I scrunch my face in silent protest.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. Completely sure,” I say with more conviction than I actually have.
“Then put the overnight bag away.”
* * *
? ? ?
THE ZOO CLUB reeks of eau de teenage boy after a hard gym class under the sweltering sun. The burning smell of the fog machine certainly doesn’t help. I haven’t been here since college, but I’m well acquainted with the glittery black rubber dance floor, having once face-planted while trying impress a dude wearing a beanie with a dance move I saw in a music video.
Tonight, the floor is barely visible with the sea of people bumping and grinding to the beat of an electronic Justin Bieber remix. Every square inch of this club is packed with desperadoes searching for someone to keep them warm on this frigid winter night. As I watch from the sidelines, I come to the startling realization that I am a desperado.
For me, dancing with strangers for free drinks in college was easy. I’d make casual small talk about the most random of topics before slinking away to my circle of girlfriends, long before the guy asked to take me home. But searching for a potential man to sleep with is a whole different ball game. The looming reality of swapping bodily fluids with a sweaty rando with shifty eyes and a bad haircut fills my gut with impending doom.
I’m inundated with flashbacks to middle school health class warnings of possible death via sexually transmitted infections. Even my gag reflex is triggered, although it may be the scent of hundreds of patrons’ body odors combined. It’s hard to say at this point.
Paranoia of STIs aside, I need this. My body needs this.
I clasp the thin yet soft fabric of Trevor’s plain white tee as he leads me through the crowd like he’s my bodyguard and I’m a celebrity VIP. Though I’m certainly not the one turning heads.
Women and men alike are eyeing him up and down like he’s a snack. No—a full six-course meal. The appetizer, soup, main course, dessert, cheese, and coffee. And they would be right. Trevor is objectively flawless. The best-looking man in this club, and the asshole isn’t even trying. He didn’t even style his hair after his shower, and yet it’s impeccable.
Despite his thirsty onlookers, he remains cool as a cucumber as I buy our drinks （beer for him, vodka cran for me）。 The moment we shift into an open space adjacent to the bar, a woman in a tight python-print dress makes her move, introducing herself like a confident queen bee. Trevor doesn’t seem to mind the attention, so I shove down my jealousy and give them some space, inching forward to eye up the dance floor for potential mates.
It’s challenging to accurately assess the possibilities under seizure-inducing strobe lights. Just when I spot a cute guy in a ball cap bobbing his head on the perimeter of the dance floor, Trevor pulls me back by the elbow, shuffling me into a darkened corner.
I frown. “Where’d your friend go?”
“Are you sure you’ll be able to handle it?” he asks over the music. I don’t know if he’s ignoring my question or if he simply didn’t hear me.
I level him with a stubborn stare. “Metcalfe, stop treating me like some delicate flower. I’m an independent, progressive, sexually liberated being living my truth. And if we just so happen to connect on a deep level—”
“See, that’s your problem. You can’t expect to connect on any level with a one-night stand. That’s the entire point. No cuddling. No emotional attachment.”
“I won’t get attached. Relax.”
He’s gearing up to argue with me when a heavily tattooed woman who looks like Kat Von D rocks up next to him and shoots her shot. Side by side, they just look like they belong. I picture them ripping around on their respective motorcycles. They’d spend their days doing hard-core things like tattooing each other’s bodies or rocking out to Kurt Cobain. The moment I catch him staring at the thorny rose tattoo on her ample cleavage, I can’t be bothered.
Taking it as my cue to leave, I pirouette onto the edge of the dance floor when an Ariana Grande jam comes on. Eyes closed, arms in the air, I solo dance, feeling the beat. Surely I look sexy and carefree, maybe a little mysterious. Just the type of chill woman all the guys want. The ideal type: with zero emotions and most definitely zero basic needs. Come at me, eligible bachelors.
By the time Ariana Grande abruptly transitions to a Drake song that doesn’t inspire me, not a soul in the crowd has asked me to dance.
Trevor’s warm honey eyes briefly meet mine from the side of the dance floor. He’s still in casual conversation with Kat Von D, but he’s now wearing his crooked, irresistibly sexy smile. The one he wears when he’s trying not to laugh in my face.
His amusement at my expense sparks a flame inside me. I promptly motor to the other side of the bar. Half a song goes by before Trevor finds me. His new friend hasn’t followed him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I demand, my hand on my hip.
“You were dancing like an injured daddy longlegs. Why did you take off on me?” he demands.
“You were laughing at me. And you were too distracted to be of any value as a wingman, so I’m going solo.”
He leans in close to my ear when the beat drops on another EDM hit. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m ready to wingman for you now.” He casts his hawk eyes around the club, surveying.
“What about that guy?” I point to a pleasant-looking dude standing near the bar, timidly waiting his turn to order as some drunk oaf pushes in front of him. “He looks like he has a kind heart.”
Trevor shakes his head with far too much authority. “No. He looks like a youth pastor.”
“What’s wrong with a youth pastor? I don’t want to hook up with an asshole.”
His eyes cut to me. “You’re looking for a good fuck, Tara. Not an angel. And let me tell you, that guy isn’t going to satisfy you.” His voice vibrates against my skin, sending an electric thrill rippling down my spine.
Before the buzz branches to other places, I shake it off. “Satisfy me? How would you know what would satisfy me?”
He sighs toward the ceiling, as if I’ve asked him a trick question. “I have a lot of experience.”
I go up on my tiptoes, brutally failing to match his height. “Not with me.” I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to accomplish with that statement, but his eyes blaze for the briefest of moments.
“Obviously. But that guy is wrong for you. Try someone else.”
I assess a hard-core duo near the bar. One wears a leather jacket while the other is in a literal denim vest, which accentuates his tattoos. Neither of them is remotely my type. But maybe that’s the point of tonight. Maybe I need to venture outside my comfort zone. “What about them?”
His expression screams Have you lost your marbles? “They look like hit men.”
This is the status quo for the next twenty minutes. Trevor is a bottomless pit of contradictory critique.
He looks like a douchebag.
He’s wearing a velour tracksuit. Next.
Look at his shirt. Do you want to sleep with a man who pops his collar?
His head is weirdly shaped.