reason #254 why i hate dance clubs
The Doorman – aka the weasly, parasitic, washed-up douche on a power-trip
Here’s a funny little story from last Saturday night. Bestie and Second Mom were in the city for a family shindig. I met up with them when it was over at 3PM. From there we went to the bar area of a nice restaurant. We enjoyed some tasty wine and apps and talked and cried and laughed and got drunk. Afterwards, we went to a nearby hotel bar and had one more beverage. While there, we decided that we wanted to dance and lo-and-behold, an old college friend was going to be in the city to celebrate his birthday at this “hot gay club”. We want to dance, what better place than at a gay club?
Here’s where the real story starts. It’s early, only about 9:45/10PM, and we get in line behind the velvet rope [GAG] of this club. There’s hardly anyone else in line, so we pretty much walk right up to the doorman and this is what transpires. Not verbatim, but a pretty good representation of what was said:
Doorman: You can’t get in unless you are a member or have a white card.
Us: Huh? Really? We’re just meeting someone here for his birthday. How do you get a white card? Really? You won’t let us in?
Doorman: Step aside.
So, now we are standing to the side trying to figure out our next move. Bestie is texting the bday boy. And we’re talking and pretty incredulous about how they won’t let us in, but we’re not really making that much of a stink. We talk to some man with one of those wannabe Secret Service wire ear-pieces. He tells us that he can’t help us, it’s all up to the doorman who gets in, but basically as a woman you need to be accompanied by a male to get inside, being as it is a (male) gay club.
We move down the street a bit near the entrance to the line and talk to more bouncers down there. They basically said the same thing. So we tried asking random guys getting in line if we could go in with them. After 15 minutes of talking to the bouncers and random club-goers, we find three men who are willing to take us in with them.
We get up to the doorman and he lets the three guys in, but tells us that we are not allowed in.
Us: Umm, but why? We are going in with three guys. Those are the rules, right?
Doorman: You are not getting in.
Doorman: One of you called me an ass.
Us: What?! When?
Doorman: When you were standing over there [he points], one of you called me an ass.
Us: Are you serious? None of us called you an ass. [And none of us did, he just made that shit up.]
Doorman keeps going on how we’re not getting in and we’re arguing that we never called him an ass, when I’d finally had it.
Me: You know what? We never said, but if we did, and we didn’t, then fine, it was me. I called you an ass. Cause you know what? YOU’RE A FUCKING ASSHOLE! There, now you can say that I called you an asshole.
I proceeded to walk away, but Bestie and Second Mom were still arguing with him. I came back and kept on screaming that he was an asshole. And I wanted it on record that I was calling him an asshole. I wanted the bouncer dudes who were standing there to hear that I was calling him an asshole.
It wasn’t one of my more mature, finer moments, but it was so called for and now I can laugh about it. If I wouldn’t have to face legal consequences, I would have beat that insufferable, whiny little bitch into the sidewalk. I swear if I ever randomly see him around the city, I will throat punch him.
In retrospect, I’m glad we didn’t get in. I read online reviews of the place and most were negative with complaints about the doorman. Plus, it would have been a $30 cover for each of us and if we had to throw down $90 for just the three of us to step foot in that gawd-awful place, I think my head would have blown.