Writer observes night at Express

Bottles of Corona line the ledge by the dance floor, tucked with lime wedges, glinting in the flash of colored lights.

It’s 9 p.m. Friday at the newly christened Express (the club formerly known as Déjí Vu) and though the brick walls are thumping with sound, a pair of well-dressed young men are the only ones grooving against the mirrored wall that runs the length of the rave room.

Groups of young people huddle near the bar with their mixed drinks, absorbing the gleam of the giant flat-screen above the bar, which flickers with pop videos that match the music.

“Katy Perry is so pretty,â€Â a petite black-haired girl says to her friend, as they lean against a couple of bar stools, grooving back and forth to “Hot N Cold.â€Â

But when Kelly Clarkson appears onscreen, crooning “Since U Been Gone,â€Â she wrinkles her nose and says “she doesn’t really have any boobs, does she?â€Â

Rainbow flags adorn the brick behind them and framed prints of beefcake hunks hang near the restrooms.

The two guys on the floor are getting rather frisky; one takes a quick swig of beer before dropping to the floor in front of his dancing partner.

And back in the little bar, off the side patio, a bartender wipes down the long stretch of shiny wood under the green glow of the “Bourbon Streetâ€Â sign above him.

Several people are clustered near a black curtain at the end of the bar.

“That’s where they go to have quickies,â€Â jokes a young guy with spiked hair and a tight black T-shirt. “They should call this place the Quickie Mart.â€Â

His female companion slaps his arm with one hand, clutching a bottle of Smirnoff Raspberry Burst in the other. “That’s gross.â€Â

“What are you, wasted?â€Â he teases.

“I am not drunk,â€Â she protests indignantly, holding her bottle up for all to see. “This is nothing. It tastes like candy.â€Â She then proceeds to drag him into the hip-hop room.

“‘Need a dime, / That’s top of the line, / Cute face, little waist, with a big behind.’â€Â

It̢۪s close to 11 p.m. now, and the hip-hop room is a crush of bodies, writhing under the strobes. The air is thick with sweat and cologne as one brunette scans the scene absentmindedly, seemingly unaware of the boyfriend attached at her hip.

It̢۪s a mix of straight and gay, black and white, old and young, at Express tonight, and it̢۪s starting to get rowdy.

A trio of guys in polos grind into one another as a bottle shatters somewhere nearby.

A girl in a flowered camisole complains of beer being spilled on her.

Feet maneuver around a pool of liquid, spreading near the steps leading to the patio.

Outside the night is clear and cool and pierced by shrieks of laughter. The line of clubgoers has been growing steadily all night, and by midnight, it has stretched all the way to the street.

It could be another hour or two before they get in.