Victory

Gina, with the glow stick, under neon, slammed the dance floor when her tit slipped out her top. It leaked easy, didn’t really matter, and no one took a picture. Gina just keep dancing, in rhythm to the music, in time to the Ambien and the Ecstacy: she couldn't even feel her nipple poke you in the eye.

The club was live, the crowd was lost in the bass, moving furious in bliss of velvet chemical courtesy of good pharmacists gone bad. DJ had the records running backwards: house speakers breaking everybody's jaw, scratches deep enough to scuff the sidewalk. The wide floor was full, the bar in the back of the hall all but abandoned, tenders drying glasses, cocktails melting in surrender. The spotlight hit the uptown crowd of corporate digital kids, young money party fine, their glowing necklaces lighting up the darkness in genius junior. Tonight they live their dream of freedom, all of them in their own music video. Gina was starring hard.

She blew the bouncer to get in, burly with a beard, and while her mouth was full with his member her phone began to ring. It was her Mom, and the scene was so absurd that Gina would have giggled if she wasn’t busy gagging. Afterward the guy gave her a goody bag of pills; Gina swallowed like a good girl. Mom left a voicemail but fuck that noise. Too many conversations… too many mondays at the office where the clocks don’t go. It was time to break out, to forget all her manners: tonight she was ready to lose her head, to amplify and divide. Gina feel the warm glow from the bouncer in her belly, and a couple vodka cocktail helped the tabs liquefy pretty. This was getting good. Tonight’s mission: absolute obliteration.

Gina’s breast, bouncing free, liberated joy and blind to her opened eyes, until a colored girl called Macy slipped it back into Gina’s strapless top, all done under the guise of grinding beside her. Macy was smooth: Gina didn’t feel a thing. Some of the junior execs who had sponsored her first drinks were hitting the dance floor now, unable to sit still in the presence of the scent... the smell of soft earth from a good girl's garden. Gina had been shy with the boys at the bar: talking small, her butterfly eyes on hover, her mouth wide smile. The guys could feel her gravity, danced around her in spontaneous symmetry with cash in their hand that took flight and disappeared into the neon sky. To leave this baby thirsty would be a crime against everything beautiful.

Out on the dance floor Gina couldn't see the boys she had made men, didn't notice them finding funk & flanking her, all intent on taking her home, for the chance to get inside and go beyond. Gina, loving the beat, feeling free as her body finally did what it had always been meant to do. She had grown up in silence, afraid of her oatmeal, but she was learning quick that good girls drive their own cars.

She slipped her finger down the front of her pants, under the waistband, dipping it quick between her lips. She pulled out the sweetened finger and - in time to the beat- pushed it in the mouth of the app developer dancing to her left, who tasted her wet and got hard. Gina didn’t know his name.

Just then some joker fucked up on oxy & a lifetime of Playstation put his lighter to the smoke alarm, and against all odds the sprinkler system actually works. Water flooding the dance floor, rain pouring on the party as the boys and girls scramble for the exits, trying to preserve their club clothes and what's left of their dignity.

Not Gina. She kept moving to the music, laughing hard to her own private joke as her dress gets soaked and her tit slips back out her top. She pulled her dripping hair back, her calves stretching, her smiling cheeks sore, her wet breast bouncing to the beat. Nothing was gonna stop her from dancing tonight... she loved this song.