Presto-Change-O
I spent a year working in New York, both in the city and on Long Island. The most surreal nightclub was actually a wannabe dance club on the island.

"Coeds" had clearly begun as a neighborhood bar, what most of you would call a pub, I suppose. However at some point the horny owner had decided that staffing the place exclusively with buxom beauties and installing a dancefloor and DJ booth would class the place up.

The locals agreed whole-heartedly with the buxom beauty portion of this plan, however the techno-rave DJ dancing appealed to a totally different clientle. This resulted in a full 'shift change' of patrons late every evening when the DJ arrived.

One memorable evening I was having quite a time, chatting up the beauty behind the bar, who was having minor wardrobe mafunctions - to my great delight. The first time caught us both by surprise: she was opening a beer bottle, when her left boob spontaneously (and weirdly) swung down and away from it's matching twin, and popped out the side of her halter top. "Hello!"

Said beauty turned away and adjusted things, her cleavage reappeared and nipple disappeared. "Sorry," she said, "the tape isn't sticking well tonight." Ever helpful, I retrieved a handy roll of duct tape from my laptop case (after several other malfunctions, of course. No need to be hasty.) Things, shall I say, continued to "look up" the rest of the night.

I hung around late that evening, steeling myself against the god-awful thumping, hooting, screeching, and general noise produced by the DJ (not to mention the music). My beauty introduced me to the most excellent practice known as 'buy-backs' there and 'it's on the house' everywhere else.

Thus fortified, I found myself accepting an invite to dance from another sweet young thing, whose attention I had earned at the direction of my friend, the taped-together barmaid. Wending my way carefully and unsteadily to the dancefloor, I gurned about attempting to fit in. It was clear after a short time that I was best served by holding my arms low and close, and moving about as little as possible - lest I hurt someone. I was favored with 1 pity dance, then the sweet thing eff'd off with a group who were rythmically waving glowsticks about. Very odd.

Returning to the bar, I found all the seats taken, and my beauty gone somewhere. My head cleared somewhat, as I slowly turned and surveyed the surreal tableau now present in my favorite local watering hole: weird lights pulsing, "music" throbbing, crowd moving in odd ways, and the mean age rising by a decade merely by my presence.

I fucked off home, and never stayed late again.
(danalan Pretty good, for an amateur., Wed 8 Apr 2009, 22:37, Reply)