Night Clubs

I was still in college when I first stepped inside a night club. With a few friends from the same dorm who were equally penniless and hopelessly horny as I was, I bravely entered the dark doors of Club Paisano at the back of Uniwide in Cubao, a hole-in-the-wall girlie bar. The place stank, literally. The heady smell of smoke combined with the acrid smell of urine, spilled beer and cheap perfume- and the poor ventilation as well as the general rundown appearance made it a perfect candidate for a fire. No wonder Uniwide burned down a couple of years later, including the club. But since it was probably the cheapest night club that side of Cubao, we figured we couldn’t really afford to be choosy.

One or two beers were all we could afford to consume and we simply watched the semi-nude ladies parade on stage. We desisted from “table-ing” GROs, conscious of the fact that you get billed for the ladies drink. Since these drinks are probably no more than ice teas, the girls gulped the beverage as if they were starved for mommy’s milk, which means of course when it’s time to pay up, you’ve got to dig deep into your pockets.

When I started working, along with my officemates Ricky and Alvin, we would travel all the way to Caloocan, near Monumento, in Ricky’s car, usually during Friday nights, to watch an “all-out” show. Caloocan is notorious for hosting establishments of this sort. The Mayor then was Asistio, and you could tell that he commanded a strong support from night clubs. His campaign posters were pasted near the entrances.

It was becoming boring: the girls do a “fashion” show, fully-clothed, shedding their clothes off piece-by-piece until the very last moment when they’re totally naked-- for a split-second-- before running off the stage. Oh yes, in one of the more sizzling numbers, we couldn’t help notice that the girl gyrating in all her naked glory resembled our HR assistant at the office.

My roommate Paul and I also went inside Marlon’s in Fairview, a KTV bar. Curiously, the ground floor was conspicuously empty when we entered, with only one guy bawling at the karaoke machine. A short flight upstairs revealed the real state of affairs: the second floor was where the action was. I noticed the older and uglier girls usually did the wildest acts, like the high kicks ending in a full-split on the floor. Amazing.

But what really ended my desire to enter nightclubs was when Paul and I entered one along Commonwealth. The club management eagerly wanted to please its customers, it directed their gyrating, skimpily-clad models to hop and sit along your lap while teasing and touching you all over.

It was all right. It’s just that that two other male attendants were on hand to direct her from table to table with instructions, “this guy here, and then the other two in the next table” while the Mama-san, or the lady manager pointed the flash light to areas of my body where the dancer can touch me, like my bulging pants. It was so damn pathetic. It was conducted with crisp, robotic efficiency. It wasn’t sexy at all. Clearly, the customer was the exploited one, not the night club dancer. Whatever erotic thoughts I had during those moments evaporated in a flash.

Oh, I don’t go to night clubs anymore. (It’s true!).