Actually, not, sadly.
No, what currently annoys me is that when we go out as a group, or rather, when one goes out, to a certain sort of middle-of-the-road populist club (who the hell do I think I sound like?!), there is inevitably a hell of a lot of R’n’B, which for some reason necessitates that We Must All Dance Like Utter Whores, If At All Possible Grinding Up Against The Nearest Male. I hate that, I really do. I barely have the confidence to dance at all, let alone to dance as if I was actually just having Really Stylised Porn-Movie Sex.
I hate the music that goes with that, objectifying women as sex-objects and full of lyrics about the things men would like to do to one pretty girl or another. I mean, what do you think ‘superman that ho’ means? I don’t want to have to explain it, if you don’t know, so check out the vastly useful Urban Dictionary. I know, I’m sounding like somebody’s mother. Bear with me, anyway. Or songs like Usher’s Love In This Club, all about wanting to screw someone actually in the club. And the girl groups are even worse – have you seen the Pussy Cat Dolls? And some video I was watching last night, for a song I hadn’t heard in ages and can’t now remember band or title, features at one point a girl throwing herself at a man who just ignores her and continues singing as she writhes around him, desperate for his attention. I hate this. And it’s not as if guys are expected to do the same and dance in that same explicit way, not unless they’re dancing with you. And then there are the guys that are walking past and think it’s somehow appropriate to grab your hips or arse in order to move you aside whilst also clearly making some kind of favouring, lascivious judgement upon your body. I hate feeling that I am an object. I want to dance for fun, I want it to be OK to be laughing at myself and everyone else all night, I’m not here to sell myself.
But the nights we go out on here are more often just like I’ve described. And yes, it can be fun, don’t get me wrong, but I’m far happier when the sound-track’s commercial indie, or rock or something, or seriously old pop, not commercial R’n’B, and it’s temporarily acceptable to dance like a drunken 15-year-old boy again, jump up and down, throw shapes, make up actions, and otherwise act up. Then it stops being about my body, and becomes about having fun again. I mean, I’d be happier still if the music in question was interesting, and new, and I’m developing a penchant for all things electro, but, well, you know what I mean, the cutting-edge-ness of the music is beside the point.
On a happier note, I was outside getting a breath of fresh air (and, I’ll admit it, a fag) on our most recent night out, last night, when this beautiful, wonderfully dressed chinese doll of a girl comes up to me for a light, and we get chatting, and she says, fervently, before she goes, ‘I want to tell you something, I mean, yes, I like girls and boys, but I just thought you should know I think you’re absolutely beautiful, I truly mean that’. And I really felt it, for the first time that night. Hell, for the first time in ages, maybe ever. Beautiful, rather than making a rather half-hearted and unsuccessful attempt at ‘hot’. And it was a lot nicer, I felt like less of an object, and it made me glow. Still does, actually. I don’t believe I am beautiful in the least – pretty, maybe, on a good day and when I’ve had enough sleep and things, in a good light, but never beautiful. But someone else did, and that’s a lot.