Tired of the Meat Market? Try the Super Market!

Marriage material is something you just don’t find much of in Clubland. Most party people lack the mindset to settle down, even as they keep their eyes peeled for that one and only Mr. or Ms. Right. In fact, joints that deal in decadence and debauchery are the places where relationships of the love and commitment variety go to die. Couples who are actually in love know this. That’s why they always stand apart at clubs, guarding each other from the pitfalls of singledom. Notice how they’re always the first to go home. Conversely, the end of a relationship almost assuredly brings out the late-night clubber in you. Broke up with a clingy boyfriend? Grab your gal pals — it’s party time. The future mother of your children realizes she’d rather not be?

That means a night out on the town with the raucous friends she always hated. But while nightlife offers an escape from being tied down — and often results in getting tied up to things like bedposts — clubs hardly set the stage for the start of a romance, or at least not the kind that lasts beyond a few good lays. This begs a “Sex and the City” sort of question: Can you really find that special someone at a bar in between a string of kamikaze shots?

It would seem so. Aren’t clubs and bars the places you go to meet people? Sure, nightlife serves as the most common domain for socializing with strangers. The irony is that men and women alike are weary of Clubland affairs. Even if there is a genuine attraction to the person you purposely bumped into on the dance floor and subsequently downed drinks and made out with, it’ll be difficult to take anything seriously. After all, it would be naive to think you were the first to stick your tongue down his or her throat in the VIP room. That’s because the context in which club encounters take place is fashioned for cumming and going. The bumping, the grinding, the hooting and hollering — it’s all about getting off and getting on. Fulfillment? Forget it. Those with the long-term in the back of their heads are only setting themselves up for a downer.

At this point you’re probably wondering what the hell has occurred in my life to warrant such a change of heart. Up till now, this column has been a staunch supporter of temporarily satisfying, meaningless sex with people you’ll only run into again outside the restroom at the same club you coincidentally met them in. But I’m getting sick of it all: the childish head games, the anxiety over possible pregnancies, the Chlamydia. To answer, Jefferson Airplane: “Yeah, I need somebody to love.” Now, for those like me who sincerely yearn for an end to mornings where you wake up next to a person you’d never have fucked in the first place if it weren’t for an overconsumption of alcohol, here’s a clue: there’s a place where singles worth hooking up with can be found on a weekly basis… and it ain’t no club.

It’s the supermarket on Monday nights. I’m serious. Young professionals typically do their groceries after work at the beginning of the week. Don’t believe me? Visit the supermarket in a metropolitan neighborhood on any given Monday and you’ll find a deli that doubles as pickup central.

Think about it. What packs more sexual innuendo than asking for a nice cut of ham or beef? I’m hot and bothered just thinking about that moment when somebody is given a slice of lunchmeat for a taste test. Oh boy… I need a sandwich.



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