A/N: I’m feeling sleazy…
Of course when I got dressed to meet my girlfriends at the club, I didn’t intend to do anything but dance until I sweat out my hair. Just a couple of friends from work and my bestie; we decided to hit Frozen Paradise like we used to do back when we were in our 20s and clubbing was the usual Friday night fight.
Since I keep things cool and professional sixty hours a week, I was determined to let my inner hoochie show her face for at least three. It was only fair; I’m all woman upside down and inside out, and I don’t pretend she doesn’t exist. I think every woman’s got a little bit of slut deep inside. I bought a short, tight red dress from Torrid and a pair of fierce red stilettos. I was normally 5’5, but tonight I was going to be 5’10. I was determined to get my size sixteen ass in that dress even if I had to slather down with a can of Crisco beforehand. Up went the micros, on went the makeup and out the door I went.
The club was packed, the music was bumping, and one Mojito and a Gummy Bear Martini later, I was feeling good. I was in the middle of the dance floor, not giving two shits about the world around me. I’m not a wallflower and I go to the club to dance, so I don’t wait to be asked. My bestie parties hard just like I do, and we were out there in the middle of the heat and noise, shaking our asses like it was Freaknik 1995. T, my bff, looked fantastic in a tight pink catsuit and six-inch wedges. She was catching eyes left and right, and it was only a matter of time before some guy was all over her like a cheap suit.
Sure enough, some handsome brotha stepped to T and started dancing with her. The right way to ask a woman to dance who’s already on the floor is not to say anything and just casually boogie your way into her space. Don’t get too close, though. A few minutes later, T and the dude were lost in the crowd. I doubted I’d see T again until it was time to go; which is why we always drive separate cars. My bestie had an appetite and she was on the prowl.
I took a break and went to the bar to get another drink. I was having a great time. The ‘tender, a pygmy rocking phat purple twists and a necklace I would kill for, smiled at me.
“Same as before?”
“Naw. I’m thinking a pomegranate margarita.”
A few minutes later, I was sipping the delightful concoction. The ‘tender motioned her head across the bar. “It’s on him.”
I looked over and a guy smiled at me and raised his drink. I raised mine back and mouthed thanks, hoping he wouldn’t come over. I wasn’t trying to be bothered; just wanted to rest my feet before I hit the floor one last time. I didn’t want to be stuck at the bar with some guy yakking my ear off. I suppose it would have been wise to consider that before I accepted the drink, but it was too late. The margarita was perfect; sweet, tart, slushy and cold. I pressed the glass against my neck and nodded at the guy once more. He hadn’t moved from his seat, but raised his glass once more.
I finished the drink, grateful that he didn’t come over. I guess I gave off that vibe. Back out on the floor I went, determined to make this last one count. I made my way back to the middle with a pleasant buzz. The song was up tempo, but I moved slow, swaying my hips to a beat in my mind. My red dress, crisscrossed with thin chains, rode upwards and I grabbed the skirt and tugged down. It would probably be an eon before I wore it again, and that was only if I didn’t gain weight. But I looked fabulous and that was all that mattered.
That was when I felt it; something near me, on me. I could feel it between my shoulder blades; a warm, focused awareness. I didn’t move, and the sensation got hawt. The breath caught in my throat because the warmth—different from the surrounding heat—moved over me like luminous silk. Air slid out from between my lips in a slow, chuffy stream. Someone was staring at me. From the back. I went utterly still, immediately wondering if I looked good from that direction. Like Apollonia did in Purple Rain, when Prince was staring her down. I had a brief memory of losing my shit when I saw that scene. Did I look good from the back??
Utter foolishness. Of course I did. I blinked, clearing my head. I’d lost it for a second, and determined to get it back, started swaying again. The tempo of the song increased but I kept things slow. I wanted to enjoy my buzz. I moved my hands over my hips, loving the feel of the leather and the chains, and then down over my nylon thighs, caressing them. I loved my thick, curvy body; loved every dimple, ripple and roll.
There was that feeling again; this time closer. I stopped again, suddenly fearful about turning around. I shook my head once, as if trying to get it together and then my whole body got warm. My hand went to the collared throat of my dress, adjusting, and then—
I promise, it wasn’t the liquor talking.
May I dance with you, sexy?
I know without a doubt that this was said to me, except the only place I heard it was in my mind. I wasn’t drunk; my tolerance is quite high, but I heard that question as clear as if it had been said aloud.
Would you mind?
I closed my eyes and got control of the situation. The moment was freaky, but I could get past it. I started dancing again, matching my original tempo and it was then I felt it…the presence of someone bigger than me…behind me. Not touching, but close enough that the heat transference was obvious.
Don’t stop moving, gorgeous.
It was a good idea. I let my hands drop away from my body. I wasn’t drunk but I suddenly felt a little tipsy. Was this all in my mind? Surely not, because I could feel everything; even the hands that enveloped mine and linked my fingers. I felt the tiny misstep in my movements when I was gently pulled back, and I felt the breathing wall behind me. Solid, and the warmth quickly overtook me.
Oh boy, was I feeling it.
I’ve been staring at you all night.
Well, that was par for the course, as far as I’m concerned. What man wouldn’t look at a woman like me; scantily clad in a red leather dress and heels that screamed spank me! fuck me! That was the whole point, in fact. Not a statement worthy of a response.
He smelled fantastic. I have a sensitive nose and I can’t stand it when a man feels the need to drown himself in toilet water. The best scent is soap and water, with a hint of whatever cologne complements his natural fragrance. I don’t know what this man was wearing, but trust and believe, it worked for him.
Thank you. It’s an oil blend I make myself, actually.
I bit my lip, because I could distinctly hear him speaking, except he wasn’t speaking. What was going on?
We swayed in tandem and he released my fingers and slid his hands up my bare arms and to my shoulders. I tried to focus on my movements, but it was becoming increasingly difficult because all this felt too good to be real.
It’s real. I’m real.
I’m not crazy and I’m not drunk. This man was in my head, reading my mind. I’m sure of it. How else could I hear him talking when he wasn’t speaking? And how did he know what I was thinking?
May I put my hands on your waist, goddess?
My inner slut, choosing now to let her voice be heard, said, “Yes.” And I actually uttered the words. He responded immediately and put his hands around my waist.
With room to spare. Love a thick woman.
Somewhere within the last minute or so, I lost control of the situation. Now I was following his lead, moving with him and against him, gyrating slowly.
Put your arms around my neck.
I obeyed. I could do it with the right partner, no questions asked. I locked my fingers and we danced. His cheek grazed my temple and the feel of his goatee was enough to make everything pop. The dress I wore had an open back and thus, I wore no bra. He could see my arousal, I’m sure. I didn’t have to see to know that he was aroused as well.
This was surreal. I took slow, deep breaths as to inhale the hypnotic smell of him (for it was surely casting a spell), and his hands did not move from my waist. I found myself wishing they would. And just like that, they went up and then down, caressing my curves. I purred just like a kitten and he made some weird little noise; a dark rumble or something. Whatever it was, it was sexy and I found myself giving less and less of a fuck about propriety.
I pressed against him, making sure there was no space between us. I wasn’t drunk. This was actually happening. There was a man boldly feeling me up in the middle of the dance floor and not only did I welcome it but also wanted it. I didn’t even know what he looked like. It could have been the guy who bought me the drink…but then it could have just as easily been someone else. He could have waited for another man to buy my drink before making his move. It was certainly cost-effective. The point was that I was willingly being handled by a faceless stranger.
The music changed a couple of times, and while I was aware of it, I couldn’t stop and didn’t want to stop dancing with this man, especially at the pace we’d set. My feet hurt, but the throbbing was distant; far less important than the ache between my thighs. We were in the middle of a mob of noisy, undulating souls and yet we were in our own world. His hands moved all over me; he’d ceased asking to place them and I had no intentions of stopping him. He caressed my leather-clad breasts, clinking the chains with his fingers, fondling my nipples with his thumbs. I felt tiny kisses against the back of my ear and I was tight, taut, as if one good pluck would send me into a paroxysm of pleasure.
Magnificent siren. I was no longer content to simply look at you.
I recognized that the next song played was a slow jam, and one of my faves from back in the day: “Seems Like You’re Ready” and R., had never been more right than at that moment.
“God,” I said. I couldn’t take much more of this insidious, exquisite torture.
One hand slipped underneath my dress. I was ready, all right. I parted my legs just enough to give him access. He stroked and slipped, curling his long, strong fingers just enough, touching me the way I needed, parting and caressing and fondling…and then came the pluck. I was so wet that I felt like it was running down my legs and ruining my seamed stockings.
No baby. I’ve got every drop of you. Come for me.
I climaxed immediately, losing myself in the cyclone of the moment and ground against his hand. The other had a firm grip on my breast and he held me tight. We were just another pair of bodies on a swarming dance floor; I’m sure no one realized that I’d just had one mother of an O. He supported me as I trembled. I managed the feat of simultaneously blinking owlishly and gaping like a dead trout. There was nothing sexy about the way I knew I looked at that moment.
I disagree. You are splendid. Do you know what you taste like?
Suddenly, his wet fingertips were at my mouth and I obeyed the unspoken command. Then he took his time sucking his fingers and I heard that rumble again; it was quite distinctive. I’d never been with a man that rumbled. It was quite stimulating. And his question was one that I’d never had an answer to before tonight.
Like peaches…when you get a ripe one, the juice just dribbles down your chin. I so want to lick your pussy right now.
I wanted to turn around, drop to my knees and blow this sexy, sexy man to kingdom come. I know my head game is tight and I wanted to do to him what he did to me. As far as doing it in public, I was all out of fucks to give. I didn’t care. I wanted this man, but he held me close and wouldn’t let me turn.
“Please,” I said.
He caressed my body and kissed my ear again.
Maybe next time.
Suddenly I was alone in the middle of the room and I was cold. I turned around and I didn’t see anyone out of the ordinary. The crowd moved, oblivious to me. I spun for a second, getting dizzy, unable to believe what just happened. Where did he go? Who was he?
I didn’t know what he looked like. I didn’t even know his name.
Later, I sat in my car, holding on to the steering wheel. I wasn’t drunk. My mind was as clear as crystal. My cell rang. It was T. She wanted to know who it was I was dancing with and all I could say was that it was just some guy. Monday when I went to work, Justine and Cris, the other ladies who’d gone out with T and me, caught me in the break room. They, too, wanted to know who it was I’d been booed up with on the dance floor. I couldn’t give them a straight answer, but I was astounded to see them argue about how he looked. And I was even more shocked to realize that neither of their descriptions matched what T said he looked like.
I was glad to know that it actually happened, but I can’t describe the feeling of wondering exactly who—or what—fucked me in the club.