Invited for a night out at Glasgow’s famous Cathouse nightclub, Kaci O’Meara takes you through the phenomenon of the “everything shower” and the feelings of anticipation that often go with it.

It's a Friday night and I've been ushered oot to the Cathouse instead of spending the night alone in my bed. I think “why not?” I get dolled up but there's a lingering feeling of dread seeping out of my pores already and I can feel the pre-emptive pain in my head that not even a sausage roll could cure. 

I trip and stumble past the fallen clothes pile on my floor that I said I would put away the night and the night before. I woke up late at 12 past the 14th hour and decided if I was going oot for a night on the toon it was high time for an everything shower.

It starts with a full body shave I always regret the moment I'm oan the dance floor huvin’ a rave and I start sweating through the thong I was brave for wearing in the first place. Shaved doon to the wood I wish I could have a clean cut through every nook and cranny, avoiding all the nics and bumps around my-

I think maybe I'll get a pull. I won't. but better than safe than sorry right?

Better to be caught ready than off guard on the night windswept with my knickers doon and embarrassment written on my face paler white than usual.

Moving on to a hair scrub and a 10-minute mask, no product in the bathroom can commit to the task of fixing broken bleach-fried split ends even if the bottle says moisturises and mends. Half tempted to skip what ruins of my skincare routine remain, nothing on my shelves seems to make me refrain from meeting my gaze in the mirror.

My reflection whispering "Don't you wish your hair was longer, don't you wish you were thinner?”

Picking up the variety of scrubs, masks and serums from their place one by one I wash and layer them over my face in a way that can't be beneficial for my dry skin that's stubborn and raised. Should anyone have the opportunity, I moisturise with my fancy Ted Baker cream.

I feel like trying too hard to make my body feel more attractive because I'd rather be felt up than seen.

Fast forward and we're dancing to metal music on the first floor I hardly know but my friends like it. Truthfully, I'd rather be up at Jager on the second story listening to Kesha's 'Blow'.

On the way to the smokers, eyes lock with a familiar stranger, AKA the guy I've pulled the past three times I was here before. 

He sees me see him. Fuck. He strides over, clearly tonight there's no four-leaf clover in sight. Our last encounter still fresh on his mind. The last encounter being his hand on my breast, and as for the rest? Well, it never got much further.

He's towering over me, too drunk to do what he came here for, clearly not thinking of the amnesia-filled hangover he’s got in store. Talking utter shite breaking the silence for a kiss, aye as if, keep strutting your arse all the way to the exit door.

I'm no intae it, I realise I wish I'd stayed home and saved my everything shower for a better day and my money so I had more. His hunger-panged eyes follow his finger up my arm feigning charm he's got no clue how to use.

I look up through my lashes, catching ashes off the scorched arse of his cigarette from his close-at-hand crush-proof pack. Thinking “God what a bad night this was to wear a thong” when I adjust my stance back and knock it out of place. It feels like it's cutting me in half.  

His gaze jumps from my eyes to my lips and back up unsubtly. Fucking lovely.

He's got that look in his eye, a look of pure lust and desire.

Mate, I'm sorry I'm too bloody tired, get your teeth aff my neck you're far too wired.

While I'm trying to telepathically communicate with my friends in the corner to come get me the fuck out of here. He's spilling his beer in one hand and with the other, thumb on my lip he runs it across.

You can hear in his whine, making an obscene joke about how wee my mouth is, and how big his fingers are compared to mine.

I could convince myself to have sex with him to get it over and done with to drown out the panic of every sex myth I've heard, so that I have stories to tell during a game of 'never have I ever' with my friends who've got miles more experience than me blurred together. 

It's not that big of a deal... it’s just sex. Wet, warm...and fucking terrifying.

I turn down the drink, and I turn down the smoke. 

In my head, I'm trying to remember the tips my girlfriends gave me that they said would help me not to choke "but some men like that" one of them says. I boak.

I tried I really did but who’d have guessed the fear in my chest was ripping across my body like how a wain rips into presents on Christmas morning. To get out from beside his extended arm on the wall I fake a stumble and a fall with a flouncy "Oh! I'm so drunk" and slip inside for some water before he can register I'm gone.

Washing my face in an almost empty bathroom, bar the drunk lassie who's pishing with the door open making friendly conversation.

"Stupid bastard," I say to the mirror, what was the point of shaving if I didn't want anyone to see it? Silly bitch this wasn’t worth the prickle and itch.

"Bad night hen?" The lassie slurs.

"Aye...," I say back to her.

I leave my friends in The Cathouse at a quarter past the second hour

cutting glass, and defeated

what a fucking waste of an everything shower.

 About Kaci

She/her

Kaci O’Meara is a poet, student, and part time editor born and based in Glasgow, She enjoys writing poetry and scripts, DIY and crafts, and cosplay. She is currently a student studying professional writing, and in her spare time is working on her first poetry collection.

Instagram: @K.omearapoetry