Club Classics

A drunken ethnography.

By Selma White-Pascual

Illustration by Kathleen Halley-Segal

I clutch the gate next to me for balance as I shove my sweaty feet into a pair of six-inch heels I’ve just pulled out of my now deflated bag, perched atop a little ledge. Also on the ledge: a sultry perfume I’ve chosen for the night, makeup to retouch my face, banana blossom leftovers from Thai Diner on Mott Street, and the loose 20 dollar bill I’ll be using tonight. I’ve exchanged my trusty subway shirt for a lighter shawl to trek the four blocks to the Moxy Hotel. 

It’s nearly midnight and I’ve been walking around the briny bar-scape of Nolita for an hour, soaking in the marinade of La Nuit and Chanel Bleu, waiting for the propitious ding that lets me know Steven is ready to receive me. 

Field Note: 

The night is saturated with heavy cologne and the recurring presence of heterosexual men in fitted jeans—homogenized aesthetic as male spectacle? 

Received text message: “Meet outside bar next door Hana No Sake in five minutes. I am wearing a red shirt.” 

My heel finally slides in, and I’m off. When I arrive, I look around for Steven. Ah! There he is, the middle-aged Asian man with a beer belly and spiked hair walking toward me. We shake hands, and the bill slips easily from my palm to his. We skip the line, the bouncer scans the ID of a girl I look nothing like, and lifts up the velvet rope for me. I’m beaming. This is so gangster. 

The night begins in a piano lounge. Steven, our charismatic host, orders for everyone. The spicy tuna cones come quickly and circle the table. When they reach me, he waves his hand: “She doesn’t really eat.” 

I giggle lightly, but I’m furious. I watch the cones move on as if they were crispy little soldiers, and I, a war wife. Apparently, I’ve slouched in disappointment, for suddenly I feel a greasy hand pull my shoulders back. The man beside me, grey-haired and grinning, flashes the debris of miso crust between his teeth. Crumbs he’s left on my back slip down into my dress. The pianist strikes a diminished seventh, and we’re shepherded up to a rooftop bar.

At the promoter table near the DJ booth: vodka, tequila, cranberry juice, and ice for the women. A Clase Azul bottle far from the couch … premium alcohol restricted? Spatial and material arrangement suggests gendered control of resources (Kalish and Kimmel ‘gatekeeping’ in nightlife economies).

The bottle belongs to the suited man sitting at our table. The girl next to me informs me that she already made out with him and he still isn’t sharing. I sigh and lower my eyes dramatically before returning my attention to the room.

Club nights are all really just first dates. Blind dates, free drinks, bad conversation. An excerpt:

“So, I’m throwing a content-creation party for my birthday. It’s on a yacht.”

“On what body of water?”

“The Hudson.”

“Is that sanitary?” I joke. He doesn’t get it. I pivot. “How old are you turning?”

“Forty-six. Hey, listen, I’d love to take you to Baccarat. It’s high end, and they don’t ID.”

I drink and drift downstairs: sweaty bodies, disco balls, red lights. This is what it's all about, isn’t it? 

Steven is hosting a “promoter-collab” (they’re my new favorite niche New York influencers), so I meet his bearded partner, who starts massaging my hand. It’s too far into the night to say no. “I won’t give you one back,” I say. He leers at me as his hand moves to my knee, then higher. I lean against the wall and stare up at the flashing lights. My head is throbbing, the bass is strong. 

I suppose I should let him continue. I’ve been in heels for three hours and I’m all sore. Any trip to a real masseuse would bankrupt me at the moment so I settle for this amateur instead. His hands are muscular—from shaking hands with all the other under-21s as they slip him their 20s. 

Club economy appears to run on minor seductions … access, attention, affection. Rationing by gender and capital. Social order made casual through pleasure and repetion.

The scene is over, it’s late. I call an Uber to Grand Central. I’m supposed to take the Metro North, but the first train up is at 6:25 a.m. Security guards have sectioned off a makeshift pen for the bleary-eyed. I blink myself awake every so often to make sure no one has taken my purse. When I finally board the train, my phone buzzes. Ominously. A new message from a number I don’t have saved.

“Hey, you end up okay?

Feel free to HMU anytime for guest list/reservations.

Refer me to anyone who’s looking for a good time haha.”

Oh, the horror!