The dance floor is crammed with women who live in houses with green lawns, who perm their hair and don short dresses cut low for Saturday night. And if you're a man with gel-dashed hair, gold chains and oversize suits, you'll never feel alone here. The modish downtown set is miles away. This is a suburban utopia, a place where moments of dangerous abandon are tucked safely between hours of respectable jiving. Suddenly, a woman in a black dress shimmies up her bulky dance partner and sits on his shoulders, her crotch in his face.
People pause over their drinks, dropping their jaws a little, smiling.
Some clap and cheer. Brantmyer is leaning on a railing overlooking the dance floor, explaining why he hasn't stunned anybody into submission. They're at home because they don't want to get their hair wet. Another man takes his place at the railing and scans the dance floor. All over Club Joy, there's a whole lot of ogling going on.