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I
will start out by saying that I’m not a person who believes only uber-goth
people should frequent Gothic clubs. On the contrary, I love the idea of having
people walk into Savage or Velvet to take in the music and the whole vibe of
this wonderful scene. And you don’t need to be dressed in black to do it.
What I DO have a problem with, however, is those boys who come into the clubs
for the wrong reason- to scope out and try to pick up the Goth girls because
it’s a novelty. That’s not why we’re there. And frankly, we
aren’t interested. I call this sad fellow The Frat Boy.
My first
experience with The Frat Boy was at the
Sanctuary when I was 18. He was the only one I
recall ever seeing there. He was standing by the bar, stiff as a board, his
buddy by his side. Dressed in polo shirts and chinos, they glanced around
nervously for most of the night, probably afraid they’d mess up their
pristine pants if they moved an inch. But unfortunately for me, they loosened
up. One approached while I was lounging on the couch. He sat down and slipped
his arm around me. The conversation went something like this:
FB-
“Hey. What’s going on?”
DA- “Excuse me?”
FB-
“Are you having a good night?”
DA- “I was.”
FB-
“Do you like the music here?”
DA- “That’s why I’m
here.”
FB- “What do you like?”
DA- “Sisters of
Mercy.”
FB- “Oh yeah, I love her voice.”
I promptly
got up and walked away. Needless to say, our little Sisters of Mercy fan walked
out alone that night, with messy pants thanks to the glorious muck that made up
Sanctuary’s floor.
Since then, I’ve had the odd encounter with
The Frat Boy, and I have seen many wander through the doors of Toronto’s
Gothic clubs. They all have the same motive- Pick up the Goth girl. But they
branch out into two types: The Preppy and The Tough.
The Preppy is the
type I first met at Sanctuary. He’s dressed to go to the office, all
bright, pressed, and ready to do some accounting. He usually looks scared, like
he thinks we’re going to bite if he approaches. (Well, sometimes we do,
but that’s a whole other column.) But at least he is polite. He tends not
to be aggressive, because our dark beauty no doubt, intimidates him. So when he
does start talking to you, it’s usually some inconsequential
blather. But The Preppy, however misguided, is certainly more tolerable
than The Tough.
I hate The Tough. You normally find him at a slimy
Richmond Street club where the bass is pounding so hard, you feel like you
stumbled upon an earthquake when you walk by. He swaggers in, wearing a white
wifebeater, tucked into pants that are hanging off his ass. A visor backwards
AND upside down sits on his head. These guys carry around such a huge attitude
that you can feel it halfway across the bar. And it’s not attractive,
despite what they may think. And they don’t start off by talking to you.
No, no, no. They are far too lecherous for that. Usually, they go straight for
the goods and start grinding behind you on the dance floor. Words fail me as I
try and describe the feeling. However, I have had the strong urge to slug the
Toughs who have dared to grab my PVC-covered ass.
But alas, The Frat Boy
isn’t limited to Toronto. I came across one in New York City last summer
at a club called Batcave. I was leaning against the wall waiting for my
companion, Dr. Sinister, to emerge from the bathroom. I spot The Tough leering
at me. He approaches. And another stimulating conversation ensues:
FB-
"Yo, what's a pretty girl like you doin' all alone?"
DA- "I'm not
alone."
FB- "Yo, that's cool. Why don't ya stop holding up that wall and
come get it on, on the dance floor wit me."
DA- "I'm waiting for
someone."
FB- "Yo, you look fine. All
dark and stuff. I like that kinda
thing."
DA- "What kinda thing?"
FB- "You know, all kinky, yo."
And then he caresses my arm. My skin starts to crawl.
Right on cue, Dr.
Sinister emerges from the bathroom. While he is not a giant man, he can look
imposing when he wants to. And much to my amusement, The Tough ran away like a
scared child. He didn’t bother me for the rest of the
night.
I’m trying to decide if these guys are annoying gnats who
should be swatted out of the club, or if they are amusing to watch because they
are so out of their element. Nevertheless, all I ask is one thing of the Frat
Boy- you can look, but please don’t touch.
Update:
So I was at
Funhaus last week and spotted Pajama Boy. He’s got a brand new pair of
jammies to dance in. They are still white, but the offending green squares are
now small polk-a-dots. I talked to a friend of his that night. Apparently
Pajama Boy started doing this several years ago to start a new trend at the
clubs. He was trying to veer away from the mainstream and wanted to begin a
whole new way of dressing at the bar. But it hasn’t caught on. Call me
crazy, but I have a funny feeling that it never will.
posted May
11th 2004 |
Darq Angel has been living in
Toronto for 15 years. An avid reader, writer, club-goer, and music lover, she
has been a lurker in Toronto's gothic scene, floating around quietly, casting
her dark shadow over various clubs and events in the city. 
