There’s a certain thrill when I’ve decided to paint the town red. Enough electricity to power an entire small city pumps through my blood when my primary agenda is nothing short of having fun. And preparing for said fun–and a night out–can and should be a full-on celebration of hedonism, pleasing all of the five senses.
First, the music must be right. I find that either an introspective meditation–Sigur Ros or Dead Can Dance–slowly builds the internal baseline for a wildly successful evening. Or, the polar opposite–AC/DC or Jay-Z–played at full volume riles up the right energy, although it definitely pisses off the neighbors (which means you’re on the right track). Add a Red Bull Jack (in the winter) or a Red Bull Vodka (in the summer) to help with the cause.
Then there is the makeup and the clothing. I’m obsessed with eye shadow and covet the successful eyelid glitter on other women even though I have no skills in that department. Sometimes I get lucky and have a lovely lady paint me before we hit the town, which obviously takes the whole experience up a sexy notch. The clothes you adorn yourself with say so much about mood, agenda, and sex appeal–a shout out to the art of peacocking. And don’t make the mistake of the masses who unwittingly choke bystanders on closed-in subway cars–a little perfume goes a long, long way.
Then, it’s time to take your sweet ass out on the town. It’s a bit like being sixteen again. The night is young. And so are we. And as long as we’re alive, the lure of Dance, Music, Sex, Romance calls with the charm of a thousand Sirens “knocking me out with their American thighs.” And now that I’m single again, I’ll follow their call–even if it means crashing on the rocks. I can get behind that.