Love in da club?

College-aged students love clubs. I think some of them actually live at them, busting sexy moves late into the night and waking up the next morning on the bar with their fingers in a shot glass and their thong underwear on backward.

The guys keep their ultimate-hold styling goop in a barrel next to the tap for easy access, and there is a whole basement full of striped, button-down collar shirts soaked in cologne in case of emergency.

I remember my first visit to a club back in 2002. I had been home from my LDS mission to the Dominican Republic for two or three days.

I was shell-shocked. For the last two years, my joints had a single purpose: glorifying God.

My knees bent for praying. Ankles moved for walking. Elbows turned pages of scripture.

Fingers intoned hymns of praise on the piano. My jaw opened to teach the word. My pelvis bent so I could sit on toilets (thank the dear Lord for that joint, ’cause I sure used it).

But in this club, the Vortex, knees were bent to bounce. Ankles angled to get jiggy with it. Elbows pumped arms in freestyle motion.

Fingers fondled. Jaws opened to entertain sensitive lips and tongues. Pelvises pulsed and gyrated.

I had entered an unfamiliar, pleasure-devoted world that contrasted my own, self-denying sphere. How would I adapt?

The girls and my friends who accompanied me had noticed my walking from wall to wall like a rusty robot. There I was, dodging gorgeous woman after gorgeous woman. And there the females were, trying to help by getting me on the dance floor and putting their bodies on me.

It didn’t really work. They might as well have been dancing with a mannequin. I remained an illegal alien in Shake-your-booty-ville for the rest of the night.

It would be two years before I returned to that club. I was on the island of Phuket in Thailand with some friends, and all of us were anxious to show off our Western hemisphere style to hopefully attract some females.

The club we visited was known as a place for locals, or at least that’s what our Thai friend Jenny told us. She also told us later that night that 80 percent of the surprisingly friendly crowd was probably prostitutes.

One hip-hopping girl we attracted was Oot (strangely enough, I think that’s the noise Thais say pigs make).

Oot seemed harmless when she first started dancing next to us. She wasn’t that cute, but I was in Thailand having a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and so I decided to go with it.

She was flowing, I was flowing, and the dance was enjoyable, but there was so little time and so many girls to meet. I took a water break as an excuse to check out the scene.

As I walked I contemplated, “Man, there are so many hot girls around here, and they all seem to be really interested in Americans.”

Then my booty felt a tight squeeze. I turned to look and saw smiling girls. I continued my journey for water. Another squeeze came with another set of smiling girls.

I thought as I returned to my friends, “Good grief, I’ve never been handled and objectified like this before, but I kind of like it.” I was on the self-esteem rocket to the moon.

When I got back, Oot was right there waiting for me, with open arms and a body bumpin’ to the beat. I gave in and danced with her some more, and then she whispered in my ear.

“100 baht.”

She was a $25 hooker!

“NO SEX,” I told her in the plainest of English.

She grimaced at me, and whispered again.

“Free for you.”

Though honored by the discount, I had to refuse. She kept offering, and I must have said “NO SEX” at least 20 times before we finally left.

I haven’t been back on the club scene since. Too much of an emphasis on the moment without thought of the consequences, and just a general dislike on my part for grinding girls I’ve never met, keep me away.

I’m convinced I could find a few easy women at the club, but I don’t think I’ll find love there.

Maybe I should try country dancing.

Anyone want to teach me?

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