Word: men
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...giggles my friend Pauly when I tell him about my Friday night plans. "It's all B.C. And it's like the sketchiest place ever." It appears that Boston's "Who's On First" has earned itself quite a reputation--Pauly relays stories of half-naked men and women on the dance floor. I am slightly alarmed and also beginning to wonder why exactly FM picked me to check out this fine establishment. Perhaps they expect me to rip off my clothes...
...says. A lightbulb clicks. I have made a major faux pas. They are talking about the Grille. "Yeah, we call it the Crimson," she says. "We go Thursday nights." She says that she is surprised that we are nice because she has found that, although Harvard men like B.C. women, Harvard women tend to give them only dirty looks and snobby sneers. We reassure our new friends that such cattiness is generally reserved for Wellesley women...
...heat, humidity and mass of humanity all smooched together. We hit the bar. Beer seems to be the drink of choice, so we go with that. Equipped, we check out the clientele, which is noticeably homogenous-looking. Women wear revealing tank-tops with tight black pants or jeans, while men sport head-to-toe Abercrombie and Fitch ensembles. It's generally a good-looking crowd, and everyone is having a blast...
...minutes and two beers later, it becomes apparent that the cadence has extended its pull to include my entire body, which wanders into the middle of a cluster of sweaty dancers and begins gyrating. My companions join me and before long we are propositioned by a flock of sweaty men. Apparently, one member of the herd is celebrating his 21st birthday, and his buddies think one of us lucky girls should surprise him with a kiss. They are MIT men, after all, so we should feel flattered. One also claims to have seen one of us in a Harvard economics...
...companions return from the rest room in giggles. The swarm of MIT men struck again, and this time one of my friends had offered her number, except, "I gave him yours, Alicia." Sweet. I decide that this is my cue to leave. We exit. On the cab ride home, my fellow adventurers and I come to the consensus that the club owners must have favored the old baseball analogy for hooking up: To be on first implies the possibility of scoring. When my phone rings at 6:05 a.m., and caller ID busts the sketch MIT guy, I'm glad...