This is a bit shorter than my usual stories (and another attempt to do something a little 'different'). Thanks again to my editors, Alianath Iriad and Lastman416. Any remaining errors are mine. Thanks to you readers as well, for the feedback and constructive criticism.
***
What the hell was I doing in a nightclub? The cover charge was a king's ransom, and the drinks were priced so that the owner could probably pay off the national debt after the first week of business.
$7.50 for a club soda? I handed the waitress a ten-dollar bill, and she was gone before I had a chance to ask for change. She probably couldn't have heard me in any case.
The music was excruciatingly loud. I could feel the dull, repetitive thump, thump, thump like a series of punches in the chest. The drum tracks were all programmed, of course: if that was supposed to be a beat, then I was indeed taking a beating. To add to my enjoyment, the flashing lights were giving me a headache.
But Luke was here to meet his match from the dating app, and Marco and I had come along to provide moral support and backup. Marco (a big lad) was the security guard, and I was the designated driver, in case of a failure to launch (hence the club soda).
Luke was on the floor with his date, while Marco kept the date's girlfriend (
her
moral support / security) occupied. I would've said they were dancing, except that they weren't. It was more a case of rubbing up against each other.
I was observing from a safe vantage point. Well, relatively safe. A line from the Talking Heads 'Once in a Lifetime' was stuck in my head: "Well, how did I get here?"
The short answer: I grew up in a small town, went to a small school, ran track & cross-country. Took the job offer, moved to the big city. Marco and Luke were pretty decent guys; they helped me fit in at work, kept the practical jokes to a minimum, and invited me to play basketball with them on Tuesdays, and watch sports on weekends.
That was why I was suffering through this ordeal. With any luck, Luke and his match would strike some sparks, and we could
all
go home early. Otherwise, I was looking at hours of sipping my club soda and pointless girl-watching.
That's not to say that I object to girl-watching. And there
were
women I could watch - some of them were quite attractive. That didn't mean that I stood the ghost of a chance with them. I can appreciate a Ferrari - doesn't mean I'm ever going to drive one. My clothes, my bearing (and probably the look on my face, too) all proclaimed me to be exactly what I was: a fish out of water.
Luke insisted that relationships nowadays started online.
- "You gotta put yourself out there, man! Take a few chances."
- "I dunno." said Marco, shaking his head. "Ben should probably wait until he has some new clothes, and a car."
- "I have a car."
- "I mean a car from the 21st century." he said. That was a cheap shot, given how often I drove them around.
- "Hey - I don't see the women lined up outside
your
door." I said.
- "That's 'cause they're all inside, with me."
I did need to adjust my approach, or my expectations. Or both.
Rachel and I were together for almost two years, in college. She got a great offer in New York, while I got a pretty good one in Toronto. She couldn't understand why I wouldn't ditch everything and move with her - so that I could wait on her, hand and foot, when she got home from work.
She also thought that running and sports were 'junior' hobbies - things I should grow out of, now that we were adults, or at least 'put on the back burner', so that I could concentrate on 'our relationship' (meaning her and what
she
wanted). It took me far too long to realize that Rachel was completely self-centred and ridiculously high-maintenance (both financially and emotionally).
New job, new city. I was looking for an independent, low-maintenance woman - if possible, one who shared at least some of my interests. I was looking for Ms. Right. While I was waiting, though, I wouldn't have objected to spending some time with Ms. Reasonably Close - or even Ms. No Way I'm Bringing You Home to Meet my Parents.
Just then, a little blonde slid past me to get to the bar. The bartender must've had a drink ready for her, because two seconds later, she was turning around. I stepped to the side, to give her a little room.
She surveyed the dance floor, and then surprised me by raising her drink to her lips, tilting her head back, and draining the whole thing in one go.
Before I could even absorb that, she turned and looked right up at me (I'm no six footer, but she was only 5'4", tops). She reached up and tugged on my shirtsleeve. I lowered my head so that she could shout into my ear.
- "Wanna dance?"
There was no mistaking who she was talking to. Even so, my first reaction was to point to myself.
- "Me?"
There was no way she could've heard me. It didn't matter anyway. She had a grip on my shirt, and simply pulled me behind her.
The little blonde popped her empty glass on an unoccupied table. I did the same, and followed her down the steps onto the dance floor. She led to me an open spot near the corner, and placed me exactly where she wanted me.
Then she turned her back to me, and began dancing.
I'm a terrible dancer. It's partly a question of lineage; the only rhythm in my family was the method my grandparents used for birth control (which may be why I have three aunts and six uncles on that side).
It didn't matter at all: the blonde wasn't even looking at me. But I certainly had plenty to see. She had a trim, taut little body, with hardly an ounce of extra fat, and an ass worthy of being immortalized. I'm talking paintings. Film. Statues.
I caught Marco looking at me with an expression of complete disbelief. Luke was staring, too, as if to say: 'What are
you
doing here?', or 'Who is
that
?'.
My partner finally looked back. She took hold of my shirt again, and pulled my arm around her waist. My hand was on her belly. It was as firm and tight as the rest of her.
There was one part of her body that had a little give to it. I found that out when she backed up a little more (with her hand still imprisoning my arm), and pressed that incredible ass up against me.
Given the disparity in our respective heights, she had to move me around me a bit more to achieve her goal: her delectable little rump pressed right up against my groin. Normally I would've been mortified to have my erection brush against a woman's backside. But this was exactly what the little blonde wanted.
I was embarrassed, at first. It was like being the recipient of a standing lap dance. My response was immediate and ... rather prominent.
My partner swayed back and forth, and took a tighter grip of my arm so that she could direct my movements as well. Soon we were swaying together. I could feel the heat of her belly through her thin dress, but most of my attention was on the taut globes of her ass, which she had sandwiched around my dick.
She was grinding back onto me, which raised the back of her dress a little too far - so that I realized she was wearing a thong.
I was completely mortified. Could people see what we were doing? What
she
was doing? Of course, I wasn't embarrassed enough to move away; I was far too turned on.
She was in great shape, with incredible stamina. I was beginning to worry that I might not be able to last that long - that I might, in fact, stain the front of my pants.
I was saved by the whistle. Whistles. The music changed, with a new song flowing more or less seamlessly out of the last. Except that this song sounded like something you'd hear at a soccer match. The multiple referees' whistles were particularly annoying.
The little blonde stopped dancing (and grinding). She shook her head, and then proceeded to drag me off the floor.
On the main level, she took a sharp right, and headed for the exit. There was a set of inner doors, then a carpeted hallway, with washrooms and a coat-check room. The music was somewhat muffled here, and the lights weren't flashing.
She stopped again, for a moment, as if she were wondering where she'd left her keys. Then she turned to me.
It was my first really good look at her face.
She was
