an open letter meoko


Dearest Shirtless Muscle Mass in the Middle of the Dance Floor,


For god’s sake, man, cover up. Cover up your pecs, cover up your traps, your delts, your triceps and your biceps (I know you’ve been working especially hard on those), cover up that half finished tribal tat which represents your killer instinct and non existent Maouri heritage and most importantly cover up the thin but unbroken layer of slimey sweat in which you are permanently encased. Please, please, cover up that sweat.

I should clarify whom I am addressing here, because in the context of a gay club, shirtless dancing, drinking, and general mackin’  is entirely acceptable. Since the gays really started this whole clubbing caper, they reserve the right to do whatever they want in their clubs – just keep the felatio to the corner, where possible. The straight man, however, over-sculpted and painfully self aware, who feels the need to peel off his outer layer within a club of fully clothed people, is a whole other story. Yes, I’m talking to you, Stavros McMuscilious.


You see I look at someone like Marcel Dettman or the lead singer of Rammstein and I see muscles formed from a life of lifting immense crates of vinyl, or throwing flaming bulls across large fields. I look at you and I see the kind of muscles that only grow in air-conditioned gyms from doing reps in front of a mirror. Mirror muscles, I call them, and they lack a certain…authenticity.

You love your looks, this much is clear, but if you really loved yourself on the inside you wouldn’t feel the need to expose your washing rack abs in order to pull the hunneez. No matter how carefully you sculpt your skin, you’ll always have a complex and feel in some way inadequate. There will always be some guy who is bigger than you, and what’s worse, there will always be skinny, ugly, hipster dudes with unruly beards channeling 70s porno muffs who somehow pull the fit girl you’ve been eyeing half the night. It’s shocking, but the truth is some women prefer ironically worn waiscoats to bulging, twitching exposed pectorals.


Dancing is not your strong point – generally you tend to lumber about the dance floor, arms out, shoulders hunched, circling yourself like Donkey Kong looking for lost bananas. You do have one undeniable talent – dancing backwards. Your back – already grossly offensive from half a metre infront of me, looms closer and closer as you display your surprising lack of spatial awareness and dance me into a corner until I could lick the perspiration off the back of your neck you leaky behemoth. Infuriating backwards dancing aside, your participation in dance music extends to knowing who Tiesto is. “Tiesto? Yeah he’s the man!” You always say. To you, a club is merely a meat market, and you’re here to purchase the choicest cut you can find – if only anyone was as choice a cut as yourself. Usually I wouldn’t have to deal with you – you stick to your Tiger Tiger bars and your Cream Ibiza Terraces, but every so often you wander into a techno rave in search of fresh tail and the result are so catastrophic that I feel compelled to write an open letter to appeal to those of you who can read.

The implication of this letter is simple. Put your shirt on – NO not that one – the one that fits. Great, now let me show you the door. Try not to get stuck between the lintels.


Sincerely and severely yours, 


A Considerately Clothed Clubber.