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BY AMBER ROSE

In print | Published November 19, 2009 — Updated December 19, 2011 12:54

I c u whinin’ an’ grindin’ up on that flo’. I no u c me lookin’ at u and u already no: I wanna luv u. U already no, I wanna luv u. U already noooo, girl.

If you take out the free mystery drinks and the crumbly Dorito party favors, Paces is almost like Da Club. All you need to do to have a good time, really, is to imagine a completely different atmosphere, and it’s like you’re a VIP at a super exclusive bar. (Right? Am I right??) Actually, all jokes aside, it really gets me that so many people hate on Paces. It’s really a very good time if you have the right attitude.

Now that I’ve become older, I don’t frequent Paces like I used to. Still, I can recall a few nights when my beloved café-by-day, disco-by-night put me in the zone. Last year at the Decades party for instance, I can remember being on Cruise Control. Caught up in the Grease theme song, my innocent twisting suddenly became all-out gymnastics — it was this transformation completely beyond my control. In my robotic state, my back found its way to the floor, my spine making direct contact with the beer-stained tiles. Somehow, I had managed to get all the way down there for a sort of back-bend with my pelvis as the hinge.

While getting up from this position caused me a series of hamstring spasms, the physical pain was well worth the cathartic experience. In fact, once the endorphins kicked in, a second wind propelled me up and down the three wooden steps for the duration of “I’m Gonna Be (500 miles).” For the entire song, I did nothing but march up the stairs, and then down the stairs, and then up and down again. Of course I threw in little hip thrusts and some creative gesticulation, but the point is, anyone observing me would probably have been asking himself, “What in the hell is she doing?”

But honestly, who cares? I was blowing off steam and having a damn good time doing it. Paces, despite any of the criticism brought about by its detractors, (“Wahh, it’s sketchy. Ohh, it’s lame.”) is a great place to forget about your problems and get loose. You remember that couple jammed in the corner inhaling each other’s faces for a solid two-thirds of the night? Mock them you might, but they were enjoying themselves. And what the hell, weren’t you enjoying yourself by viewing? Okay, maybe you were repulsed, but the situation is pretty laughable. I expect to see that tall, goofy white kid grinding on that little Asian girl, their butts jerking back and forth at about three times the speed of the beat. And what do I say to that? Yeahhh man!

Making a fool of yourself at the Swarthmore “club scene” is a necessary ritual for anyone looking for fun, or maybe even for a raucous night between the sheets.

Personally, I’m somewhere between a purple belt and a green belt when it comes to attracting the male population with my bodacious dance moves. The problem is that I tend to attract far too wide a range of male suitors, and often end up getting attacked from behind by perfect strangers, or people I’m simply NOT interested in. Guys, if there is one piece of advice I can offer you now, it’s to man up and approach a woman face first. No female (without a vomit-inducing blood alcohol level) wants her first interaction with a boy to start with crotch-to-ass-cheeks contact. No, Mr. Paces Adonis, she does not want to be surprised by a hand on her buttocks or the touch of something pointy and hard; she’d rather identify you so she can decide whether or not she wants to reject you.

In order to perfect the pre-hookup ritual, one must be confident and willing to risk rejection.

In my case, I have not come so far as to be comfortable going to Paces alone. Junior year, I would generally attend with my beloved gay boyfriend on my arm — someone on whom I could rub my booty free of tension. We would laugh with each other, at one another, and at all of the misguided dancers. We danced meringue to salsa, we would grind to “The Electric Slide,” and we really never gave a shit. But as large of a release as it is just going crazy with your friends, a girl must be willing to separate herself from her platonic dance partner if she is looking for some sexual healing, Marvin Gaye style.

Now the art of making such an adventurous move is subtle. Before you venture off into the depths of the humid sea of beer-breath, it’s a good idea to spot your intended target, or at least have your partner help scope him/her out, if you’re someone like me who’s blinder than your grandmother.

Once you’ve got your trajectory set, onward you dive into the mass of pale sweaty bodies. Now your success lies in your powers of seduction, or on the blood alcohol level of your intended. If you’re lucky, (s)he won’t drop any classic excuses on you (needing the bathroom, some water or fresh air) and you might actually dance for a song or two.

In what’s often referred to as “A night in Paces Heaven,” gravitational pull will draw you back together for the last two songs of the night, both of you conveniently paralyzed when the lights flicker on. And then you look at each other and without exchanging a word, start walking together towards a destination to be determined. You stumble out of the door stabilizing one another and laughing about some hilarious joke that’s really not all that hilarious. This storybook ending is just one positive outcome that might befall you if you give Paces a chance.

I hope I’ve helped to entice you to venture into this smarmy underworld, and if not, to at least stop slinging mud.

Amber is a senior. Suggestions for topics to cover, as well as questions, comments and anecdotes, can be sent to email address removed at the request of the author.

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