I handle my liquor as well — as a well striving to keep afloat.
In the shadows the nights stretch long, and I come across a girl
with a captivating smile; her body, however, bore the marks of
countless encounters, of each man who sunk in her, a much deeper
borehole. Yet, she adorns herself with a cross, perhaps a silent
testament for both parties to start off by saying their own grace.

I’m seemingly fighting inner demons; as a silent war etched upon
my face — all the while chasing after every idea to extend this
human race. Yet, it is a cruel irony that the most profound revelations
often emerge only after, we have drowned ourselves in the depths
of unspoken answers in our cups.

And so, the clash of poor ideas and the taste of liquor lingers on;
as the drinks act as an unequal guide, to the morning — where in
the aftermath, the bitter collision of misguided notions and the
haunting essence of spirits endures.

Here’s to scrumptious nights.
cats and boots and cats and boots
We went clubbing last night, to recalibrate
ourselves on the dance floor, where magic happens.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
To focus on sensory experiences, the beat,
and share in the fun and tangible sense of freedom.
cats and boots and cats and boots
Feel the wave, show your energy, be the wave
cats and boots and cats and boots
be disheveled, swing your hair like a weapon
abandon, silly, self-protecting vanities
cats and boots and cats and boots
flashing lights on dancing figures
make it all seem slo-mo and extreme.
cats and boots and cats and boots
It’s been too long since we’ve done it like this.
Work-worn, I’d lost my lucidity and stumbled badly on a quiz.
Lisa pushed my books onto the floor, declaring, “Get UP, we’re grabbing some bliss.”
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
failure has a reality, a gravity and pull all the more shocking in relief.
I’d started out the evening gloomy and ashamed - a figure of regret -
but I’m better now, buoyed and recharged and soon I’ll have a plan - hopefully.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
There was a guy there, on the dance floor, who looked like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.
We made eye contact, nodding and smiling at each other in motion.
We gyrated, together, sort of, for a second, in our separate orbits - no conversation
I just watched him for a moment or two, sexualizing him like eye candy.
Just seeing him was sensual fun and I wondered what he smelled like.
He had a gritty, sweaty, idealized beauty, like a dancing ‘David’
that no Michelangelo could ever capture in stiff granite sculpture.
The music ended - momentarily - we knew it would start up again
and we were there for it - til 1 or 2 am anyway - then it recranked.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and..
Lisa grabbed my hand, jerking me onto the dance floor almost
before I could set down my drink. Eeek! “Slow Down!” I yelled,
but my complaint was lost in the din and my involuntary laugh.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and..
.
.
Songs for this:
Dance To This (feat. Ariana Grande) by Troye Sivan
Good Time Girl (feat. Charlie Barker) by Sofi Tukker

I received a re-invitation email this morning. A ‘come on, why don’t you want to?’ note that struck me as odd. See, I’ve been ‘tapped’ for a couple of final clubs at Yale. It can happen if you earn top grades and interact easily with male friends by day (the crew club scene is ol’ school patriarchal).

Three of my roommates have been tapped - for one thing or another. The upper-crust, traditional networks and secret societies are a huge part of why young men and women choose Ivy League schools.

I’m not talking about frats - I enjoy flippant misogyny as much as the next breasted-American and really, does “Yo bruh,” sloppy binge drinking, and ****** assault ever really get old? Yeah, it kind-of does.

And I’m not talking about the more open and popular ‘eating clubs’ - no - I’m on-about the elite social orders that enjoy a subversive and exclusive appeal.

Some students desperately want to be ‘IN’ and believe those memberships prove they’ve somehow ‘made it’. Let’s face it, someday - if you can’t actually earn it - that skull & bones handshake might open some doors.

I’ve attended a few meetings, meals, and parties in “tombs” (in upstairs libraries and houses) around New Haven, but I guess I’m just not a ‘joiner.’ Groucho Marx once said that he wouldn’t want to be a member of any club that would have someone like him as a member, maybe that’s it for me too.

Anyway, this harangue is sponsored by the glower that that silly email put on my face.
“What’s the matter?” Leeza asked, seeing my expression.
It reminded me of watching people ****-up and ‘social mountain climb’ to get into my grandmère’s (boring) circle. If your club is so exclusive (email sender), why on God’s confused earth would you want me?

Hey, I like parties, dances and hanging out with eskimos - but I'm a pre-med student and the time/value equation just doesn't stack up for me - I’ve got the M-CAT tests next summer and prepping for those has taken over my life.

It’s ironic though, how by day students at Yale go-on about ‘elitism’ - in stylized outrage - and then by night they strain to join these crew clubs.

slang...
final clubs = elite clubs and secret societies
eskimos - really cool people
crew = elite (crewing is seen as a sport for the elite)

We were at a club in Paris called L’Arc. It’s an outdoor club (spring break plus covid safety) that’s underneath the Arc de Triomphe. It’s 10PM and we’re coming from a night tour of the Louvre. The night sky was clear and it was 65°f.  I was with my posse of (3) roommates and two guardiennes (provided by my Grandmère) who travel with us at all times.

The man chatting me up was as hot as middle-school but honestly, it was hard to fake an interest in whatever he was saying. Was my ½ interest going to ruin us - this thing we’d shared for 5 minutes? No, he seemed to say, our connection was stronger than that.

Finally, I focused on his WORDS. It was hard because the music was so loud. Hey, this is off-topic but who’s your favorite French band? You don’t HAVE one, do you? No, because they ALL positively felate.

It turns out that he was a tiger - inviting me home for a respectfully quiet banging session - because he lived with his mother. I reacted like any college freshman would at first by thinking I was about to be sick.

Don’t flag me as antisex (If we’re flagging), I like a joystick now and then. They’re cute and like dogs, they’re always glad to see you. But the idea was disgustingly retro - my parent dodging days are over. Besides, our (roommate) agreement for this trip ostensibly forbids random hookups and did I mention our two escorts in tow?

I kept my cool. After all, we had another tray of shooters coming - staying put was clearly the right decision. He took my semi-blank reaction for the rejection it was and disappeared back into the crowd. C'est la vie

Glass box mirror,
she's primping and prepping,
neon lights in a smoky bar,
alluring and unrelenting,
swaying and swarming she is on the hunt, praying she isn't the one being preyed on.

Why did I just roll my eyes when you walked in?
  I've seen it all before, that sheepish grin!
Your cologne meets me even before your glances.
  I'm fresh out of giving strangers second chances!
Other women notice you, giving all the more reason,
  I should just walk away, it's not even your season.
My feet won't move, ugh... is that cognac I smell?
  Suddenly you're next to me, I'm like - swell!
Then it happens, you grin and ask me my name!
  Playing coy, I'm sizing up my move in this game.
After all, I sipped before you entered that door.
  The alcohol kicks in, and I think "SCORE"!!!

thrumming bass pumps into my body
an electric pulse, thumping through my bones,
zapping my veins and frying my nerves
creating static as the golden drops pour into my ears
hair flying around my head in a wreath of hell
the speakers sing

I'm ****** up, I'm black and blue. I'm built for all the abuse. got secrets that nobody knows. I'm good on that ***** ****. I dont want what I can get. I want someone with secrets that nobody knows. I need a gangsta, to love me better, than all the others do...

a tech hum fills my body
bodys sliding in tune with the tempo
hands run on hands run on back and thighs
the song croons with delectable bass

got me up so im barely breathing...

fingers trace my neckline and I bend with the notes
eyes closed hands clasped swirling in a mob of people,
all surging with the beat
the energy is high, and seeping in through my skin

i drink it all in

You always called me your Queen
And said you would be my King
But in the end, I was just the Joker;
I suppose that makes you the Jack-***,
So please kiss my Ace goodbye.