Why was he here again?
Jacob had never enjoyed stuff like this. Stuff where you were supposed to like, dance inappropriately and everyone drank lots of alcohol and yelled really loudly and the speakers were too obnoxious to even like, let someone appreciate the music. Jacob always enjoyed dancing; he’d taken ballroom dancing lessons all through high school, and loved the sensation of moving in perfect synchronization with someone else. Also, let’s be real, Jacob was pretty physically coordinated. Like, he had some smooth moves. Girls at Barrie’s ballroom dancing parties were always all over him.
But what was even going on in this smoky little room? Was this even dancing? How could you describe this like, weird way of rubbing yourself against someone else that all these people seemed to be doing as dancing? Dancing was beautiful and elegant, not…primal like this. God, this was so gross. Why was he even here? He had so much homework he needed to be doing. Fuck, he was wasting a perfectly good Saturday night, probably like, six or seven solid hours of work, down the drain. He hated himself so much. Literally.
But he was here anyway, because he’d literally run out of other things to do to procrastinate on his computer science homework (which was DUE IN FORTY-SEVEN HOURS HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT), and…well, maybe if he just kept making himself do stupid shit like this, he’d end up liking it like all of his guy friends.
God, the testosterone in here was stifling.
Humming Tchaikovsky’s 5th Symphony to himself to drown out this ridiculous loud drum thing that was supposed to be passing for music, Jacob began to wander around the outskirts of the club, dodging various making-out couples who popped up every few feet. Finally he found an empty table and sat down. Well, if he was going to be here all lame and by himself, at least he could look cool.
He motioned to the nearest waitress. ”Hi,” he said politely. ”Could I get a Diet Coke, please?” They had Diet Coke at clubs, right?