Bar Life

Green neon lights cut through the bar like a saw.  A sweaty crowd relished the bass beats and lost themselves in euphoric dancing, otherwise interpreted as an imitation of sex whereas the participants thrust their crotch into the back (or front) side of their counterpart.  It's a real jovial time; a release from the menial lives they lead during the week. 

I'm normally part of this sweaty crowd.  I, like the others, start off timid, smiling and feeling really uncomfortable until I start drinking.  After a few drinks a force takes control over the body.  The little man pulling the levers and cranking the handles becomes subdued and mute.  The mind lets the force field down and gives the body a green light to act like a dumbass. It is at this point where you try to find someone who is on your same level of drunkenness to have fake sex with. Most of the girls are fat and since everyone is sweating you can only imagine what that smells like.  Sometimes I've left the bar with the terrible smell of sweaty perfume infused into my sweater or t-shirt, which is fine for the drunken scurry home, but when you wake to that smell it is just a reminder of the big, fat near-mistake you almost made.  The strange thing is that you can pretty accurately gauge what kind of girl you were faking sex with the night before merely based on the scent of the perfume on your sweater or t-shirt.  For some reason, ugly girls wear acrid-smelling perfume and pretty girls wear delicious-smelling perfume.  You would think that there would be big discrepancies with a statement like that, but, hence the strangeness, there isn't. 

There was one night where everything went right and I woke up with delicious-smelling perfume on my clothes and a delicious-tasting girl next to me in bed.  I had a devastating headache and the odd urge to be alone.  And she sighed softly next to me, purring like a cat.