Arts and Entertainment
Fuck that (or this)
By Amanda Nowinski
STRAPPING DOWN A decent mate in the S.F. club scene is as easy as finding a special-ed student to break down Jacques Derrida's Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning, and the New International. Man-pussy, cock, and regular old twat do their things on dance floors everywhere, and yet, intelligent friends complain that they can't find anyone more titillating than a $5 bag of yellow crank. Believe it, is all I have to say.
Of course, when one aims to find an emotional and spiritual connection in a social milieu that is constructed around dark rooms, loud music, and zero conversation, it helps to first recognize the clubland pecking order. There mating is based on (a) what you look like, (b) what you look like, and (c) who you know. If your looks are adequate and the only person you know is the door girl, don't worry it's a good start, because if you play your cards right, she might stop talking shit about you after you pay your $20 and offer you something that only vaguely resembles a smirk. Soon you can work your way up to saying, "Hey, what's up" to DJ hos, and ultimately you will sashay straight into the promised land: the staggeringly glorious and indescribably fabulous world of DJs and promoters. However, if you can face the ugly facts and admit that you're no knockeriffic DJ Rap, focus on dealing drugs instead of getting laid. That way, you will still have something that people want.
Naturally, becoming a DJ is the best way to get some in the club scene. For example, if you are a male DJ, stand three-foot-four in Adidas shell toes, and have a cock the size of a minor hemorrhoid, you are guaranteed to sleep with some of the finest men and women on earth. Trust me. We're not into naming anyone here (because that would be distasteful), but if you have a minute, take a look at John Digweed. Enough said.
But maybe it's not just the club scene that sucks for getting sucked. Maybe it's San Francisco itself. Notice how everyone on the East Coast and in L.A. gets hitched by 30, whereas at the same age, we're still coming down off of our weekend at the Endup, talking in tongues to someone named StarWeave. To understand the much slandered history of free love in San Francisco, I look to my parents for inspiration. My 21-year-old mom dumped my dad right after I was born, went on welfare, and made out with straggly looking guys who smelled bad and played the bongos. "Do what you like" seems to be the rule in this town. So I do. Or so I don't, rather.
When I took nine months off from the set of my own private Lord of the Cockrings, friends and people I hardly knew were begging me to get laid. Like it's anyone's business who's messing up my sheets and acting all cute to my cats just long enough to get it up (I can see right through that one). My purity was seen as a problem, an obstruction in my path to ultimate cock enlightenment. Even though avoiding the dick was a conscious decision based on posttraumatic stress syndrome from each and every one of my previous relationships, people still thought I was going insane. "Someone the other night was talking about how badly you need to get laid," a friend reported over the phone. Thus I became increasingly paranoid and began monitoring my sexual decay in the mirror no less than five times a day. Do I look worse? Have my tits shrunk? Is my ass now inverted? And then I realized that I'm better off getting off on my own that is, of course, until the next ultrahot tweaked-out raver passes out on my lap.
Oh, yeah, happy Valentine's Day.
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