There are about a million things I could write about male privilege, but the one thing that I can fairly confidently say about male privilege is that it does not apply to a nightclub line. Want to go into a club? Wait in this godforsaken line until we arbitrary decide to let you in. Oh you’re at the front? How many girls do you have with you? None? Oh here, wait some more. You really want to get in? Grease the bouncer with at least a $20. Oh yay, now I’m finally in, but wait, before you actually get into the club, guys have to pay a $60 cover. Now I have the privilege of buying overpriced drinks and listening to some headsplitting EDM shit.
Fuck that noise.
When the Committee decides to do something, he does it big. I had some previous engagements so he told me to just say my name at the door when I arrived. Lo and behold, when I got to Hotel Chantelle, the line already stretched around the block. Having faith in the Committee, I walked to the front of the line and spoke with the dapper looking host. God, I hate to admit this, but there is a certain satisfaction when you say your name and you magically bypass hours of waiting in a bullshit queue. As I walked past the velvet ropes I was met with equal stares of disgust and envy from the line. I didn’t blame them, it wasn’t like they knew that I didn’t do this often, or ever. Once I was inside, I was directed to the basement and the table right to the left of the DJ. Before anything happened, I already knew that the night had peaked, the clubbing gods had given us a table right next to the air conditioning. Praise to the powers that be.
The first night was pretty uneventful, or as uneventful as a night with the Committee goes. I quickly realized that even though I was placed in the position of ‘wingman’ (I loathe that term), my actual desire to not actually pickup women and just enjoy myself made me much more appealing than the packs of roving douchebros who all pooled $10 so they could afford the cheapest bottle and invite girls back to their table.
Night two however, was much more eventful. I was late again, as I caught UFC 202. Rinse and repeat with the line at the DL, which was across the street. Also, the biggest thing I have to say is be nice to your host and your waitresses, and tip them well. The worst thing other than the rapey vibes that the roving packs of douchebros put out is their absolute reluctance to tip the service staff, even though they’re all supposedly ‘ballers’.
The nice thing about DL is that their club is on the rooftop. I know the whole rooftop bar thing is kind of overplayed, but the fact that there’s natural air circulation is a huge fucking plus during the summer. At Chantelle, the table was just a corner that they kind of set aside. At DL, if you got bottle service, you had an entire section of the roof to yourself. I quickly introduced myself to the hostess, aptly named Olenna. She was my favorite. As this was her job, she’s pretty jaded to the whole scene, and she and I spent way too much time throwing shade at various patrons. “Take your frosted tips and square-toed shoes and just jump off the roof back into the 90’s.” Lady Olenna, truly the Queen of Thorns.
After about 30 minutes bullshitting with the other people in the VIP section (a group of 25 Asians, a bridal shower, and 3 very drunk models) I decided to head out to the main floor. After downing my requisite glass of Red Bull, I got tapped on the shoulder and handed a card. On it was a dare from a bachelorette party, saying that one of them had to get a piggyback ride from a stranger.
Enter, Oliver.
After dancing with a girl on my back for a song, she very politely introduced herself. I reciprocated, but by the time we were done, she had dubbed me Oliver, and I dubbed her Becky (because she had good hair). Oliver was then abducted by the whole bachelorette party, who also dragged them up to the VIP section to meet the Committee. Then, Ginuwine’s “Pony” came on and the rest of the night was just a blur. And yes, “Pony” does terrible things to me.
Notes to the various women that Oliver and I met:
Megan- I’m pretty sure the British dude texting was pretty miserable with his girlfriend. I also whole-heartedly support your decision to sell out, and/or marry rich.
Abby- Teach me how to dougie. No, seriously, teach me how to dougie.
Girl Who Bashed Her Head into the A/C- Take an advil or two, you probably don’t have a concussion.
Shannon- I actually want your biceps.
Sam- Seriously, much love to Clifton.
Rachel- If anyone gives you shit about your Harry Potter tattoo, just straight up punch them in the dick.
Bride to be- I’m very sorry I forgot your name, but I hope you and Alex have a lifetime of happiness together.
Brigid- You have a bunch of selfies of Oliver and Becky on your phone. You’d be doing Oliver a big favor if you deleted all of them. And no, you are not a better dancer than I am.
Vivian- Girl, you’re gorgeous, but you need to handle your liquor. You literally sat in a tub of ice to cool off, and then fell over breaking 3 tables. And no, I’m not Polish.
Becky- Seriously, you had good hair. Also, if you didn’t win your bachelorette challenges, I want to meet the person that won. I think we crushed that shit. I’m also pretty sure that we were the only two who could salsa to that fucking song.
Angie- I will admit, Becky and Oliver were pretty amazing together, but to be fair, I think you and I could give them a run. Getting $5 water with you was by far the most fun thing I did all night. And you’re totally right, Oliver does seem like kind of a ho. I blame it on his upbringing as a failed hip-hop dancer.
I’m currently writing this suffering from a caffeine crash headache and sleep deprivation. My self-prescribed treatment is shitty Chinese food and an afternoon of being splayed on my bed. Which is what I’m currently doing.
This is the aftermath of a weekend sponsored by Red Bull and the Committee.
