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We had been in our favorite joint since 8.30 p.m. It began with the normal two beers, with no intention of lingering past 10 p.m. But by 9 p.m., we had two beers left (nobody notices the second round of beers, by the way), and just in time, colleagues came, and further rounds were tossed.
The devil himself urged us to get a mzinga around 10.30 p.m., as he did with every other mishap in the bar. We were now a squad of six, by this time. A mzinga takes an average of 1 hour 47 minutes to consume by six individuals, four men, and two women. And then another one appeared on the table. That means that by 12.30 a.m., my gang was sufficiently inebriated to dance with strangers.
Nights out are usually fun for me. Because some girls will dance with strangers. Sometimes there are no strings attached. Before proceeding with a forgettable tryst (read stolen kisses), there is sometimes some expectation of a one-night stand or coffee sometime in the next week
There were females. There was a short one with that ass that leaves men gaping, and because she was in the mood to dance with any man, men tried their luck. All she wanted were shots of Tequila (cocktail haa), and she'd grind for you as long as the DJ kept playing trashy Jamaican ragga. She moved from table to table. The majority of folks noticed her ass. But for me, she had such big, thick lips that, if kissed, would give you an electric charge. Excellent work.
She was dressed similarly to the dancers in Hivyo ndio kunaendanga... Her thighs had pale skin and no starch. She's the girl who didn't tell you who she arrived with. But ostensibly, she is alone. And you have no idea where she will sleep at night. However, one of your boys danced with her and eventually took her home. And the girl became a regular at our table for the next three nights of drinking. Before she completely vanishes from it.
That was not what drew my attention that night. Around 1.30 a.m., a group of four girls entered, and because the guys sitting across from our lounge chair had left, the girls naturally moved there. They were in great spirits (no pun intended.) There was the chubby one, who appeared to be a mother hen, and she resembled a very bad high school principal.
Fat girls come in two varieties: good-hearted and horrible, even vicious. We could see she was in command right away.
The other gals were fantastic. Nowadays, I hear that no region on Earth is not teeming with ladies who know how to party and smoke weed.
Anyway.
One of the girls was slender—almost model-like—with a beautiful face. I forgot her name was from the coast. She was dressed in a green gown and was friendly but reserved. The remainder were your typical petite (in stature) college gals. They are little but deadly. You know the ones I'm talking about. The kind who can give you a steaming blow job inside a cab... Those are the ones.
Their dancing and flashing down shots of whisky suggested that they were ready for anything. Two of them hit it big. The matron eventually calmed down and stopped pestering guys who wanted to dance with the girls.
Around 4 a.m., the club started to empty. We were soon the only ones left, along with the previous group of six and the girls, and the two men who had stolen the two females. The matron was by herself. As usual, a young man was dozing in the corner, about to have his sixth phone robbed in as many months.
I've always empathized with waiters and bouncers. Because I've sat at tables with tenderpreneurs and privileged kids who spend Sh 150,000 on a night out. And I'm curious about what it's like to be a waitress and have someone drink your entire two-year income in one session. When the club is quiet and customers are waiting for their orders, I frequently stare into their eyes. It's the worst job in the world, having people have so much fun while you're simply gazing, hoping that the tips will be enough to take a sick child out the next day and pay the rent.
I've seen some try to dance, bang a head here and there, and shake their asses, hoping the filthy and petty manager doesn't see.
While celebrating a friend's birthday, one of the waitresses, who was a weed smoker, became extremely familiar, and every time she served us, she took a shot of whisky and grew visibly inebriated. I'm curious if she kept her job.
Then there are the bouncers. Their goal is to keep the peace in an area where mayhem can erupt at any time. To receive tips, they befriend regular revelers, are always nice and can find you a seat anywhere in the club, including the toilet seat.
Recently, I've seen that as the night progresses, some openly request shots from your table, and you'd have to be a misanthrope not to share with them. I used to wonder what they thought of all the girls they saw. Do they have emotions like us? What if they noticed a nice female and wanted to talk to her? Maybe take her to bed. Or marry. Do they have the courage? Do they have the motivation?
Because their employment is more brawny and less cerebral, they are consigned to a lower social class. But I've never been more mistaken. Bouncers have more access to high-end girls (business, wealthy, and everything) than I do. Because women no longer value things like intelligence. Do you have any cash? Can you lay the pipe? The bouncer, a tall and muscular man, had been standing near our table on this particular night, understandably because we seemed to be the ones who would leave the club last.
I walked to the restroom, and when I returned, one of the small ladies, extremely hot, extremely delectable, with a body form that is every man's passionate wish, was flinging herself at the bouncer, who was acting all mature while enjoying every minute.
She danced to him, and the dude, who took the grinding in, nearly cried. As the club began to empty and the doubtless petty boss salivated over the night's sales, the girl began to make out with the bouncer. While the bouncer appeared to respectfully decline, the girl was too much for him, and they eventually sat down, with the girl giving him a good red-light special
It's difficult to determine how the night ended. Or if they had a fling. Because we were gone.
But that scene has never left me. I've always been puzzled why the girl chose the bouncer. Did she mean to make out with the bouncer when she came out? Did she anticipate being seduced at the club? Did she want to sleep with an unknown? Is this something she does every time she gets drunk?
In the end, I learned that we all crave personal touch. Human contact. Touch is the most amazing sensation. And when we're alone or horny, anyone or anything can do the job, and we're less picky
I'm curious if the girl would recognize the bouncer if she was sober. Or would she be proud of herself if she dated the bouncer?
I am aware that everything becomes more physical at times. Not unlike males who date women with large asses but have nothing to talk about in their post-coital relaxation.
PS: As you party, enjoy responsibly. Accidents and AIDS are real. Be your brother's keeper thanks for the company this year so far. I have one more dispatch next week as we wrap up the year.
Keep it The Deal.
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