27 February 2012

Short Story: "Don't Ask Me About My Night"

Wholly inspired by Worker's new RPM EP. Go download it and listen to "Uphill" when reading the ending to this thing for the full effect.

"Don't Ask Me About My Night"
David J. Dunn

I was already fucked up to the point where I was getting destructive. Emily still hadn't shown up yet, the one person I expected to be able to count on, the one who fucking wanted me to hit this shitty bar in the first place, she who was a fan of the dj and of the promoter and Facebook friends with the manager. I didn't give a fuck about any of that shit. The alleyway was freezing. The ice on the ground was masked by a thin layer of salt. The awning was barely holding the wet snow at bay. The girls around me were hurriedly smoking their cigarettes and their joints and screaming into their cell phones, not because of the loud noise but because they were fucking crazy, their boyfriend-for-the-nights busy getting into fights on the street between drinks. Fucking meatheads, I thought. If I had the balls I would have started something just to get the chance to sucker punch one of those assholes. Smash his face into the sidewalk, then kick him in the skull, then turn to his buddies and look them dead in the eyes tell them to FUCK OFF. A cop car pulled up beside them, the pot smokers hurriedly butting out their joints and shuffling back into the place. I turned away from my vision of violence and followed the disjointed flow back into the club.

I wish I could say it was hot and heavy. It wasn't. The dj was spinning some crap, probably some Skrillex, likely one of his hundreds of daily remixes, auto-matched into a shitty set mostly consisting of rocky techno and dubstep. She still wasn't here. My phone told me she'd be there soon, but that had been an hour ago. I watched the amateur on the decks try to climax his set, his wub-wubs clearly frustrating three-quarters of the dance floor. (The last quarter was the meatheads.) His long hair was throwing his sweat all over the crowd. The girls in front of the dj booth noticed and slinked off to the shooter bar in the back. Then came another guy with equipment. This asshole was leaving after this song. Good. The next guy walked up behind him in the dj booth and gave him a lackluster high-five. He was clearly glad to be rid of him (me too) and started setting up his gear. There was virtually no one on the dance floor, but when three girls in clad in short dresses and powder saw him they flocked to him in hipster reverie. This must have been the guy she was talking about. No one talked to the previous idiot when he was setting up.

The first song he mixed was hard and driving. People started to pour into the club from the frozen street, getting their drinks post-haste, slamming down shots and bombs, grabbing their girlfriend-for-the-nights, stumbling onto the dance floor, bumping and grinding, entranced, completely hypnotized. I saw her after I'd made my way in front of the dj booth, the girl in the red shirt, cut down around her shoulders with jagged scissors, long black hair almost obscuring the raven tattoo, red lipstick, fiery eyes, her shoulders moving in time with the 808, her hips moving in time with the kick, my hands sliding down her hips, her body pushing into me, my lips on hers, the sensation of flicking her tongue ring, her scent, her hair sweat-silky in my hands, her ass on my lap, my hand in her panties, little moans and licks in my ear, hard and fast, hard and fast, the dance floor stomping beats into my brain, the dj completely interfacted with his weapons, hacking the place apart with a sharp synth.

She bit my neck and we were back on the floor. Hands on my hips, distinctively not hers, grabbing with those little fingers like only Emily could, her blonde hair exploding with curls, WHOOOing for her favourite dj, catching eyes with the raven, noticing the lipstick on my lips, putting two and two together, the bass dropping heavy and the drums crunching like a shock, the dj noticing the blonde leaving and shaking his head at me, the Raven perched on my thigh, grinding herself into me, telling me what to do to her, my hands in her hair and on her ass, drinking her, enjoying her. She knew what this was. Bathroom. Trying not to piss on the floor. Nearly tipping over in the stall. Hand wash. Face wash. More lipstick on my face than on hers. Looks from interested parties as I left. The dance floor clad in purple light. The Raven and the Blonde, both hypnotized by the dj, staring at each other, throwing daggers, purposely missing, coming closer, the Blonde pushing the Raven up to the side of the dj booth, intent looks, her tongue on her lips, her arms held tight against the wall, the bass pounding ecstasy into our minds, the hottest thing I'd ever seen, the urge. I grabbed the Blonde by the waist, from behind, pushing her into the Raven, her bottom lip curled in and held by her teeth, her eyes locking with mine as I worked myself into the Blonde. The crowd were blitzing with screams during the climactic breakdown, bringing me temporarily back to reality and to morality, but only a reprieve, and in an instant I was under again, breathing in the beauty of the two women, the tension building, our bodies in tune with the pulsing electro, feeling the build, feeling it, feeling it, letting it all go, letting it go, LETTING. EVERYTHING. GO. The dance floor, blasted with white light, exploded and so did I.

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