The music's thub-bumpin' so hard I can feel it from the back of my eyes to the bottom of my nutsack, and the coke's kickiní in oh so nice and fine. This is life right here, this is how itís done, this is what itís for. The bullshit, the nine-to-five grind, the standiní in line, the dealiní with the phone company, the listeniní to your numbfuck boss as he blows smoke up your ass. Whatever. This, this is life.
I wade into the crowd, my pulse pounding as hard as the music, the air thick with the taste of sweat and lust and excitement. I knock back my vodka sour, and chomp the ice as I groove. I feel people rubbing up against me, it doesnít matter who, it doesnít matter for how long. Because there will always be someone else, there will always be the next thing. Motion, thatís what itís all about. Move it, move it, move!
A drink is spilled on my left arm, icy and slick, and someone grips my wrist. I feel a tongue lick the liquid, and when I glance over, it could be anyone. There are eyes everywhere, lips, tongues. Too dark to know for sure, and the strobe lights give away nothiní. I dump whatís left of my drink down my arm and laugh as the tongue continues to lap it away.
Yes, sir, this is what itís all about. This is why weíre born, ladies and gentlemen, and anyone who tells you otherwise ainít doiní it right.
The DJís on tonight, I mean on, mixing and matching as if sheís had an eternity to plan, and even longer to match her beats. Her tits bounce unrestricted beneath her tiny t-shirt, and the crowd jumps right along with them. Itís all perfect, but no time to focus on it, no time to dilly dally, as they say, as the boss says, but fuck him because thatís not what this is about.
This is about moving, motion, about go, go, go, and whatever happens tomorrow will be well worth it.
How long? Hours, minutes, it doesnít matter. Long enough that the vodka sours have worked their way through me, and Iím in the bathroom, it doesnít matter which one, not around here. Pissing while a couple fucks on the sink, and the dude waiting behind me gets tired of waiting, and joins them. And then thereís the DJ, sheís whispering behind me that she could make my world magic, and next thing I know, Iím snorting line after line from her red latex boot while she uses my hand to jerk herself off.
And then Iím on the dance floor again, rubbing against the others, moving with them, being a part of something that will never exist in daylight, but is more real than anything else in my life.
How much time passes? It doesnít matter. Enough so that theyíre turning the lights on and the music off, and people are stumbling out, staggering out, moping out like they are being evicted from their homes.
Into the street, where cabs honk horns and steam billows up from the grates in the street, and people share cigarettes and talk about where theyíre going next.
And this, this is your birth, back into the world, out of the womb of perfection, this is loss and pain, and lies that parade around as reality.
Just before I hail a cab, I hear the voice, velvet in my ear, heavenly in its salvation. ďI saw you tonight. Dancing.Ē
I turn. I see her for the first time, but Iíve known her forever. The hunger, the need, the desperation, itís like looking into a mirror. She finds reality as disgusting as I do. She needs it to continue, needs to stretch this moment of true living.
ďCab?Ē I ask.
ďMy place is close.Ē And she has a flask. She pours it sloppily into her mouth and tongue-fucks my skull, sloshing liquid and lust into my mouth, and Iím okay with that, because why the hell not. Unsanitary as shit, but I can worry about that tomorrow, when Iím back into the business of illusionary living.
We stumble back to her place, I donít even know how far. All I know is my fingers are in her, and hers are around me, and this is the most. This is what itís all about, this is how it should be.
Weíre finally back at her place, how long, I donít even know. Long enough that I have to piss again. Long enough for the booze from her flask to overpower the coke in my system. Long enough for me to be cum-messy and ready to go, and when I return from the bathroom, sheís licking her hand, and masturbating and repeating her mantra: ďI want you inside me. I want you inside me.Ē
How long? I donít even know. Long enough for the booze to kick my ass, long enough for the headache to set in. The rush of last night, itís gone, leaving behind sludge and confusion.
I open my eyes, try to rub my throbbing temples. Somethingís wrong. Somethingís very wrong, and my body is just getting around to telling me about it. This isnít just a hangover.
Doped. Iíve been fucking drugged.
The room is still lit only by candles, but I donít know if itís because the windows are covered or because itís another night.
Sheís waiting for me, still naked, sitting near the flames. Eating? She cuts a piece of meat, delicately places it on the tip of her tongue. As she chews, she moans, as if sheís having an orgasm. She swallows, sits panting, still staring at me. I see that sheís working her crotch with the hand that isnít holding the fork.
Cold. Why is it so cold in here? I try to ask her. Try to open my mouth, try to say something, anything. I canít. Nothing happens.
I can move my eyes, and nothing else.
She takes another bite, moans, orgasms, falls panting to the floor. I hear dripping. Dripping from underneath me.
I try to struggle, and nothing happens. Only my eyes move. I can see that Iím tied down. I can see where my arms end in bloody stumps, I can see the hole in my stomach, I can see the blood dripping from my sides.
I can see her taking another bite.