Like a peacock splaying his feathers, the Metro struts through Rue with his plumage on display. Notice how he sips a (double) gin-and-tonic with his back to the lights, the better to silhouette his thin frame and peg-leg jeans. As the clubbers dance to crowd-pleasing hits, the Metro can be found lounging on one of the many luxurious couches, his shrunken vintage T-shirt pulled up just enough to display his painstaking chestal manscaping. Later, back beyond the pool tables and the sweaty little dance floor, our friend can be seen preening in the mirror under the unwatchful eye of the men’s room attendant. Having reapplied his guyliner, Metrofella pops his collar and melts back into the crowd. Mingles with a gaggle of tarted-up twentysomethings, hoping to find the girl from last Wednesday who borrowed his lip gloss. She was a total hottie, he swears, and she had great shoes.