Clubbing: A Guide for Young Feminists. Part 2

Another night out to blow off steam. This month has been stressful because my roommates (who are my family here) and I are broke. I’ve pretty much been broke for the past 3 years but never to the point of financial instability that I am at now. Never to the point where I’ve personally had to borrow money to ensure that I have somewhere to live. So dancing was a welcome relief.

At first the plan was to go to "reggae night" at a different club a little bit out of town, but in order to do that we had to be there by 11 so we could get in free. That didn’t happen. We ran around like headless chickens, trying to get ready in time. Showers and time spent in front of the closet were too much of a luxury so I just threw something on and my roommate simply put on a pair of jeans. She was going to change her top too but I stopped her. “You look gorgeous in that top.” It was a sleeveless top with a high neck and funky-colored geometric patterns ran across it. A hole at the top of the chest showed off just enough skin to make it fancy and the ensemble fit her like she should have been born in it. “Why,” she responded, half-teasing, half serious, “are you afraid I’ll put on something slutty?” I shouldn’t have showed her my last blog about clubbing. “Of course not,” I answered, and meant it.

The conversation was quickly forgotten amidst the madness of other events. She kept the top on and we went out, but to the club we always seem to end up at, downtown, not to reggae night. Even though I had been to the club maybe fifty times, there was still some confusion about me using my passport as ID. My other roommate Stacey got pissed on my behalf. I just brushed it off, sure it was frustrating but I wasn’t going to let it ruin my night.

We went in and danced, for ourselves, for each other, for a real and imagined audience. The music was loud and fun and being a Thursday night there was no need to stick out our elbows to get enough room to really dance. A few hours into the night I was dancing away when I guy came up behind me and started to dance. I was immediately filled with irritation, what’s with this whole rear entry thing anyway? Once upon a time you could actually see who you were dancing with, now people just expect you to grind away with a not only nameless, but faceless body. The guy was someone I had seen and danced with before and he danced well but I still felt cramped. A few months ago the success of my night out would have been measured by the number of guys who came up to dance with me, these days I prefer to dance alone.

Standing in the club, watching my roommates shaking it and breaking it to music so loud I could practically see it, I had an epiphany. Perhaps that’s too strong a word, anyway, something came to me and I walked up to my roomie and shouted in her ear: “I had an epiphany!’
“What!”
“An EPIPHANY!” I repeated, spraying saliva all over. We both wiped it off her neck, laughing. “Remember, when you asked me if I wanted you to wear the same top coz I was afraid you’d wear something slutty?” She nodded. “Yeah well, you wanted to change the top because you don’t feel confident going out unless you are wearing something overtly sexual.” She nods again. Simply. Even though I suggested it I am shocked and saddened. A very drunk girl bumps into me and steps on my toe in her heels. I am irritated but let it go. I watch her, she dances, no, she performs for a bunch of guys who are leaning against the wall. She is trying to look sexy but she looks uncoordinated and intoxicated.

An hour later I am tired and hungry and so we go home. After an impromptu meal of Chef Boyardee we sink into our beds gratefully. I ask my roomie again about her clothing choices, I ask her why she feels the need to dress in a sexual way every time we go out. Why does she need that attention from men who only appreciate her as an object and not a person. “Because I have daddy issues,” again that half-joking tone. I laugh, Daddy issues? That’s material for another post.