So I closed the year with more nocturnal activity than a seasoned Owl.
I drunk in the club scenes with shameless glee, and observed far too keenly how the patrons mingled and swung partners like a deck of cards.
One chap however had me captivated by his very presence! He had an aura so loud, everyone else around him was reduced to a sickly buzz in the background.
This man…was all man!
He walked in and immediately commanded attention. Yes, he was the Chuck Norris of this here club, and by Jupiter he knew it!
Unaccompanied and owning it, this classy man had anything and anyone who carried an A cup and above riveted by his swag. I do not mean the annoying beings who display their knickers on account of sagging (they should all be hung by their gonads the eejits!). No, this one was dressed to the hilt! Everything about him was a click above. His hair a clever rendition or was it a mix between a grown up Mohawk and a crew cut, his clothes were so crisp, they looked like they smelled of pine and citrus fruits from King Georges orchad. His shoes, Nairobi’s dust had no place on them. The classic man had arrived!
He placed himself on a stool at the counter, allowing for his long limbs to look even longer and leaner than necessary. He orders his drink, and as if by magic, two scantily dressed babes appear beside him, one on each side. I swear, he smiles, as if accustomed to it and surprised by the obvious intention the girls made. The two eye each other up, I wait eagerly to see which one will bow out. Both spot long curly weaves, long legs, long eye lashes and even longer finger nails, their clothes tighter than a showgirl’s leotard. Barbie would be very pleased with this mimicking. Drinks are served, excuses to linger quickly run out, but Barbie to the right is soon joined by “Ken”, who drapes himself next to her and appears to have settled for the counter and not with his already drunk boys. Barbie to the left is pleased; she smiles at what will be her nights catch and makes an exit to return later.
I believe he was having a single malt on ice, the epitome of a man who is as mature and cultured as his drink. He sips slowly, a flurry of girls appear to pitch their proposals on suitability as a mate. He indulges them, but quickly gets bored and it shows on his face. Barbie after Barbie, none sticking longer than the other, all as dull as the skin they wear. The typical girl next door, dressed in fitting jeans and a cute tank top with decent heeled boots launches onto the counter and orders her drink. I would trade my inheritance to hear what she says to him that has him throwing his head back in hearty laughter. She chats for a bit, he is captivated and talking with more enthusiasm than I thought possible for this cool cat. She turns to go, he calls after her, she nods her head and walks off. He is still laughing as she goes. The original Barbie returns to make her bid, classy man cannot hide his irritation, but indulges her for what must have felt like eternity for him. Girl next door comes back, he beams, she says hello to Barbie, who notices she has been out played and exits the scene.
Yes, it would appear that humor and wit have tramped Barbies utopia.
The classy man dances the night away with girl next door, obviously never breaking a sweat because cowboys never die they just find a new horse to ride!