By Drake Moreau
Considering Beijing is the capital of the world’s most populous country and one hell of a city, it’s a joke that the month’s big social event is Lil’Jon at Spark. On a Sunday night.
Spark, by the way, was the hottest club in town until the owners decided to charge 200 motherfucking RMB for cover. (For guys, that is. Girls pay 100 RMB.) But Lil’Jon is Lil’Jon, and naturally, I had to be there.
My buddy Rollo brought me to his friend’s pristine three-bedroom apartment: bare walls except for a shitty framed Asian calligraphy painting, plus a measly 23-inch flat screen that didn’t belong on the wooden dresser (it clearly came with the place). Rollo and his friend, Twizzler, work together, so when we all sat down with our whiskeys, waiting for some others to come over, they organically devolved the conversation to office politics.
Before long, though, my ears perked up.
Rollo: “Yo, are you going to bring the Taiwanese chick tonight?”
Twizzler: “Nah, I’m going rando tonight.”
Rollo: “What about the Chinese girl?”
Twizzler: “Naaaawwwhhh” (with a smile/chuckle)
Me: “Jesus, what is this? A game show?”
Rollo: “What about your NEW YORK girl?”
Twizzler: “Hah, no, she’s in Hong Kong, man.”
Turns out Twizzler — and to my surprise, a bit of my man Rollo — is a bit of a pole vaulter, hopping all across town and the cities that he travels to. All good omens for the night.
We talked a bit about our tickets, which came from an agency called Send Me Tickets. The people who run it strike me as morons. Their plan is to shell out a lot of dough for a big name like Lil’ Jon (real gem there) to develop their brand. So what did it cost to bring in the big guy with a three-word vocabulary? Thirty. Five. Fucking. Large. That’s right, $35,000. That’s dollars. Meanwhile, they’ve come up with a brilliant scheme to recoup all that through ticket sales: charge ladies less to attract all the male sharks in Beijing, people like my friends here. Guys pay 300 RMB at the door and 200 pre-sale, while girls pay 100 RMB at the door and 50 pre-sale. Such gender discrimination. I shit 50 yuan for breakfast. How does Send Me Tickets expect to break even with this rugrats scheme?
Rollo, Twizz and I took a couple more shots to take the conversation elsewhere. Eventually, a trio of ABCs show up in high heels and short form-fitting dresses that hug their thighs, and we split up in cabs (not before taking three more shots of vodka each).
We walk into Spark and I’m already a mess. The green lasers in the front bounce off the mirrors (right, I forgot to mention… there are lasers at the entrance, with fucking mirrors. HOLY SHIT). I almost bump into solid surfaces several times, but a quick dime turn later — the equivalent of Indiana Jones jumping over the decapitating blades in The Temple of Doom – and I’m inside.
Twizz leads us to a small table with a curved bench. I’m following like a drunk lapdog. The place is a goddamn madhouse. Picture Subway Line 1 at 8 am. But in Spark.
A woman brings a bucket of ice. Twizz, behind her, presents a gorgeous-looking bottle of Absolut. I pour everybody a shot and then fill ‘em back up.
Girls are out in full force and looking to party. Another ABC (or maybe she’s Chinese, but it doesn’t matter) grabs me and we start dancing. Her hips and general pelvic region dig into my hips and general pelvic region. I grab her waist and continue the grind. Lil’ Jon makes his appearance somewhere in the middle of our tantric dance, and I know this because I can hear him give shout-outs to Beijing and some of his trademark catcalls.
I bring the girl back to our table for a shot/drink. Meanwhile, Lil’ Jon has created the perfect diversion. Everyone is either toward the front of the table or out in the crowd on the dance floor. We take a shot, continue making out, and I don’t know if it was the music or mood or me or a combination of all three, but the demon inside this girl suddenly grabs hold and she pushes me down onto the bench next to the table. First she straddles my chest and then begins sliding her way down. No way this is happening.
She continues kissing me all over, her hands fondling everything in front of her. Then, I could feel my belt buckle being undone.
(Get the fuck out of here. HOOOOOOKKKKAAAAYYYY.)
Before I could even scream out the chorus to the song Shots, she was singing oral praises to Lil’Drake.
Again, everyone was pretty preoccupied with Lil’ Jon and his shenanigans to notice us.
Next thing I remember, I’m in my underwear in bed. I slowly lean up, look at my watch, and see the big hand on the 12 and the little one 30 degrees to the left. It’s Monday, mind you, and my phone is out of minutes. As I flip the blanket across my body to go use the bathroom, a condom wrapper flies across my line of vision in the empty apartment.
Like him? Hate him? Just don’t pretend you don’t know someone like him. Drake Moreau can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org — shoot him an email if you attended the Lil’Jon concert on Sunday, and you might find yourself in a future column. |Drake Archives|