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Under The Cover Of Night

 The world is sleeping, but Im wide awake. Ive always been nocturnally inclined, a creature of the night more comfortable cohorting in the darkness then laying shiftless and lazily in the light. Ever since I was a kid, I had a dormant sense that things come alive while the rest of the world slumbers. This has only emerged more and more as Ive grown older, my proclivities matching an encroaching evening, getting shadier and blacker as I reach greater levels of maturity. Or, supposed to be reaching them anyway. People show who they really are under the light of the moon, and passions that lay submissive and restrained during the day burst free from captivity when drenched in moonlight. The masks we wear are free to be cast aside whilst we dance in the dark, and if were lucky they will have been permanently lost come the breaking dawn. The world shifts and reality bends to the hidden desires of those participating in the often illicit fun. If a party during the day is marked by contagious excitement and social connection, then at night the atmosphere dons a seductive vibe, making sensuality and provocativeness, the pursuit of the erotically tasteful and the taboo the main order of the occasion. You can really only taste how sweet the forbidden fruit is whilst draped under a veil of shadow. Do yourself a favor. When the juice drips down your chin, dont rinse it off. Savor it.

The spirit thrives at night. I was 19, fresh from a breakup, chasing carnality at City Nights. The booming, deep rhythms echoed from the inside of the cavernous club, the throbbing bass marching in sync with my pounding heart. My friends and I, steeped in youthful enthusiasm, launched ourselves past the bouncer at the first chance, eager to test our fledgling game on the club's women.  That first memory reveals to me my inadequacy at the time regarding the fairer sex. While it was little trouble for me to obtain a girls phone number and enjoy her at a later date, I had a sneaking, unspoken suspicion that I was trying too hard. Using routines and techniques to come in indirectly, I sought to maximize my notch count through masterful social engineering. While indirect game does have its place, particularly in my beloved coffeeshops during a bustling city day, it must come from the right place. We were on the prowl, and felt we had some sort of secret weapon that would win us feminine approval and rewards. We were misled, ill advised children allowed to stay up past our bedtimes. Seduction isnt about manipulation, its about connection. Barriers arent smashed through with force or superceded by way of cunning, but scaled together, hand in hand. Trust is the worlds most potent aphrodisiac, and if you can invoke it in a woman's heart, all of the other "game" you may think you need can safely be cast aside as the useless ruses that they are. Now, when I say to earn her trust, I dont mean that you devolve into a giant pussy crying over sunsets and romcoms with her. If she wanted to bang a chick, shed be a lesbian. You have to be honest with yourself and with her, and own your sexuality on a deeply intimate, visceral level. We were in a nightclub on a Saturday night doing our best impressions of our favorite alpha males, all the while failing miserably, loving every minute of it. Our targets were scantilly clad in short skirts, halter tops and club dresses, sexuality on full display. We mustered the courage to speak to them, locked eyes, opened our mouths and..... asked if they thought magic spells worked. It was as awkward as it sounds on paper, or, monitor rather. At best, we were met with polite, forced conversation as the women sought the best way to make a surreptitiously hasty exit. At worst, I got a drink thrown on me and a round of hearty laughter from her friends, which I deserved for being so damn weird. Dejected, we retreated to the corner. "Why isnt this working?", I thought to myself. Oh, you little dumbass, Ill tell you why. The lust, desire, and need in your mannerisms was apparent and clear. Then you walk up and ask an inane series of questions, trying to appear friendly and non-threatening. This isnt a city street on a Tuesday afternoon. She knows you want to fuck her, and guess what? She wants it just as bad. Grant her her wish. Dont insult her or waste her time. You want love at first sight and romance? Read a pulp novel sold in the magazine section of a grocery store. Inspiration and revelation struck the 19 year old dipshit formerly known as me, and the universe conspired in that moment to help me.

Women arent stupid. Theyre infinitely more perceptive than we are, and without them we'd still be nothing more than knuckledraggers. This isnt feminist bullshit or illogical liberal rhetoric, its time tested, battle proven, hard won truth. Its just as solid as the fact that the bad guy will get the girl for the night because the nice guy is a little bitch. Any women reading this may be shaking their heads increduously, but I can guarantee that even if you ended up with the sweet, sensitive rube that cries with you at the end of The Notebook, you put that guy through hell before he even saw a hint of leg. Meanwhile, the muscular asshole who teased you mercilessly all night at the college party got you naked in record time, deal sealed. I know because Ive been on both sides and lived it. That muggy summer night in the Bay changed my life and put me on course to being the man I am today. I sat in the corner, wallowing in a pitiful mixture of disappointment and resentment. Why werent any of the things I read working? Come in under the radar, establish rapport, make her laugh, build comfort, get the number. In my determination to make the night work, my arrogance and inexperience combined to form a sobering mixture, one with the potency of white lightning moonshine fresh from the hills of West Virginia. I needed to imbibe that shot, because, adversely, it cleared my inebriation and brought me back to Earth with disconcerting clarity. Why did I need to come in under the radar? Why did I have to hide aspects of myself, natural aspects, in order to get the girl? Hell, why should I even entertain the notion? Theres nothing wrong with me, Im a great guy, and as long as Im not being (excessively) crude or inappropriate, if she doesnt like me, thats her loss, not mine. In that moment, I allowed me to be me, completely unhinged and unabashedly. I felt weightless, all trepidation leaving me, a rejuvenating sense of possibility flowing through me. Then I saw her.

I never learned her name, and in cases like these it didnt matter, never does really. She was exotic, vaguely Middle Eastern looking to my vision anyway. Taking into account the entrancing way her lithe body swayed to the pulse of the melody, Id venture to say her lineage was interspersed with a fair amount of Latin as well. We locked eyes, hers doe wide, russet and sparkling under the multi-colored strobelights, mine glazed over and doleful, in awe of her beauty. She beckoned to me from the dance floor, and my two left feet obliged graciously. On my own, my "dancing" abilities consist of swaying my shoulders awkwardly along to the beat with the fluidity of maple syrup dripping fresh from a tree. At best, I resemble  a buoy in rough waters, at worst, a corpse stricken with rigor mortis being pulled and prodded along by the worlds most morbid puppeteer. But, I know how to dance with a woman. Call it a family trait passed down from both Grandfathers, chalk it up to an innate sense of Latin rhythm, or simply believe that its evidence that God has a sense of humor, but I can make a woman swoon on the dance floor. Our bodies complimented each others perfectly, her smooth curves complimenting my rough, jagged, burgeoning musculature. We became one, blood rising and moods elevating, as we rode the waves of spontaneous attraction expressed physically, all societal restraint absent, our indescretions blanketed safely under cover of the dark, writhing club. Her neck craned back and her head turned. We kissed, and I took her right there on the dance floor.

In closing, be bold, live like youre dying, and dont be afraid to fail. Because you will, alot. But the potential rewards are incredible. Some people dont believe this story to this day, and Ill never give a fuck. Theyre unaccustomed to living a life beyond the strangling tendrils of mediocrity. Plus, their afraid of the unknown, replled by the dark. Things like this can only happen at night.

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I cant sleep/
Because these damn bleat-/
Ing fat sheep/
Harass me/
With thoughts of home everlasting/
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If I'm doubting/
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Er back there or out be-/
Ing the bad dream/
I've been to half the peop-/
Le I've known, just last week/
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Down three/
Annoying ass teens/
For laughing/
As I watched a movie slammed, beat/
After a savage week/
At work, I found these/
Hands swing-/
Ing grabbing/
Necks to gash and ring/
While attacking/
Panicking/
I stand, shriek/
And pass weak/
Guards, they cant catch me/
Tragedy/
Befalls actually/
Facts and brief/
Glass meet-/
Ings with a pastor week-/
Ly leaves me/
Seeking/
A deity/
To help free me/
But they keep me/
In this cage weeping/
Scheming/
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Screws/
Loose/
Unleashing/
Rage when they leash me/
Up like a dog, deep things/
Run through my head underneath these/
Veins running varicose/
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