Last weekend, I had a college buddy come to visit. And the Buddy, well, he's trouble. He sobers up with Jager bombs, runs up prodigous bar tabs, and goes on blind dates with crazy foot fetish ladies. So I knew I was in for a time.
Saturday night rolls around, and we decide to round up a few friends, and a few of their friends, and hit the bars together. After a few hours, one of the guys offers the classic D.C. Hipster Invite:
"Hey, I know of this club near here, where we can go dance and won't pay a cover, because I know people."
See, I hate clubs. I hate cover charges, I hate lines, I hate noise, I hate crowds, and I prefer to do my drinking from the comfort and safety of a barstool. But, the Buddy's in town, and it's just around the corner, so why not? Let's boogie!
We get in, find seats at the bar, and settle in. I catch up with my old friend the bartender (he was working the night my sister got in a brawl at Asylum). Eventually, I begin to notice things around me. Like, everyone in the bar is a couple. It's like Noah's Ark in there. And the women are all wearing bustiers and fishnets and clearly took hours to put their faces on.
Hints are dropped, and my powers of observation finally kick in. I decide to play it cool.
"HOLY MOLY, KITTENS IN HEAVEN, CHECK IT OUT! I'M AT A SWINGERS' PARTY!"
And not, like, that Jon Favreau movie that annoying guys quote from all the time. I mean, keys-in-a-bowl, shag carpet and Ultraseude swingers. See, back in my day, when life was simpler and beer cost a nickel, the swingers hung out at Bar Nun. I had no idea they'd moved.
So we did what any sensible person would do: we stayed until closing. This meant that I was invited to the after party, by a lovely curly-haired woman wearing a bustier and little else.
"Why don't you join us for the after party?"
"Oh, no thanks. But you're very sweet to ask."
"You don't have to do anything you don't want."
"I guess I would sit there and watch?"
"Do you like to watch?"
Then she let me play with her ringlets for a bit. Not flirtatiously, mind you, but because when I drink I tend to play with people's hair. It's so bouncy and tactile!
We closed down the bar and went out to hail a cab. On the way home, the Buddy and I debated whether we should have gone to the after party. Nice girls from Woodbridge don't swing. But, man, just showing up would have been one hell of an experience. I missed out on a great story.
The Lesson: when a woman in a bustier invites you to a party of questionable morality, always say yes.
PS - No, I'm not in the business of judging what people do in their bedrooms. But I appreciate the absurdity of the experience. And, no, I'm not naming the club.