Just Dance

When in doubt, just dance. Being an international business hub, Singapore brings in DJs from all over the world for the suits to party hard. The thing about Los Angeles is that people don’t go out to dance, they go out to stand in a club and do the Paris Hilton—just look hot.

My favorite place to dance is Zouk. On Wednesday evenings, it is Mambo night, where Asians jam to 90’s music and participate in synchronized dancing. Beware of getting slapped in the face by their robo moves. Preferably, Saturday is the night to go when their guest DJs spin, like Bennie Benassi or Bob Sinclar.

One night at Zouk, a local radio station was holding an event, “Singapore’s Top 21 Hottest Men.” Splendid, now I could see what my options were. 21 metro men stood on Zouk’s stage and showcased their talents and identical hair. One man’s talent was pouring a drink…need I say more? When the men were eliminated to the top 10, the radio host asked 10 single ladies to come up on stage. My friends pushed me into the bright lights. There I was, on stage, my red hair shimmering, and all eyes on my blue eyes. Yes, I was single, white, and now apparently a part of a circus act. In order to narrow the top 10 to the top 3, the women had to play musical chairs—with the men being the chairs. Who’d a thunk I’d be scurrying around trying to sit on an Asian man’s lap for the sake of time?

Come the third round I couldn’t find a lap. “Oh so sorry you loose!! Heheh haha,” The Anime laughter of the radio host echoed through the club as I ushered myself off stage in embarrassment.

I went outside to get a breathe of second hand smoke and was approached by “hottest man in Singapore” number 3.

“Wazz up?” Number 3 sounded like Joey from “Friends,” with limited conversation skills. The throbbing beat of the club started to begin and I excused myself.

There are three black boxes in the club you can dance-your-heart-out on. Two of the boxes are usually full with ladyboys or people who are “rollin” (yes there are those who do drugs in Singapore despite the death penalties). The third box is the Ladies Only box…real ladies. My box. Once you plant yourself and two friends on the box you must occupy the 3x3 space with your dance moves at all times in order to guarantee space as the dance floor floods with people.

Dressed down in my tennis shoes, hair up in a ponytail, I was liberated from LA vanity. The lights flickered across the smokey air to the beat and I started to get lost in the moment. A moment where time seemed non-existent, where things were peaceful and free where I felt—“Hey, Hey, HEY! Wanna dance?” yelled Number 3. He motioned to me to get off the box and join him. “No, I need room to dance”—wait was I turning down a man? He continued to stand there for twenty minutes until he finally gave up. Did I not need a male specimen? Maybe all I needed was good music to dance to to remain satisfied!

At 3AM, as I exited the club I heard, “Excuse me, miss! Miss! You forgot this!” I turned around and the Anime radio host handed me my musical chair participation gift…a blowup penis. Like I was saying…who needs a man?