Clubbing Experience

Name: Ruta

Age: 27

Country: Tanzania


After a long day at work, two friends, Albert & Kenny and I decide to kick off the weekend on a high note. At around 7pm we have a rendezvous for dinner – barbecue meat and a couple of beers. We talk about pretty much everything.

Between us, old age has favored them before me and destiny has it that we should work in different department, performing different duties that offer occasional moments of interrelations. The thing that I have in common with Kenny is that of our marital status. Albert is married for a year now. But they are a good company for a night like this.

Dinner takes around 3 hours. At 10pm, the night is still young and no one is ready to go home apart from Albert whose obligation to the institution of marriage requires him to act a bit different from us.

As our nature dictates, Kenny and I are in the mood for some loud music. After saying goodbye to Albert, we head off the club which is about 2kms from the dinner place. By the time we get there, pay the entrance fee and enter the establishment, the place is already packed and the night is fighting with demons that want to inject it with anesthetic.

I make my way through the packed club, pushing people to make way, coming into contact with sweltered skins, smelling a concoction of perfumes and smells my nose can’t decipher.  Once or twice I mistake the metatarsals for the floor: the subjects are engrossed in the stupor of their delirium to pay me any mind. Finally the journey to the bar brings me face to face with the bartender who by now has become an acquaintance from the lift I once gave him. He gives me two drinks, vodka club 07 for me and a Heineken for my friend.

Two drinks in my hands, I head to my friend, pushing my way through the crowd, the music shooting through the air, the walls reverberating with crescendo. I find Kenny half chatting half dancing with someone he knows. As I hand him the beers, he introduced me to John – a short, slim guy with a round face and wide forehead, fuller lips the color of cypress wood. He smiles slyly as we exchange greetings.

Three of us are standing together, moving slowly to the beat in the manner a new entrant into the club would have done, waiting for the body to absorb energy floating around and alcohol to kick in before releasing the Kraken. I am swaying slowly to the beat of Sean Paul “Got to love ya” as I sip my drink and chat with John. As customs dictates, we exchange information of work, habitats, weather and the like.

For about 30 minutes nothing major happens apart from the constant movement of girls in slinky dresses, some without their sense of balance; men pushing through, chasing the scent that would make them go crazy. Kenny goes out to receive a phone call.

Things change when the DJ decides to put “Crazy in Love.” Let me explain the physics of the place I am from. Guys don’t lose themselves songs like “Crazy in Love.” What they will normally do is to limit their movements – swaying their heads lightly as if they are not sure what they need to do while imposing a rigid curfew to the rest of the lower body.

However, John breaks the rule. He gets animated, throwing his hands in the air, gyrating to the tune as if he was waiting for this one the whole night. Though he does it with a sense of masculinity that would not send an alarm to the oblivious heterosexual, my alarm is going off crazily.

For a boy who is a big fan of Beyonce, it is hard for me not to lose myself to this old tune, however, I employ the strategy of enjoying the song less than him just in case. The alcohol is kicking in and the club is swaying side to side, people brimming to the door.

With every beat I get closer to him, tasting waters slowly. The barricade at the frontier is no way to be seen, urging the intruder the chance to advance more into the unknown land. I am moving like a lion in the savannah, cautious not to be seen, but with a plan in mind. By the time I am much closer to him, our lower bodies are touching and it seems he is enjoying this as much as I do.

I am taller than him and so I push myself down and I realize my leg is making its way between his. The lion has gotten even closer and my mind is buzzing with thousands of electric signals. The lion pushes another boundary; I place my hand around his waist, first lightly. But as the beat continues my right hand pulls him closer to me while making sure no one is really cracking the code. He is moving closer to the lion. I pull him closer and he slips between my bent right leg and there, I feel it.  His erection. I can tell he doesn’t have an impressive anatomy from the spiky nature of his engorgement which lacks the girth to go with.

For a couple of songs, when it is safe, I grab him and pull him close to me and if you watch from a distance you can either declare this a no-brainer or you could call it a bromance in the middle of Tanzania.

At one time he turns, his back brushing against mine; I ran my hand through the two coconuts that are his ass. He doesn’t push me away but let’s me discover his world.

About 15 minutes we are interrupted by a girl who seems to be very familiar to him. After a few seconds I realize she is the girlfriend. She is of a possessive character from the detention she gives him of sitting beside her for the rest of the night since she is one of those that enjoy the clubbing experience while glued to their seats. She is not smiling, though she in possession of splendid beauty that could have been done justice by someone who knew how to use it. He is not smiling too and in the state of reverie, our eyes meet: for the rest of the detention we communicate this way.

When she has had enough of this happy place, with what I decipher to be a pout, she grabs him to leave but not before he comes to say goodbye. We go to the bathroom and he gives me his number.


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