I’m at our table, sipping a drink and a having a wee dance to whatever bassy chart-topper that was blasting from every orifice of the room.
There was a brief lull between danceable music tracks and conversation being screamed between two feet of table.
I get a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, man!” the strange Malaysian guy at the neighbouring table says to me.
“How are you?!”
“You like dancing!”
“Yeah, I suppose!”
“You dance good!”
“What’s your name?!”
“Nice to meet you!”
Ok, so he’s socialising with the people around him. Whatever.
(Skipping through innocent chit-chat)
“Join us for a drink!”
We had Black Label, he had Hennessy. Can’t say no.
“Hey, do you have a card?!”
(I hand over my card in a distinctive fashion that is nothing short of professional and platonic.)
“So, I can call you sometime?!”
“If I want to see you again, I can just call you?”
*Lightbulb* Oh, shit.
This is where it got surprising.
Now, I’m not gay. Not bi-sexual. Not bi-curious. Not ever a single serious thought of the alternative has ever crossed my mind.**
But, for some reason, I was hesitant to inform him of this vital information right away. Maybe it was because he was so friendly? Could’ve been the hundreds of dollars worth of cognac I accepted from him and his friends.
Don’t get me wrong, what eventually followed was,
“Just so you understand, I’m not gay! Not gay! All good?!”
You could plainly see the comprehension of this unfortunate fact run across his face.
“Hey, my friend wants to talk to me! I have to go! Thank you for the drink, bro!”
“No problem! It was very nice to meet you, Dan!”
“Yeah, you too, buddy! Enjoy your night!”
I escaped back to my own crowd of friends. The black lights around the room lit their toothy grins up like the Cheshire Cat.
Oswald approached our table.
“Hey Dan, do you want to hang out some time?!”
Wow, you have to admire this dude’s persistence.
“Sorry man, I’m leaving the country tomorrow!”
That was true, I was leaving for Turkey the next day.
“Oh no! Well, how about lunch tomorrow?!”
“No can do, bro! My flight leaves early in the morning!”
This was not true. My flight was due to leave at 7:30pm.
“Oh no! Oh well… I hope you had a great time in Malaysia!”
“I did! Thank you!”
Nice guy. Really.
The night transitioned gradually and quite smoothly into our group all standing outside the club, surrounding the one chick who had overdone it on the tequila shots and whiskey and Cokes.
All the while, we were silently confirming with one another that the night had indeed come to a close and we needed to sort out where we were going for the post-party feed.
A familiar tap on my shoulder.
“Gidday mate, you have a good night?”
“It was very good,” Oswald said.
“It was best night, because I meet you.”
The night’s weirdness peaked in my mind at that point. I found myself feeling extremely sorry for the fact that I wasn’t attracted to this dude.
It was the oldest line in the book! Maybe the broken English made it sound better…
I very almost came to a compromise where I’d offer up a kiss or something. To say this urge was strange was an understatement worthy of literary legend.
Oswald and I said goodbye and he wandered off. The apparent effect this guy had had on me was perplexing.
But something hit me.
I think I came to a revelation concerning the reasoning behind the pity fuck.
I’d heard other girls say that they would give it up for a certain dude who was trying so hard but was ultimately getting nowhere with them. Guys who meant well; victims of circumstance; misguided Romeos.
I had always said you’re either attracted to someone or not. End of story. How can you put aside the fact that you feel nothing for these people, yet engage in an extraordinarily intimate activity with them?
But yeah, I kinda get it now.
It’s like the carnal ‘A for effort’; the coital consolation prize.
Now, don’t get it twisted; I wasn’t going to fuck Oswald. It was just that odd moment of almost-compromise for a very nice and polite young dude.
A weird night, all in all.
But it resulted in some clarity for me.
At least someone got something out of that interaction.
*Oswald was not his name. I can’t remember it. If I meet you in a place where there are noises competing profusely with the sounds coming from your mouth, you can be secure in a bet that I will not be able to recall your name in the next twenty minutes, let alone the next day.
**Nick, the art director at Lucideas seems to think otherwise. He’s convinced I’m in love with him just because I’ve told people he’s funny.
I’m gonna go ahead and apologise to my father right now, who reads what I write often. He’s mentioned to me once or twice about the language I use on my blog. I foresee extended use of the F word.
Katt Williams talked about a special hormone that is released into your system from time to time that physically enables you to have a good time.
It’s called ‘Fuck It’.
It specialises in the breaking down of inhibitions and when you ask yourself ‘Why?’, it askes ‘Why not?’
Most people choose to induce this hormone with alcohol and recreational drugs. However, you have to get the dosage just right, otherwise you risk overshooting the Fuck It mark and just end up Fucked Up instead.
But sometimes, the conditions are just right for the natural production of Fuck It and when that happens, it’s fucking sweet.
My most recent successful experience with Fuck It happened just a couple of days before Christmas. Lucideas was having their Christmas party.
Being the only guy in the office with facial hair, I thought I’d dye it white and be the resident Santa Claus for the evening. Why?
“Because fuck it. That’s why.”
It’s looked hilarious. We pulled out a Santa suit that we’d been using for a client before and they said I should wear it and give out all the Secret Santa presents.
“Fuck it! Where do I change?”
I donned the suit and became the cheeky, foul-mouthed, wandering-handed Santa that made every single person in the agency sit on his lap and open their presents.
After which, the music was too good to just sit around and quietly drink beer with everyone else.
“Fuck this! Let’s dance! Come on!”
After getting five or six people from the agency to dance, the suggestion of taking this party to a club afterward surfaced.
“Dan, you should totally wear the suit to the club!”
“Alright, you’re on. We’re going clubbing!”
The party started to wind down around 10pm and a group of us met up at a pub for pre-drinks.
“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas everybody!”
I bellowed at the pub.
A very satisfying cheer was shouted back. My Fuck It levels were rewarding me handsomely.
A guy came over to our table and presented me with a pint of Guinness.
“There you go, Santa.”
“Oh, thanks very much!”
“No, all of it.”
“What? Skull it?”
That’s when you gotta watch those Fuck It levels. You know you’re in the red zone when you start saying ‘yes’ to everything, even when there’s potential for bad consequences.
“Yeah *burp* Great, whatever. Thanks for that.”
One of Lucideas’ designers and I pulled up outside Zouk, one of Kuala Lumpur’s many dance clubs and sauntered in.
That classic feeling when everyone who looks at you, smiles.
That less than modest feeling that you just became a line in someone’s story about their night.
“And then Santa walked in!”
We went to a private booth and ordered drinks.
“Fuck it. I’m embracing this. If you want me, I’ll be on the dance floor.”
High-fives, handshakes, hugs, kisses, a couple of lap dances and many, many photos soon ensued.
I met many people and forgot many names.
This was vague, but I was told some guy had to drag his girlfriend away because she was getting too friendly with me.
I’ll take that.
I managed to ride that wave almost to dawn.
The night was epic to say the least.
And all because I decided to fuck it and do something I had never done before.
These are the kinds of things that happen when you take opportunities as they come and dive head first into the unknown.
That’s how I want 2012 to be.
More ‘fuck it’ moments that lead to awesome happenings. In my social life and my work.
I’ve already made the resolution to go back to Zouk at Chinese New Year, dressed as the God of Prosperity.