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 ^{(it's beta!)}

The place: Squid Row, an infamous nightclub within downtown Cabo San Lucas catering to young rambunctious college kids (or sometimes even younger, depending on the quality of the ID) and lustful middle aged men. The music: A sonic wash of vibrations trembling through the air. The beat pulses strongly, like a teeter-tooter consistently crescendoing, massaging my skin, reaching deep and thoroughly. A cascade of chemical reacts in my adolescent brain: adrenaline, euphoria, scattered ecstasy, and anxious curiosity that could only activated by the feel of music enrapturing my eardrums. And the dancing has not even started yet.

While I silently reflect upon my venture here a year before my older brother, his girlfriend, and I find a table. Last year, it was my Dad and I drinking at a table as my brother and his friend received the attention of whatever girls they wanted. This year I feel up to this ecstatic club: no more awkward presence of a father nearby, no more strings attached to girls back home, and, perhaps, no more mute shyness when encountering gorgeous women.

It is still dinner time so the place is relatively, lightly packed with people: perhaps fifty people, including families. Strangely, people do bring their families here: tween-aged sons and daughters included. I question the parenting capabilities of someone who brings their kids to club where college girls wear shorts only a quarter-inch from being considered underwear and signs like “Women would rather have beauty than brains, because men can see better than they can think” decorate the walls.

We wave down a waiter. My brother talks to him over the blaring music, “We want some nachos!”

“Huh?”

“NACHOS!”

“Eh?”

“NAAACHOOOOS!”

The waiter nods and grunts in understanding. Such is the nature of a place where the music is a beautiful freight train bearing down on my ears; one talks with their eyes and their hips. My brother gets my attention.

"Eh?"

"Those girls with the short skirts!" He points up, towards the upper deck. Against the railing above are four really superb looking girls who, backs turned, are unknowingly flaunting the shortness of their skirts to the world below. My chivalrous instincts tell me to look away, but it is really damn hard. The view is so… enticing. No doubt, there are many other men who found that view and are happily enjoying it. I look around some more. I notice a boy, no older than fourteen, dancing away with three girls that are my age. They, more or less, rub up and down against him, hips wavering sensually. It is before eleven, so kids can still be in here with their parents. I remember that from last year. But I still don't get it. This is Squid Row, not fucking Applebee's. But then again, most men here have not improved their maturity since 8th grade, so what does age matter. My brother grabs my attention again and points up. Without hesitance, a guy is grabbing busty beautiful girls, lifting them up, and thrusting against them in fit of mid-air dry humping. This is the atmosphere of Squid Row. It is…. tantalizing. I can only imagine it is worse than a strip club, where it is a big violation to touch an exotic dancer, only watch. Squid Row is see and touch, please. The mood is infectious. It is in the air, in that smell: the enthralling scent of libido, alcohol, sweat, and lipstick in the air.

After I down a couple of incredibly watered down Grey Goose and Cranberry's we head to the upper deck, a place of true party kids. Inhibitions will be lost where there is a dancing cage, another bar, a DJ booth, and a set of bleacher-like steps to dance, all of which is packed on half of the deck so space is sparse. We get on those well-trodden steps and dance. Instantly, my falsely inflated ego flies away. This is a crowd where flirting is through hips and friction, and I am a white boy who dances like Michael J. Fox writes. But I try anyway. The beats of the music feeds my adrenaline filled veins and time goes away. How long? An half-hour? An hour? It does not matter. I take a break for a Grey Goose and Vodka. I end up by the railing.

A blond girl fills the empty space next to me. Is she just filling the spot or does she think I'm cute? What do I do? I blank. I noticed she has cute brunette friend with her. Another guy steals away the blond, but the brunette slides in. I look around sheepishly, looking for a cue, a sign from God. I turn around and my brother is down from the steps.

“You know there's that girl right next to you,” he says, like I should realized she is interested in me.

“

I know,” I try to change the subject. Evade, evade! “Dude, I'm feeling totally buzzed now. I'm feeling wooooozy.”

My brother ignores this. He turns to the girl, “Hi, I'm Andrew. What's your name?”

“I'm Kayla.”

“This is my brother Stephen,” He quickly puts in.

Her eyes waiver towards me hesitantly and I shake her hand feebly. “Hi,” I squeak out.

Oh, god. Blank. What the fuck do I do? What's the magic words to make this go well. I glance at my brother, pleading. Too late, she walks away, her interest obviously dissipated.

I am relieved and absolutely disappointed.

I end up on the steps again. I start dancing the best ways I can. I can feel the beat, internally and externally. The music pervades my mind. I am a musician. I know about chords, crescendos, decrescendos, staccato notes, circle of fifths, and glissandos. But none of that helps me dance to this music. I glance around and try to model what other guys are doing. I notice the girls are much more fast and flamboyant with their dance moves, while guys are so slow, the behind tempo. It should be easier to do what these other guys are doing, but it is not. I am a wiggling worm on the dance floor.

Suddenly, an allegory I heard once pops into my head. It goes like this:

There was a Little Boy who approached an Old Man, and said this: “Guess what.”

“What?” responded the Old Man.

“I can jump higher than Mount Everest!” The Little Boy exclaimed.

“Oh really? Show me,” The Old Man revealed a bemused face.

“The Little Boy crouched slightly, moved his feet back and forth like a bull ready to charge, puckered his face, and jumped. He reached a few inches off the ground.

“Well, you didn't jump higher than Mount Everest at all!” The Old Man said.

“Yes, I did! Silly Old Man, Mount Everest can't jump!”

Dancing, socializing, flirting, drinking, whatever it is I am awkward at, I just remind myself I can still jump. And this place, where sexually induced teens are as fake as my buzz, is Mount Everest.

Thinking of this, as the beat of the music makes my heart whimper, I dance and dance and dance away.