So it seems that this year’s Exotic Erotic dance has gone the way of the Long Wharf Mall and Wednesday nights at Risk. So I decided to step on in and give my account of last year’s “the more risque the less you pay” event. This is for all you freshmen who have to miss out this year, and for all those who had to leave early last year in a car accompanied by a siren (you know who you are.)
Hands down, the most crowded day at Payne Whitney Gym is always the day of the Exotic Erotic, the day when Yalies hurriedly work out, desperately trying to turn their abdominal “kegs” into six-packs. And I, too, fell prey to all the mayhem, making a valiant effort to turn my butt into something that didn’t jiggle like it should be on a commercial starring Bill Cosby.
This is also the day the local mall hosts more Yalies than the annual Goldman Sachs Christmas party. I went to this mall for the first time in my life. At first, things looked bleak. I made my way to the second floor that consisted of a GNC and that booth that puts people’s pictures on really bigass buttons. And so I slunked back to the first floor, and proceeded to find a store with clothes so tawdry they’d make Jesus weep. They were perfect (or as close as something can be to perfect without being me).
I kept an open mind as I shopped. Eyeing the get-ups, I reminded myself that it would be much darker at the dance, and that I wasn’t drunk (yet). But still one also has to be selective in their choices. Sometimes you have to just say no to red pleather, especially when in the form of a pantsuit–
For the guys, the objective of the pre-party is to get so housed that they can avoid, er, “pitching a tent” later when Saran wrapped or whipped cream bikinied girls are dancing with them. (By the way, that whipped cream bikini thing so doesn’t work — save yourself the embarrassment, sticky netherregions and trip to NHPD).
Pre-gaming also makes it possible to suffer through the scariest part of the whole experience: the walk over to the dance. Since no respectable exotic eroticer could roll up in their North Face, instead everyone dons liquid jackets for the trek. Because, every year, as you walk over there, without fail, you will pass the only 10 people in the whole school that have no idea what’s going on because they haven’t left their rooms since God was a boy. They stare, and they give quizzical looks and ask, “Oh, is this for that Exotic Narcotic dance or something?” Okay, welcome to the game, Buddy. Glad you could make it.
At the dance, I pondered the things around me. First of all, there was the music which has in the past been great, but was something that even a lesser person (read: me) would call crappy that night (Note to TD: Never entrust the tunes to a DJ who insists on being called “Snowboy”). Then there’s the partygoers to consider. Why does it always seem like the one guy who decides to go buck has a porkchop shorter than the career of Yahoo Serious? And yet somehow the girls who go topless all have a great rack that’s bigger than James Van der Beek’s forehead (Oh, come on, back me up on this, people — someone didn’t evolve with the rest of us). And of course there’s always That Guy. You know, the one who thought he was so original because he showed up fully-dressed. While he thinks he is “taking the road less traveled by,” the rest of us just figure that he can’t hang (literally).
Even the pre-frosh dressed up. I chatted with a couple of these wanna-be-born-in-the-1970s youths, not realizing that they are still in high school where they:
1) Still go to class
2) Have teachers whose first names are Mr. and Mrs. instead of “Professor”
3) Still think they’ll get laid on prom night.
But before I could clue them in to that last devastating realization, they got the Hell outta Dodge.
NHPD’s own Attila the Hun decided to make an appearance. And being smarter than myself (probably because they still went to class), they bailed and I was left facing the policewoman and her question, “How many drinks have you had tonight?”
“None,” I answered, which in Noelle-speak means “Seven.”
But somehow Attila didn’t believe me. Perhaps my credibility was diminished by the fact that I was wearing only red panties with the word “DAMN!” written in rhinestones across the front– or maybe it was the beer in my hand– After awhile of this (Note to self: cops really mean it when they say “Don’t lie to me”), I finally escaped.
But I didn’t mind leaving. After all, the best part of it all is actually the next day, getting to watch everyone partake in the worst walk o’ shame in history. Girls can be seen dragging ass from 7-11 a.m. wearing hotpants and an enchanting T-shirt featuring Woody Woodpecker toking a blunt that some frat guy’s going to be missing in about a week or so.
But that’s why we, Yalies, continue to come back year after year. We wouldn’t miss Exotic Erotic for the world. And neither will the Class of 2005 when the dance returns next year. After all, you’ve got to love a Yale dance where even the girl gets a Woody in the end.
Noelle Hancock is a senior in Saybrook. Her columns run on alternate Fridays.