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Clubbing It

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Eudora Ervin never thought the night would end this way.

Submitted: October 11, 2018

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Submitted: October 11, 2018

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I wiggle my butt like a bee’s buzzing up my burrito-stained skirt.

Good thing it’s not stinging me or I’d be shrieking louder than a bare-backed banshee and alarming all these peeps drunk-dancing round the club. Cue the nineties rap music, the vodka-drenched breath, the purple-hued lights strobing in my eyes and that almost naked couple dry-humping in the corner to the beat of I like big butts while the bass booms and that curly-haired guy bumps and grinds the pole between twelve other highly intoxicated girls likely as desperate as me.

Some girls throw their arms up. Others whoop. A few smash their boobs together and lip-sync the song played at my senior prom.

“Shake it. Shake it! Shake that healthy butt.” I yell the lyrics I think I know by heart. Then again, I could be wrong. Was it healthy butt or horny butt. It’s been too many years.

I’m not exactly a wet swan. Dub me a dried-up swan who spends over half her life in a law office grueling over boring Realestate cases. Bye, bye boring. This throwback dance-a-thon is my night to let loose and let my booty quaking lead me to that stud sitting at the bar. I stagger in his direction, my hips jiggling faster than an out of control washing machine. Much faster than the heavy rap beat pounding from the speakers I near.

I squeeze past fifty guys and gals all smushed like sardines in a sandpit as I gaze at that fine man. At that tiger tattoo stamped round his neck and those chest muscles popping beneath his t-shirt. Sex on a stool right there, the kind I’d definitely ditch my battery operated boyfriend for. For the real thing. Hell yeah! That man can take me in any position we want. As long as we want. As hard as we want. Bent over his stool. Or pressed against the bar. Better yet, me on top, riding him till my bed creaks. Till we rise and shine.

I twerk my butt closer to him, zeroing in on that tumbler in his grip. He brings it to his lips; the gold tinted glass perhaps full of some expensive brandy. Brandy I’d love to be so he’d slurp me up. One lick and my banshee shriek would warp into a panting frenzy.

Listen here, Muscle-Man move that gorgeous brown head of yours. Two more inches and you can watch my Baby-Got-Back swagger. It’s totally for you. Sweaty ass doesn’t get any better than this.

He turns the exact moment my butt hits two speakers. They tip, slamming to the side. The speakers eek while I teeter back and forth, unable to catch my balance given I’m so drunk. My feet literally collapse beneath me and I smack the floor crotch-first, my legs split wide open.

Oh shit! That hurts. Hurts like my hips yanked from their sockets. I wanna cry. Wanna hide from Muscle-Man who’s now gawking at me along with the DJ and every other person in the club. A club I should never have come to. Who was I kidding, thinking I could recreate my prom night? Least then I was sober, limber enough to do cheerleading splits and had an actual date.

Forty sucks! I start to stand. My ankles give out and I smack the floor again.

Ouch!

 “Here.” Bump and Grind Guy nears me and stretches his arm down. “Let me help.”

“Uh....” I glance at his fingers, hesitating. Not that I have much choice at the moment. Let alone any other offers. I finally grasp his hand. It’s warm, firm, sand-paper scratchy, a little damp too. One thing’s certain he’s not hot. Not ugly either. He’s a tad double-chinned with dimples you could fit your pinky in. Cute. I could go with cute. I slowly climb to my feet, my groin burning when my thighs spasm. Dumb, middle aged body. Stop busting holes in my plans or I’m signing you up for tramp-o-lean. The track changes to Salt-N-Pepa’s, What A Man. A few people smirk my way. Why?

I follow their smirks to my bottom half where only my polka-dotted granny-panties cover my ass. Frik. Where’s my skirt? I revolve. Behind me, it lays on the floor, torn in half.

God. Can you spell humiliating?

Bump and Grind Guy plucks up my skirt. “This yours?”

Who me? Claim a ripped, burrito-stained skirt? Nope. I like running around in polka-dotted panties thank you very much. It’s the new rage. Try it. I do it all the time especially in front of a crowd of snickering people. Not to mention in front of Muscle-Man over there. He chuckles, slapping his knee. Others laugh louder. Anyone have a closet I can crawl inside? Or a bathroom?

Come on, Eudora. Embrace your inner She-Hulk and act like you don’t care.

Fine! I hold my head high and saunter straight for Muscle Man as if polka-dotted panty strutting is goin’ in style. Get your cameras ready Victoria’s Secret. I’m your next swankalicious model.

I sway my polka-dotted ass in Muscle Man’s line of vision. “Wanna dance?”

He laughs so hard he snorts. “Damn girl. You got balls.”

Big balls or little balls? Doesn’t matter. If my panty parading balls get me laid, then who the heck cares. I jut my hip against the bar, batting my eyelashes at Muscle Man. “So. How ‘bout it? Got a thing for a girl with balls.”

“Sure. Why not?” He trails me to the dance floor around Bump and Grind Guy who gapes at me like I drove over his favorite pet poodle.

Way to make me feel awful, dude. Worse than awful. Lower than dirt awful.

Darn-it. Nice time to grow a conscience. Muscle Man’s hugging my hips and his hands are nearing my butt. Pretty soon we’ll be smooching to the rhythm of the strobing lights. Smooching, really?

Who are you, Eudora? This douche never lifted a finger when you fell. He’s probably the spank and leave type. Not the rise and shine type; the type I wanted from the beginning.

It’s true, my heart’s asking for more. More kind. More sweet. More after sex snuggles. Maybe I will chance it with Bump and Grind Guy after all.

I call to him over my shoulder, “Save the next dance for me.”

 

 


© Copyright 2018 Joy Shaw. All rights reserved.

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