Miami’s world-famous club scene varies widely from venue to venue. Some are hyper-exclusive douchebag receptacles. Others are welcoming, come-as-you-are hippie free-for-alls. Below is as comprehensive a guide as several longtime Miami club enjoyers (and occasional haters) could put together of the many types of men one is liable to encounter in da clurb. Written by Andrew Otazo, Asha Elias, Amanda Rosa, and Daniela Martins with input from a whole lot of other women.
Somebody’s Tío: Spiritually, he’s 22, but physically, he’s 57. Will be hungover as hell at tomorrow’s family barbeque.
The Transplant: “Where are you from? Here? Really? Weird! Miami’s just like Manhattan! You don’t need a car!” Wears Sperrys. Moved to Brickell from New York two months ago. Never met a Latina. Works in crypto/private equity/management consulting. Insists his job is really boring before launching into a 45-minute diatribe about how impressive/important/fascinating it is. You still don’t know what he does.
The Foreigner: Very sunburnt. Doesn’t speak English. Doesn’t speak Spanish. Only knows the words “Uber” and “bestie” and thinks both are hilarious.
The Catch: He’s hot, he’s single, he’s a good dancer, he’s funny, and… he’s gay. Of course. At least you have a new friend to go to brunch with.
The Emotionally Stunted Professional: He might be a doctor, Big Law attorney, or investment banker. Regardless, he has exactly one night to make up for a lost decade of partying because he spent his 20s working 36-hour shifts. Has insane drugs.
The Roving Eye: He’s at the club with his girl but breaks neck for every woman that passes by. When asked if he’s single, responds with, “Who wants to know?”
The Silver Fox: Taking his two college-aged sons on a trip to Miami. Incredible head of hair. You’re unsure if he’s propositioning you for an all-in-the-family-foursome.
The Lost Tourist: Somehow got in with cargo shorts and Birkenstocks. Rented an Airbnb in Hialeah. Wants to walk to Miami Beach.
The Commuter: Lives in West Kendall. Has an I AM MDC sticker and Miami Heat license plate. Will drive you right off the Dolphin Expressway on his way to party Downtown.
The Frat Huddle: A gaggle of early-20s “super straight” bros who keep grabbing each other but seem psychologically incapable of talking to women. All have the same haircut. They move as a pack, including to the urinal.
The Couple Looking for a Third: You meet an attractive, fun woman, have some laughs, move to the dance floor, and suddenly find yourself sandwiched between her and a random guy. When you ask who he is, she giggles and replies, “Oh, that’s just my husband! You wanna get out of here?”
The Dancing Short King: This little cutie has some moves! You want to put him in your pocket and take him out next time you need cheering up. You don’t usually go for shorter guys but can’t help but edge toward him to see if he wants to dance–and he’s taken.
The Human Forcefield: He might have a partner. He might have haphephobia. Either way, he absolutely will not let any woman within two feet of his body.
The Sweaty Guy: AKA the Human Sprinkler. His body temperature is set for Siberia, so everyone in a 20-foot radius now lives in an involuntary splash zone.
The Guy Who Knows a Guy Who Can Get You a Table: Wears a button down with rolled up sleeves. Has been pacing in front of the club for the last hour trying to convince the bouncer he knows “Kevin” whose roommate “Joey” knows “Danny,” who can “get us a deal on a table.” Last seen still pacing outside three hours later.
The Grabby Ninja: You’re dancing with your friends when HOLY SHIT, someone’s crotch is on your ass. Where on Earth did he come from? How did he sneak up on you? What does he even look like? Now he’s whispering in your ear. You shoot a wide-eyed glance to your friends to ask, “Is this guy an axe murderer?” They give you synchronized looks that say, “Yes!” and drag you away.
The Delusional Guy: How do we put this delicately? This man… doesn’t have a lot going for him. He’s not attractive, he’s not interesting, he’s not funny, he doesn’t have a decent job, but my God does he have unearned confidence. No matter where he is, he’ll make a beeline for the hottest woman and start talking at her like she owes him something. You secretly wish you had a fraction of his self-assurance.
The Pickup Artist: Works in real estate. Or maybe “import/export.” He wasn’t clear. Decent chance he’s just a drug dealer. Sunglasses. Multiple designer labels. Will blatantly check out other women while hitting on you. Swallows up the oxygen in the room like he’s playing Hungry Hungry Hippos. Will not ask for your opinion. Sigma/red pilled to the gods. Crossfit is life. Closest thing to a compliment he’ll ever give is, “You really think you can pull off that dress?”
Looking for a Wife: Wears a polo tucked into his jeans. Let’s everyone know he doesn’t hook up. Has a weird fixation with the width of women’s “birthing hips.”
Mr. Doesn’t Want to Be Here: Old band T-shirt. Hates this scene. Sulks at the bar with a whiskey neat. Would literally rather die than dance to anything with more than 40 listens on Spotify.
El Recién Llegado: White pants so tight you wonder how his feet get any blood. Panza peeking out from under his graphic tee. Fannypack slung across his chest. Only drinks Presidente. Will stay rooted to one spot for hours until it’s time to tear it up to Bad Bunny.
The Finance Bro (analyst): Patagonia fleece vest soaked in sweat. Just dying to explain discounted cash flow to anyone within earshot. Mistakes your boredom for shyness, and won’t stop reminding everyone which business school he attended. Elevated risk of roofies or GHB (watch your drink).
The Finance Bro (partner): Swoops in and pats analyst bro when he catches a hot enough fish. Loudly and repeatedly reminds everyone he’s the boss. Receding hairline overcompensated by custom-made shirts paired with Travis Scotts.
The Tag Along: Desperately trying to make eye contact with… anyone. Lives in the exurbs of the group conversation. Laughs periodically to seem part of the crew. One hand glued to his pocket while the other one has a death grip on a sweating cocktail.
Baby Oligarch: Still in college but pulls up in a G-Wagon because dad owns Belarus. Went to the most expensive private high school in Florida and now attends the most expensive private university in the state. Bouncer leads him to a VIP booth stocked with 18-year-old girls who he’ll spend the rest of the night haranguing about how he’s done with his bulking phase and is about to transition to cutting.
The Sloppy Older Gay Dude: You’ve spent the last half hour watching this man make out with a French twink like he’s trying to swallow him whole. You’ll later learn he’s an evangelical senator from Alabama when he apologizes on TV in front of his wife and four children.
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