Nights at the Disco, Pt.1

When I was deciding which university to apply to, there was one thing in particular I was looking for above all others: nightlife. I absolutely had to go to university in a city with good nightclubs. If I didn’t have that then I wouldn’t have even bothered with being a student. London was on my list, as was Manchester, Leeds and Nottingham – but, for one reason or another, I ended up going to Bristol. It had exactly what I needed: plenty of access to my favourite drugs (including 2C-B, which is hard to get in some places), very few contact hours for my course (English Literature), and a rave culture that attracted girls from the highest class of background. In my opinion they are the most good looking, and the most naïve.

One of my favourite things to do is to get high and go out and pick up girls. It’s easy enough to do, if you know how to do it. There’s a technique. You have to know which nightclubs to go to, and which nights of the week (though this is less important); then, essentially, you have to wait and strike when the target is clear.

In Bristol the nightlife is varied and the girls vary with it. If you’re looking for the more normal, slightly more mainstream sort of club, you go to the Clifton Triangle. There you have Bunker, Lizard Lounge, Lola Los and Mbargos, all of which attract as many students as they do townies. The kind of girls you get there varies with the day of the week. On weekdays, it’s all students: Mondays are mostly freshers all out with their halls, and maybe a few second years; Tuesdays are similar. Wednesday is Sports Night, which means all the sports teams get outrageously drunk together and end up passing out in each other’s arms on the dancefloor in Bunker. Hockey girls I find are the best for this. Sports Night is the night I’d least like to be part of, but the one that yields the highest results for me.

Thursdays tend to be mainly second and third years mixed in with the odd towny – but Friday – OH! – Friday is the best day of the week. Friday is the day that all the locals are out, and when the locals are out they get drunker than students ever do. It’s a myth that students are worse for drinking. They certainly drink more often, but they seldom get as drunk as the young professionals who flatter their feet on the Friday dancefloor. There’s nothing quite like being the only student in amongst a crowd of twenty to maybe fifty-year-olds, totally anonymous and being eyed up because you’re younger and a damned-sight better looking than all of the other men in there. On a Friday night in, say, Lizard Lounge (which I can only brave if I’m high off my head on 2C-B or weed, or preferably both), I could easily pick up just about any girl I want. And they would want to, that’s the thing – in most other places they wouldn’t.

That’s something very important about me, by the way. I’m extremely good looking. Everyone’s said it since I was about the age of a dot, so it must be true. It certainly seems to work for me for the most part. Once I’ve taken enough of whatever drug I’m on that night then any sense of self-consciousness totally fades away, and this combined with my good looks makes me totally irresistible. I could take a girl home even if I was asleep.

Picking up girls on the Triangle is fairly easy, but if I want a bit more of a challenge then I go to either Lakota or Motion on weekends. These clubs are rave venues – they put on proper nights with proper DJs, and the people who go to them get fucked up and lose their minds. Sometimes this makes getting girls a bit easier because they’ve taken god-knows-what substances and they forget where they are, but sometimes they’re a bit more awake because they’re not drinking and they fight off your advances a bit more. The principle is still the same as at normal clubs though: keep an eye out for girls who are wasted. You’ve just got to remember that you’re dealing with drugs rather than alcohol, and sometimes this can make them freak out.

On the whole I’m pretty good at what I do. Since I first developed my fascination with nightclubs when I was sixteen I’ve developed my technique with more and more confidence. I can barely stay away from a club for more than two days before I start to get agitated and need to lose myself once more.

I really find them fascinating. Don’t you? They are another country compared to the world outside. You walk into a nightclub and suddenly you find yourself sunk into darkness and flashing sounds and lights, and surrounded by drunk people all venting their sexual desires and social frustrations. I think without nightclubs our society would implode, because there would be nowhere for people to let it all out. The nightclub is our generation’s social scene. Where 19th Century aristocrats had the ballroom, or 20th Century workers had the music hall, young people of the 21st Century have the nightclub. They’re totally designed for screaming the stress out of you. I wondered what people did once they got too old to go clubbing. I suppose they either start drinking at home or commit suicide.

But the thing I really love about nightclubs – the thing that just gets me dancing inside like an excited baby – is the way people change inside them. Outside, on the street, everyone’s all manners and appearances and respectability, but once they’ve got a couple of drinks down them and they’re in a club, they shed all of it in the blink of an eye. Really I think people want to live their lives like they do on the dancefloor: carelessly and sexually. And when they’re in this state they go with whatever happens to them.

Take this one girl I had sometime near the start of my second year at Bristol. It was a Friday night, and a pretty regular Friday night at that – nothing special, nothing too grand, just the usual baying wolves of young professionals crawling around the Triangle looking for some kind of sexual gratification, as they usually do. Makes me sick sometimes just to look at them. They all arrive in their taxis, the girls in their short, tight skirts and high heels and the men in their less-than-smart ‘smart’ shoes and casual shirts, and all they seem to do is tell each other how drunk they all are and fall over a lot. Then, finishing their plastic bottles of cheap vodka and throwing them on the street, they pile into the queue for whatever godforsaken club they’re going to be destroying tonight and proceed to fall into each other until eventually they either vomit or go home and sleep with each other. Or both.

Anyway, this is besides the point. I was in Lizard Lounge, and I think I was exercising my usual combination of 2C-B and weed, and a lot of valium because without valium I tend to freak out. I was surveying the area for potential pick-ups. The key is not to look to the dancefloor, because if you approach a girl on the dancefloor she’s sure to have either a preying man or her friends to defend her. You’ve got to look almost anywhere else. The bar is always good, as is the sitting area. But I find I have the most success around the toilets. Outside the toilet doors is where lost, drunk girls for some reason always end up. Mark my words, the toilets are always the place to start.

Anyway, I was in Lizard Lounge and I was high as a blue moon. I was on one of those highs where the world just seems to wave so pleasantly around you. In between the internecine flash of synaesthesia (which is when you swap sense receptors, such as tasting a colour, which I was doing plenty of), I watched girls moving around me hungrily. 2C-B and weed always makes you sexually aggressive, which is my favourite state so long as I know I can satisfy it. I stood at the bar and watched them all, and simply wondered which one I should make mine.

There were no obvious leads at the bar, so I took myself for a tour of the club to see what was on offer. It was busy, so I had to look a bit harder than usual. Goodness, the girls were looking good. I could have done with any of them in the state I was in.

I rounded the corner to the corridor where the toilets were (my favourite spot), and – AHHHYYESSSS – quietly congratulated myself on a first-grade opportunity. There on the floor, just a few yards down from the entrance to the lady’s toilets, was a young girl of about twenty-two or three years old. She was wearing a short, silky red dress, sitting on the floor with her knees tucked up and her head rolled to the side as if she was about to fall asleep. But her eyes were open, and she was very much awake, if not entirely aware.

It was about as straightforward as they come. You approach them by asking if they’re alright, taking a seat beside them as you do so. Gauge how drunk they are. It’s usually easy to tell from their first answer. Sometimes they tell you they’re ‘a bit drunk’, or more normally that they’re ‘fine’. Then start making conversation with them. ‘Are you here with your mates?’ ‘Do you want some water?’ ‘Here, I’ll stay with you til you feel a bit better.’ Always maintain an air of innocence. Then get them standing up and gauge how well she’s looking. In the ideal situation, she’s so drunk she’ll go wherever you take her with no questions asked. Most of the time though, it might take giving her a few more drinks, or pretending you’re a friend of theirs and you’re taking her home because they’re too drunk. Sometimes you simply have to act as the attractive stranger, and get with them in the club first. Then get them outside as soon as you can so her friends don’t see her.

It was a textbook case with this girl. She was black-out drunk, so wasted she wouldn’t remember a thing in the morning. And she was also able to stand, which was perfect. I managed to get her out the front door without much trouble at all, apart from at one point she seemed to be about to tap the shoulder of someone, presumably a friend, and I had to grab her arm to stop her from reaching. Other than that it was a straightforward out the front, into the taxi, take her back to my house.

In the morning you have to be up and out of bed before they are, and pretend not to be in the house. Usually they get their clothes on and leave as fast as they can; or if not, then you have to re-enter the bedroom claiming you don’t remember a thing either. I’m good at this bit. I’m a good actor. I just act all modest and embarrassed, give them a cup of tea and shoo them out the door. Ideally, of course, they don’t stay the night at all. You just get them straight back on the street. They always find their way home. If they vomit or pass out, I leave them somewhere they’ll eventually be found.

The girl I found in Lizard Lounge was almost staple, apart from one thing: when she was back at mine, she tried to call the police. I had to wrest the phone from her hand as soon as I realised what she was doing. Fortunately she was drunk enough not to be able to put up too much of a struggle, though she did kick and fly about a bit. She was on the verge of passing out, though, so I got her upstairs to my room while she was still conscious without waking up any of my housemates.

Unfortunately the girl passed out after we were done, so I had to let her stay the night. In the morning she left pretty swiftly though, and I barely had to introduce myself.


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