Play, Boy

Play, Boy

The party came and went. I had my gulab jamuns, six of them with lots of vanilla ice cream - strictly gastronomically speaking, of course. On the amorous front, I struck a zero, as usual. And then I go back to asking the same question that I do, after every GB party: how come I never get lucky?

There are various theories about this, of course. There's one that goes: since I never go to a party without my friends and since I love to dance, I spend most of my time on the dance floor, strictly with my friends. Even when I go to the bar to get a drink, I don't hang around there like all the other stags, waiting to rub shoulders, legs, or even more, and instead, boogey straight back to the dance floor, glass/ bottle in hand. So, where on earth do I get the chance to lock gazes with Tall, dark and Handsome strangers, anyway?

In consonance with the same theory, there's an accusation that I project a very haughty demeanor on the dance floor. Almost as if I love dancing by myself and my friends, and if you think I care a rat's ass about you asking me for a dance, you can just go and wring out your pantyhose...! Hmmm... must be the eyebrows. I need to get them plucked.

Then, there's Theory Number 2, which I hit upon on Sunday morning. The day after. Why don't I get lucky when I wear the sleeveless number and the tight cord pants? Well, because being a slut simply isn't my type. Being an overt slut isn't my type, I mean. There are simply better and hunkier sluts available in Bombay, and anyone at the party who wants this variety simply mosies over there and feels them up, giving me the ditch.

So, what should I do? Stick to my full sleeve shirts and nice pants, and cradle my drink in my hand? Sigh, I'm not just the cradling sort. Sooner or later, I'm going to get hot and sweaty while dancing like a maniac, and the shirt buttons will get undone. Slutboy reawakens. Let's face it: I never meet interesting people at parties. Definitely not the kind I'd like to date. My best side is the cute guy next door with a great sense of humour. And that's not a side of you that you can easily promote at GB!

What this means is that I'm not going to get lucky at a GB party. Probably, never. (Counting aside the one or two times I have, that is.) I may not exactly be the wallflower, but hell, the wallflower will probably go home with some phone numbers, and I'll just be tired, drunk and quite satisfied at my twinkle toes. No number, though.

But maybe, the whole point of the exercise is to have fun. I have plenty of that.