In my head it always plays out the same, this night, like all the others. I arrive and the silver of the moon is caught in the black of my cadillac. My hair rises softly and quickly blends in with the bustles of smoke in the air. The entire club is waiting for me, it seems.
There's music, and noise, and bodies. More bodies than belong in such little space. VIP is different though, like a new planet. It has more suns and more stars that boom bright in the darkness that surrounds. I fit right in here.
A nod here, a smile there, a squint and I've more or less acknowledged the presence of the noteworthy. The rest will have to acknowledge me, fawn at my feet, oogle at my coiffure, the same old song.
They smell different though, the girls. It's spring and they've got on the new scents, that Mariah Carey Dream, that Dior Passion. It's nice. I can close my eyes and maybe they'll feel different. I doubt it though. It's always the same old song.
The waiter brings drinks, the usual. It's red, it stings, I ask for another. About six shots in I no longer feel separate from the atmosphere. I'm spinning with the lights, I'm jumping with the feet. The only thing I'm not doing is wafting through the air like the smoke.
The following morning I deal with one of my easier hangovers, there's two girls lying where my memory used to be and as I kick myself mentally for not taking them to a hotel instead. A call comes in on my phone.
It's Chris, my manager. He wants to know if I took home a short Asian chick with a tattoo on her left thigh. A quick glance back tells us both I didn't.
Good he says. She was underage and her dad-some enterprising billionaire-is rousing up a storm.
I feel a little saddened at this. Such unprecedented conflict might have been fun.
The rest of the day is more of the same, except my mind keeps going back to the Asian chick with the tattoo on her left thigh. What did he mean by underage?
This is Toronto, so that would mean she's anything between 15 and 20. The higher end of that wasn't a problem to me. Maybe I ought to find her, I thought. Do her pops a solid.
I call one of the bouncers and I find her. She's not at a guys place, she's with her girls.
45 minutes later I'm standing at their hotel door like it's Christmas and I'm Santa, they've gotta love what I'm carrying.
A blonde model type opens the door, all wide eyed and wide mouthed-this should be fun.
There's at least six of them, all aware of all the possibilities of all of this. Six wouldn't be my max, but it wasn't me on a bad day either.
They're creative enough. It's all slow and sensual like D'Angelos beats. But I wasn't in there tryna make music. I was tryna make a memory.
The groping, the fondling, it all felt like golf to me. Each swing looking like the last, each stroke to the same end, inevitably getting some ball, into some hole. It was all par the course, some woods, alot of ponds, but my double entendres were wearing thin though, I needed life, not lyrics. Maybe like the filmakers, they'd saved the best for last.
The Asian.
She danced and she giggled and she let down her hair, but when everything came off there was little more than more of the same there.
Two nights later I found myself back at the same club. Sitting in my cadillac for a bit, bracing myself. There was a super pissed father somewhere wanting my head on a stake. A part of me wished he could have it. I stepped out of the car, the entire club is waiting for me, it seems.
There's music, and noise, and bodies. More bodies than belong in such little space. VIP is different though, like a new planet. It has more suns and more stars that boom bright in the darkness that surrounds. I fit right in here.
A nod here, a smile there, a squint and I've more or less acknowledged the presence of the noteworthy. The rest will have to acknowledge me, fawn at my feet, oogle at my coiffure, the same old song.
They smell different though, the girls. It's spring and they've got on the new scents, that Mariah Carey Dream, that Dior Passion. It's nice. I can close my eyes and maybe they'll feel different. I doubt it though. It's always the same old song.
The waiter brings drinks, the usual. It's red, it stings, I ask for another. About six shots in I no longer feel separate from the atmosphere. I'm spinning with the lights, I'm jumping with the feet. The only thing I'm not doing is wafting through the air like the smoke.
The following morning I deal with one of my easier hangovers, there's two girls lying where my memory used to be and as I kick myself mentally for not taking them to a hotel instead. A call comes in on my phone.
It's Chris, my manager. He wants to know if I took home a short Asian chick with a tattoo on her left thigh. A quick glance back tells us both I didn't.
Good he says. She was underage and her dad-some enterprising billionaire-is rousing up a storm.
I feel a little saddened at this. Such unprecedented conflict might have been fun.
The rest of the day is more of the same, except my mind keeps going back to the Asian chick with the tattoo on her left thigh. What did he mean by underage?
This is Toronto, so that would mean she's anything between 15 and 20. The higher end of that wasn't a problem to me. Maybe I ought to find her, I thought. Do her pops a solid.
I call one of the bouncers and I find her. She's not at a guys place, she's with her girls.
45 minutes later I'm standing at their hotel door like it's Christmas and I'm Santa, they've gotta love what I'm carrying.
A blonde model type opens the door, all wide eyed and wide mouthed-this should be fun.
There's at least six of them, all aware of all the possibilities of all of this. Six wouldn't be my max, but it wasn't me on a bad day either.
They're creative enough. It's all slow and sensual like D'Angelos beats. But I wasn't in there tryna make music. I was tryna make a memory.
The groping, the fondling, it all felt like golf to me. Each swing looking like the last, each stroke to the same end, inevitably getting some ball, into some hole. It was all par the course, some woods, alot of ponds, but my double entendres were wearing thin though, I needed life, not lyrics. Maybe like the filmakers, they'd saved the best for last.
The Asian.
She danced and she giggled and she let down her hair, but when everything came off there was little more than more of the same there.
Two nights later I found myself back at the same club. Sitting in my cadillac for a bit, bracing myself. There was a super pissed father somewhere wanting my head on a stake. A part of me wished he could have it. I stepped out of the car, the entire club is waiting for me, it seems.
“ Which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his desire? or, having it, is satisfied?
William Makepeace Thackeray
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