The music is blasting, the smoke machine is working over hours. I twirl, get dragged into a loving embrace. I have no clue who she is, all I know is that she’s gorgeous and generous with bottles of VK’s
It’s Monday night, Dusk is deserted except for some sleazy figures well over thirty. A mixture of wine and stress resulted in this dubious decision. The beast that is Stirling nightlife swallowed me once again.
I came here with one of Stirling’s prettiest girls, one that apparently attracts others. Within minutes I’m dancing among long legged beauties. Singing along to old Ke$ha songs in union, as if we’d grown up together in the suburbs of Alloa.
From perfectly winged eyeliner to heels so high they should be classified as a safety hazard. British girls commit to beauty with such conviction, it is nothing but admirable.
One might expect that the looks of me, a short brunette who ignored all the rules and showed up in jeans and boots, wouldn’t be welcomed as warmly. But on this dancefloor the conventional rules of beauty don’t apply. Shots of tequila have shattered the world of female competition. For once, another women’s beauty doesn’t pose as a threat. In Dusk’s strobe lights we only yell compliments over the speakers.
Underneath the harsh bathroom lightning we stand side by side in the battle against our own reflections. Lipstick is passed round to complete strangers, dresses complimented, selfie’s taken.
It is almost a communal sigh of relief. For one night it isn’t about likes, boys who don’t text back or bellies that are too wobbly. For these few alcohol-induced hours we all embrace a childlike ignorance.
We dance because we want to. We sing because we feel like it. We are drunk anyways; society has rejected us as competent humans for the time being. Why not make use of it?
The rules no longer apply. Societal standards are out the window. I can go up to girls with luscious locks and ask them how they do it. Slide over to girls in tube tops to demand the secret to her flawless contours. No one can stop me; tequila holds responsibility for my actions.
All I do is twirl, cheers and yell compliments over the speakers.
I tumble home with girls who classified as strangers a number of hours earlier. We open up about devastating heartbreak in Stirling’s deserted streets. Reading texts from ex boyfriends, freely talking about our insecurities while embracing each other’s perfections. By the time I reach my front door they’re invited to my upcoming party.
As I sink into my bed, clumsily kicking off my boots while undressing myself with one hand, I envision a world where we’re all drunk British girls in bathrooms. One where we cover each other in deserved compliments daily. A utopia where we don’t compete but uplift; celebrating both our own and life’s collective beauty.
It takes me until the morning after, when I slowly lower myself into a steamy baby oil infused bath, to realise the truth. Life is already that beautiful, if I make it that way.
I don’t need fishbowls or VK’s to let go of the notion of female competition. All I need are tipsy British girls to teach me about sisterhood. Drunken, loving, sisterhood. Blame them if I stop you in the streets to compliment the colour of your eyes.