Rajul feels the summer lovin' heat at a NYC dance club.
Summertime makes me bold. I don’t know whether it’s the heat, the shedding of layers or simply just all that pent-up hibernation aggression coming out, but I really like the summer version of Rajul.
It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m sitting outside on a shade-blessed bench in a park next to my apartment building, hoping that the wrath of this particular heat wave doesn’t harass my crotchety, old laptop. It’s about 95 degrees and gorgeous. I’m lazy off of two giant slices of pizza (my hangover remedy) still slurping on the last of my Hi-C Fruit Punch trapped under a boulder of ice. As a nice break from my usual bitching, I want to tell you guys about last night, a.k.a. the fun part of being single.
My cousin Priya, our friend Nina, one of my roommates, Arielle, and I went out for some tapas last night and then to a club near NYU. It was a balmy, beautiful night so I ditched my usual grandma, ‘gotta be in bed by midnight’ mode and got all diva-fied to hit the town. After pre-gaming at the crib, and then some white sangria at the restaurant, we were swaying. Luckily, the spot we picked to go dancing was on point – great music (“Oh shit, I haven’t heard this song since freshman year of college!”), a mixed crowd, and enough room to dance without being “accidentally” groped. Although I do play the predator in that game sometimes. What? A woman can’t cop an ab-feel?
Anyway all the girls I went with are in loving, long-term, committed relationships (wah-wah) so they didn’t even want to dance with any of the men. It’s sweet how loyal they are. However, one of them spotted this fine, racially ambiguous looking dude leaning against the wall. That’s when we all got to staring and drooling.
“Wow.” Priya said. “He’s really, really cute.”
“Dance with him. It’s not sex,” I said, very rationally.
“No. Absolutely not,” she said, in her stern, Catholic school nun tone. “Oh! But you can dance with him. Come on – I’ll live vicariously through you.”
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