Good morning, comrades. Oh, wait. Is it afternoon? V’s on Russian time today, after a 10-hour hibernation post a night of heavy partying that would make my gypsy ancestors very proud. With my feet feeling non-existent because I insisted in ripping-up the dance floor for 5 hours in my 10-inch stilt-like stilettos, and my mouth dehydrated and venomous — my words are slow on the uptake. With a cup of tepid, black, straight-up, sugarless coffee at my right hand, I’m starting my Sunday morning at half-speed. But the tongue is heavy, just waiting for the mind to regurgitate an image or two that would unleash the words, V-ness style.
I will say this though: Last night, I did it all in the name of research. Oh yes, my comrades! When I wasn’t balancing on stilts or shaking that compact, yoga-toned booty of mine to my favorite brown girl Riri, I was a student of human behavior. The joint was dark and packed. The male specimens were highly intoxicated and blinded by laser lights. So, the Russian’s undercover research was conducted safely when she either slithered between the unknowing subjects or when she rested her tortured feet in the most corner booth with the messy glassware of the club’s bottle service.
In the midst of mayhem, I didn’t wonder about the motifs of my subjects’ behavior. Instead, I jotted down their images, as if my words were photographic; and left my judgements for later. Oh, don’t get me wrong: I am aware that I’m an opinionated cunt. But last night was different, for I merely observed the behavior of males. I soaked it up because I would never be able to think up the following gems on my own:
— ASAP! Something must to be said about the men who strut in through the front door of a club with toothpicks in their mouths! How dare they scan a crowd of beautiful women for their prey when there is an actual object sticking out of their teeth? Or what about the type that after ordering his drink from a gorgeous bartender, pays his tab, picks-up the rocks glass — and sticks his gum underneath the counter? Classy move, buddy. No matter how discretely he can conduct this disgusting habit, something tells me: The man has never flipped through a single issue of GQ or Esquire — in his pathetic lifetime!
(What? I’m not judging. I’m just warming up my venom glands.)
— How about the defensive boy in a crocheted beige beanie hat, who otherwise would be pretty if it weren’t for the permanent sarcastic smile or too low of a cut of his V-neck? He threw a lil’ tiff with the giant bouncer who’s asked him — quietly, yet forcefully — to keep the pathway clear. The man of service was doing his job, while this boy-child (who better grow out of his hippie fashion sense if he’s at all interested in joining America’s workforce) held up the traffic and pouted at the fact that he wasn’t being courted properly.
(V — movin’ on!)
— The fat boy, loud and utterly unattractive in his insecurity, who so obviously compensated for his shortcomings with a repertoire of behaviors that would look much cooler on him if he weren’t 1. white and 2. so chubby. I mean: Why the gangsta handshakes and the bad-ass chest pumps with your buddies if you can’t even keep your face straight or your drink unspilled? ‘S okay, we all know who you are: You’re the Seth Green type. So: be that! Be the nerdy, chubby nice guy who is smarter than his non-Jewish friends — and better educated — and in about a decade will be making twice, or thrice the dough. I promise: There are girls who dig that! Oi vey.
(Mkay. So, I am judging. I can’t help it — I’m a cunt!)
— Hello, Mr. Short Guy! Why are you hiding inside that oversized, buttoned-up up to your Adam’s Apple shirt and your vintage hat pulled down to your earlobes? If you must be funky — embrace it. Find some comfort in your physical traits — select better complimentary clothing for your body type — and chill. I can see the potential: you are quite magnificent, past the bullshit.
(Well, I’m on a roll now!)
— The white boy who doesn’t know how to dance; neither has any sense of rhythm nor swagger: Why do you demand my attention during the uncensored version of Enrique’s Tonight I’m Fucking YOU!? I was just standing here, boo, perfectly content in my lack of male escort this evening. You tap me on the shoulder — twice! — in some poorly practiced, self-invented shtick; gesture that I should keep my eyes on you during the lull post Ludacris’ bit; and when the music crescendoes, you start jiggling your white body as in a fit of epilepsy. Truly though: I don’t give a flying fuck if you don’t have the skill to move your body with coordination. But please, don’t request my company or my watch!
(Watch out! The venom’s dripping into the coffee now — straight up!)
— You just seem sickly, sir, leaning your clammy forehead against the cold mirror. So, I ask if you’re alright.
“Oh yeah,” you respond automatically; but when you realize you like what you see, you give me one of those How YOU Doin’? grins. “I’m the heat of a text,” you say, demonstrating the cellular device you’ve been groping underneath the mirror.
“Well, I hope she’s cute,” I nod and turn on my stilts to start walking away.
“Not as cute as you!” you throw at me, like an ice cube against my naked back. Oh, c’mon, honey! Why gotta do that? You’ve obviously got a girl — you just said so yourself. So why do you go offending me with an assumption that I’d settle for leftovers? And the cheesy line! Really?! So, you’re embarrassed now, pushing yourself through a line of defensive males waiting for their turn to use the bathroom. Why do all that?
(Where is the next victim? I now scan my last night’s notes for a memory…)
But oh! What’s this? A man in a suit?! Shit. I shut up and study. He’s in his late 20s, standing at the diagonally opposite angle of the bar. A headful of jet-black Indian hair. A crisp shirt with erect collar-stays. Not even slightly tipsy, he’s buying a beautiful girl a drink. His gaze is sharp, and despite the absentee tie — the boo’s on point. I swear, comrades: It’s as if a search light came down on the playa, and I think I heard the angels sing. An Esquire man — is always noticeable. But besides that, I bet a good suit is sold with a pair of extra balls; because no matter the man’s genetic inheritance, when well-dressed — he acts like fuckin’ George Clooney.
On that sight, I wrap up my night, my darling boys ‘n’ girls. There is hope for the male kind yet. If only, they’d stop seeking solutions at the bottom of a rocks glass or at the tip of a joint. If only they had the balls to live in their own skin — to tell their authentic stories — and to dress up the rest.
Good night, my darlings. Or is it: Good morning?