fantastic. She wraps her arms around my neck and pushes her hips into me, smiling a little lecherously. She pulls my hair. She’s rough and I can tell she wants me. And I mean, I’m not one to complain. I mean, right now, I’m fighting my primal instincts off with a baseball bat in my brain. I am closer to violent rape than I’ve ever been before.
Then it happened: Scandal’s The Warrior started playing, and she did that squeal. The “Oh My God This Is My Favorite Song of All Time” Squeal. Her short blond hair became a flurry of motion as she shook her head with incredulity. There are so many things wrong with her excitement at this song.
Firstly, her excitement is what most people call “girlish.” It expresses an immaturity that usually accompanies 16 year olds.
Nextly, the song is a pop-feminist ballad. Patty Smyth yelling the battle-cry “I am the Warrior” and “I’m the heart you’ll win, if you survive.” It’s roughly more discouraging for the female gender than the women’s suffrage movement would have been if it had been lead by Rosie O’Donnell.
But most importantly (and disturbingly) was what she was going to do. The song had only just started, but already she was grabbing my tie and pulling me center-stage. I had no reason to know what was going to happen, but I knew as soon as I saw the reaction to the song. I knew she had a dance. I knew she had a plan.
The first verse played through without a hitch except for her idiotic jumping and headbanging, I forced a smile to conceal my disgust. But it was coming to the chorus. I dreaded the chorus with every fiber of my being because I knew exactly what she was going to do when those words came. Then, like a gunshot in an otherwise healthy evening, it came:
“Shootin’ at the walls of heartache,
Bang! Bang!
I am the Warrior!”
And she did it. She did exactly what you think she did.
“Bang! Bang!”
And she made the guns with her hands.
One for the left. One for the right.
Bang goes the one. Bang goes the other. And my forced smile melts like ice cubes on the sidewalk in Egypt. But she loved the song too much to notice that the evening had been utterly ruined by innanity.
I think the mack must’ve seen too, because as we left later that night, he gave me a look that said, “I’m sorry buddy, I thought she was a good one.” I responded with a sad, “I know” gaze. I walked her to my car, with her drunkenly shouting, “Bang! Bang!” intermittently. I drove her home, all the while with the radio on full-blast, trying to purge the foul sounds and sights from my mind. But there she was, making guns with her hands and Bang Banging left and right.
She said she had fun as I dropped her off. I told her I’d better not stay, what with church in the morning and all.
And as she walked to her door from my car, through the rolled down window I heard her shout, “I’m the heart you’ll win, if you survive.”
Slam it into drive and leave her behind. Sex is good, but not that good.