New Times Broward-Palm Beach Calendar Editor Mickie Centrone has the enviable job of knowing about every event that happens within the boundaries of the two counties and then some. When she attends some of the finest events from a given week, we'll post the details of her travels here. On Thursday, she attended Flaunt Thursdays at Respectable Street in West Palm Beach.
At 10 p.m., my friend and I are the only two people at Flaunt Thursdays at Respectable Street -- now fast-forward two hours: There's a huge crowd of nipple-pinchers, ball-grabbers, and college kids making out. There's an endless stream of skinny jeans and dresses -- and hands that carry $1 PBR tall boys. It's as hot as the music is loud. People are dancing on the couch cushions, and the dance floor is full of bodies grinding, shaking, and gyrating. It's Respectable Street's busiest night of the week.
Note: These two guys are not typical of the type of behavior found here.
Besides the gray specks in his hair, David grabs my attention because he's standing motionless in the middle of the compact dance floor. I say to him: "It's a young crowd here." He responds: "I come here with my young friends, so it's all right." I ask David why he isn't dancing. "Maybe I am," he says as he closes his eyes, tilts his chin up, and points to his head like his mind's hosting one europhic dance-off. Yeah, that dance party going off the chain in his head turns out to be nostalgia. A minute later, David tells me he used to dance on stage for Paul Oakenfold -- so this dance floor can't entertain him. "It was disgusting dancing," he says. "This dancing makes me sick." David is willing to show me some of his disgusting dance moves -- but only on the stage, of course. He does have one serious robotic T-Rex arm move, complete with an open-mouth locked jaw. When it comes to dancing, David tells me he can "crush the floor."
Steven is a nice, young man who is trying desperately to give away his whiskey drink. Why? "Liquor and Steven don't mix," he says. Why don't they mix? "Because bad things happen." What kind of bad things? "Three words," Steven says: "Fourteen-year-old girls." More clarification follows: It was just one time, and he was 19. I ask him the tough questions. "I didn't have sex with her," he answers. "All I did was touch her vagina." He asks me to recite what he just said, so he knows that I know that he didn't sleep with a 14-year-old. And I do it. Steven dumps the drink on the ground, gives me a smile and a thumbs-up, and marches away.
If you like this story, consider signing up for our email newsletters.
SHOW ME HOW
You have successfully signed up for your selected newsletter(s) - please keep an eye on your mailbox, we're movin' in!