The Juicehead Mating Ritual Revisited
In response to this, I present the female perspective.
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It's been a long week. Every week is long when the majority of it is spent on the subway, on the bus, confined within a cubicle, so when the weekend rolls around, it's a welcome relief from the daily grind. A Saturday afternoon free to sleep in, lounge on the couch unshowered, in your pajamas watching HBO On-Demand, order Chinese food, take naps at your leisure. Sometimes, after such a Saturday, where the only time your feet touch the ground is to use the bathroom or look for the remote control, you feel a surge of energy. The sun sets on a day of productive absolutelynothingness, and you pick up your phone, give Fun Friend a call and say, "let's go dancing."
Fun Friend comes over, a shopping bag filled with tank tops, skirts, earrings, shoes, and other assorted "going out" paraphernalia, and you spend the next hour or two threading belts through denim belt loops, tying halter top strings, jangling chunky beaded necklaces, hair-up, hair-down, red lips, pink lips until you have each assessed the other's appearance, nodded in approval, and pronounced the words, "you look cute" with a satisfactory level of conviction.
Now you're ready. Hop on the Williamsburg bridge, the Midtown Tunnel, the 59th Street Bridge, the Lincoln Tunnel, hail a cab, hop a subway, pregame on the LIRR, and you're thrust into the Mecca of urban chic pretty people party fun known as Manhattan. Strut to the line, past the velvet rope, thank the bouncer, step in the door, grab a drink, make a round, check out the guys, stand around.
Fun Friend leans in, "wanna dance?"
"Sure!"
So you do. Big smiles all around.
Suddenly, a shadow crosses Fun Friend's face. The shadow digs lines into her brow, the lines form a grimace. Before you can turn and see what she is looking at, before she can grab your wrist and pull you away, you feel it. Softly at first, a tap. Then a poke. A nudge matures into a full-on thrust. You turn in slow motion, bottom jaw hanging in confusion.
THE JUICEHEAD COME-HITHER CALL
When a Juicehead finds a dance partner, albeit involuntary dance partner, for the evening, his "dance" evolves to accommodate for a second party. The wild foot spasms and flared elbows pose too much risk of unintentional bodily harm to a piece of ass to allow for them to get close enough for the groping that Juicehead pair dancing involves. His sudden break from routine might offer some justification for the bizarre spectacle that is about to take place, but he often pushes it to a level beyond the realms of exoneration.
Surprisingly, a Juicehead, while unintelligent and uncouth, still possesses some basic knowledge of social decency. He will not begin to pound his crotch fervently into your asscrack without first making a half-assed attempt at testing the waters. This, as well as the fact that Juiceheads ambush their prey from behind, is why his actions will not be immediately discernable without the aide of horrified facial expressions from Fun Friend. Once he is satisfied that you are not tearing through the dance floor in a wild attempt to create distance from him, he will become more aggressive. This is a good time to turn and take a look at his actions and emit a hearty belly chuckle.
The Juicehead's stance will resemble that of an overweight, inflexible man attempting to mosey under a limbo stick. His crotch will be thrust out in front of him so that his torso is leaning back at a 45 degree angle. His heels will be raised off the ground in such a manner that he is standing primarily on the balls of his feet. His shoulders will be cocked back, but his head will be upright, facing straight forward, or more likely, angled down toward your buttocks. The most important thing to note are the arms. They will be held out in front of him in such a way that it looks like he is attempting to do the robot. While Juicehead singles dancing requires an array of complicated arm work, Juicehead pairs dancing requires none. The arms remain stiffly in this position until he feels that you have given him consent to place them on your hips and/or stomach.
The actual movement involved is very basic. It entails wildly pumping his hips in the general direction of your ass while slowly stepping forward on the balls of his feet and licking his lips. Once his crotch has made contact, his thrusts will increase in speed and vigor until you are stumbling forward, arms flailing wildly to keep your balance. Often he will accept this as an invitation to grab you and steady you, leaving his unwelcome sweaty hands on your body.
Once Fun Friend has successfully grabbed your arm and pried you from his muscle-inflated, vein-streaked clutches, he will stop mid-pump. His limbo stance still intact, he will raise his arms in a half-shrug of protest.
The look of fear and disgust painting both your faces as you cling dearly to one-another will be enough. He will straighten out and glare. "Youse a wack bitch anyway," he'll say amidst a gentle spray of spittle. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he will disappear back into the crowd in search of someone drunker than you are.
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It's been a long week. Every week is long when the majority of it is spent on the subway, on the bus, confined within a cubicle, so when the weekend rolls around, it's a welcome relief from the daily grind. A Saturday afternoon free to sleep in, lounge on the couch unshowered, in your pajamas watching HBO On-Demand, order Chinese food, take naps at your leisure. Sometimes, after such a Saturday, where the only time your feet touch the ground is to use the bathroom or look for the remote control, you feel a surge of energy. The sun sets on a day of productive absolutelynothingness, and you pick up your phone, give Fun Friend a call and say, "let's go dancing."
Fun Friend comes over, a shopping bag filled with tank tops, skirts, earrings, shoes, and other assorted "going out" paraphernalia, and you spend the next hour or two threading belts through denim belt loops, tying halter top strings, jangling chunky beaded necklaces, hair-up, hair-down, red lips, pink lips until you have each assessed the other's appearance, nodded in approval, and pronounced the words, "you look cute" with a satisfactory level of conviction.
Now you're ready. Hop on the Williamsburg bridge, the Midtown Tunnel, the 59th Street Bridge, the Lincoln Tunnel, hail a cab, hop a subway, pregame on the LIRR, and you're thrust into the Mecca of urban chic pretty people party fun known as Manhattan. Strut to the line, past the velvet rope, thank the bouncer, step in the door, grab a drink, make a round, check out the guys, stand around.
Fun Friend leans in, "wanna dance?"
"Sure!"
So you do. Big smiles all around.
Suddenly, a shadow crosses Fun Friend's face. The shadow digs lines into her brow, the lines form a grimace. Before you can turn and see what she is looking at, before she can grab your wrist and pull you away, you feel it. Softly at first, a tap. Then a poke. A nudge matures into a full-on thrust. You turn in slow motion, bottom jaw hanging in confusion.
THE JUICEHEAD COME-HITHER CALL
When a Juicehead finds a dance partner, albeit involuntary dance partner, for the evening, his "dance" evolves to accommodate for a second party. The wild foot spasms and flared elbows pose too much risk of unintentional bodily harm to a piece of ass to allow for them to get close enough for the groping that Juicehead pair dancing involves. His sudden break from routine might offer some justification for the bizarre spectacle that is about to take place, but he often pushes it to a level beyond the realms of exoneration.
Surprisingly, a Juicehead, while unintelligent and uncouth, still possesses some basic knowledge of social decency. He will not begin to pound his crotch fervently into your asscrack without first making a half-assed attempt at testing the waters. This, as well as the fact that Juiceheads ambush their prey from behind, is why his actions will not be immediately discernable without the aide of horrified facial expressions from Fun Friend. Once he is satisfied that you are not tearing through the dance floor in a wild attempt to create distance from him, he will become more aggressive. This is a good time to turn and take a look at his actions and emit a hearty belly chuckle.
The Juicehead's stance will resemble that of an overweight, inflexible man attempting to mosey under a limbo stick. His crotch will be thrust out in front of him so that his torso is leaning back at a 45 degree angle. His heels will be raised off the ground in such a manner that he is standing primarily on the balls of his feet. His shoulders will be cocked back, but his head will be upright, facing straight forward, or more likely, angled down toward your buttocks. The most important thing to note are the arms. They will be held out in front of him in such a way that it looks like he is attempting to do the robot. While Juicehead singles dancing requires an array of complicated arm work, Juicehead pairs dancing requires none. The arms remain stiffly in this position until he feels that you have given him consent to place them on your hips and/or stomach.
The actual movement involved is very basic. It entails wildly pumping his hips in the general direction of your ass while slowly stepping forward on the balls of his feet and licking his lips. Once his crotch has made contact, his thrusts will increase in speed and vigor until you are stumbling forward, arms flailing wildly to keep your balance. Often he will accept this as an invitation to grab you and steady you, leaving his unwelcome sweaty hands on your body.
Once Fun Friend has successfully grabbed your arm and pried you from his muscle-inflated, vein-streaked clutches, he will stop mid-pump. His limbo stance still intact, he will raise his arms in a half-shrug of protest.
The look of fear and disgust painting both your faces as you cling dearly to one-another will be enough. He will straighten out and glare. "Youse a wack bitch anyway," he'll say amidst a gentle spray of spittle. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he will disappear back into the crowd in search of someone drunker than you are.
-L
posted by CEO of the World at 3:30 PM
5 Comments:
Brilliant. You and the Bouncer should have a "He Said, She Said" blog...fantastic.
ahahaha just picturing this (and the bare truth of it all) reminds me what tools men are. seriously. this is why my boyfriend doesn't dance.. b/c he knows how horrible he and his kind look when attempting it.
^i second that... it's great to read 2 posts on the same topic by a male/female perspective...
You kids today have all the fun. All we had was The Hustle and a sharp heel to the instep took care of any assgrinding.
this was so vivid, the techno garbage "satisfaction" began involuntarily playing in my head as i envisioned this scene.
The Guido phenom has spread everywhere..I am a bouncer in San Diego and it seems to me that the popped collars and stupid tan/haircut is prevalent here amoungst the middle eastern crowd as much as the Italian crowd on the east coast. Thanks to the "my new haircut" video for tying this all together to people on both coasts. At best ...I am free to laugh at them and more importantly my comments as I am carding New Jersey and NY Id's. Good times. BTW..I love the writing.
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