[Writing] Mostly autobiographical

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Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely intentional.


Top forty with a lazy dance beat. This is what passes for club music at most bars and night clubs. No one is here for music, anyway, no one know who DJ Teyla is. No one cares, no matter how many times he announces his name,

"YO IT'S DJ TEYLA COMIN' AT YA WITH SOME FRESH BEATS ON KANYEEEEEE!"
his booming voice drowning out the end of the important point someone's just made to their friends.

He begins again, speaking over KANYEEEEEE, "So actually it would be incorrect to say 'octopi' because 'octo' is a Greek root, and 'i' is a pluralisation in Latin. So, it really is octopuses." Self-consciously he sips his beer, he sees its half-emptied and he's been nursing it too long. He knows no one cares about these points of etymology, but he doesn't have anything to add to the conversation about men rating their friend, who is clearly a 9.5 or at least a 9, as a 6. Why does he come out to these things.

His friends are smiling, laughing, they whisper something to each other. "Why are you so smart?"
He wishes he had an answer, but he doesn't even understand the question. Is he so smart?
He finishes his beer quickly and heads to the bar for another drink. G&T this time. He likes the twist of lime, and - turning around he sees his table emptied. The girls have gone dancing. Ah, well, he can wander the bar and pretend he fits in.

He likes this part, actually, though he'd never admit it. He'd never tell anyone that sometimes, when he can't sleep, he goes out to bars and clubs alone at one AM just to experience this part: walking around drink in hand, like he isn't there, like he's above all these people, these people who go to clubs. He likes to watch the ones who don't go dance; they're the interesting ones. He's always assumed the type to go dance can lose their inhibition for the same reason, but the ones who stay all have their own hangups.

Every happy dancer is alike; unhappy wallflowers are all unhappy in their own way.

He sees a 'bro', leaning against a booth, eyes droopy with Jägermeister, entitled frown on lips as he stares at two girls kissing each other. He clumsily moves toward them, tapping the brunette on her shoulder, she looks at him, and gives him the obligatory bar smile, before returning to her friend, who is downing a shout and screams in her face. Brunette laughs. Bro raises his middle finger to the oblivious girls and shambles to the bar. He'll be cut off, bouncers will have to lead him out.

A girl comforts her friend over a table, patting her arm, while the miserable ones blindly attempts to fix her mascara -a hopeless cause. He sips his gin and tonic, and feels the acidity of the lime on his tongue linger. He loves that that sensation and smiles. He sees a girl smiling back at him.

She is

incredible

He's staring, he's checking out a girl, he's a club person now, obviously, that's why he's here, that's why she's here. Her hair is dark, and wavy. It's long, and she's consciously running her hand through it while she looks back at him. Her dress is black, simple, but striking. It highlights everything he wants. Her cleavage just barely showing, her neck looks so nice, and with that perfectly placed necklace, just over that -what is it? jugular notch, he remembers. He knows stuff no one cares about, but he doesn't care about that stuff right now. He's in front of her. She motions for him to sit.

"I'm in charge of coats," she says, by way of explanation of her solitude, while miming smoking a cigarette.

"Ah, the all-important guardian of the coats," he says. Commiseration is good, he tells himself, and his brain can't not tell him that she has perfect teeth and her lips have a glossy pink lipstick, and probably they're extremely soft and warm. He's not Bro. He could impress this girl, "Sorry you've been stuck with that job."

She shrugs. "Not really my scene." Her shoulders are bare after she shrugs and all he wants to do is touch them, and push his hand through her hair, and kiss her and-

"What about you? Here alone?"

"Uhm..." If she knows he's here with two girls, would she care? Would she still go home with him? Christ, he thinks, she must feel incredible in bed. Her legs tangled between his, her breath in his ear, "They're out dancing. I uh, don't... Well I'm white."

She laughs. Thank god, what a terrible joke.

"It's fun, though!" she stirs a vodka-coke with its straw while laughing at him, "Just move to the rhythm."

"Yes, but it's, really about moving your crotch into their ass with the rhythm," he says, feministically, while imagining feeling her ass.

She waves her hand, "Are you from here?"

"Born and raised, unfortunately," he says with a half-grin. "You?" Conversation. That's good. She'll want to go home with someone she can talk to, he thinks about what he can ask next.

"Just visiting some friends. I used to live here but I'm going to school in Toronto."

He pushes the line of conversation. What do you study, do you like it? Why Toronto? Good god, you make how much doing what? All the while his brain is fucking her, no more soft breaths in his ear, she has dug her nails into his back while he pulls her hair and moans loudly.

His mouth is dry. She mentions her sister.

"Oh? What does she do?"

"She's an architect, she just got her first job at a firm!"

That's cool. "That's cool! Architecture is pretty awesome."

"Yeah, she's always talking about art and culture in buildings. I never thought I'd care about dorian or ionian pillars, but I find myself telling my friends about them all the time." She laughs at herself, nervously.

"No, no," he says, "That is awesome. I do that kind of thing! Does anyone care about gluons? No, but I given the chance, I will talk the shit out of gluons. Or a variety of quarks. And I don't even have a sibling with a degree in that! Architect. That's cool. Makes me think of Art Vandelay."
She giggles, "Seinfeld! Poor George."

"Poor George? He was an architect, a marine biologist, worked for the New York Yankees, made out with Marisa Tomei..."

"Well he was a fake architect and marine biologist."

"I'll give you architect, but he saved that whale! That counts!"

"As a biologist!"

"Totally!" His G&T is empty. Her vodka-coke is still being mindlessly stirred. Is it weird to get another drink? What will she think of him?

Her friends show up.

"We're going to Hudson's!" a drunk bleach bottle blonde in a blue dress announces, grabbing his friend by the wrist.

"Yes! Hudson's!" agrees a yet-more-drunk faux-redhead.

His friend now standing, she smiles, "I guess we're going, you could come, if you want."

"Oh I uh," he looks her up and down. She's not hot anymore. She is beautiful. She's not in his bed. She's in his kitchen in the morning. Because she's the kind of girl who he wants to see walk into his kitchen, drinking coffee at his table, wearing no make-up, barely awake, and she is more beautiful than anyone who could possibly be at that table. He's in love.

"I have people," he points vaguely at the dance floor which is thumping to NIKKI MINAAAAAJ, YO. "Sorry."

In the cab home he wonders if he hates his lust more or...

His bed is cold.[DOUBLEPOST=1372451484][/DOUBLEPOST]EDIT: Fixed for atrocious formatting due to copy/paste nonsense
 
Get out of my head, you. Or, where my head used to be before I had a girlfriend. Very recognisable, well written, needs a bit of editing if you're looking for that sort of feedback. But hey, pulled me in and kept me interested/reading the whole way through.
 
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