Smoke filled the air, wafting up to the high ceiling where disco balls and strobe lights glittered and flashed. The air was thick with the smell of dope and cheap perfume. Bodies glistened with sweat, eyes glazed over from the haze that shrouded us all. Andy was right there with me. His skin was warm, pressed against mine like a protective layer, separating me from the strangers that surrounded us. We were consumed by the fluid motion of limbs, connected like waves in a riptide. People babbled, seemingly praying to unknown gods, the essence of booze tainting our blood. This wasn’t my first rodeo, yet it always surprised me, the way people seemed to lose themselves in a place like this.
By the end, the alcohol that is consumed has begun to weep from my pores. My heels have all but made the experience positive, practically crushing the bones in my feet. Not to mention the cramping in my calves from dancing and grinding against Andy as if my life depended on it. In the Uber, we paid no mind to the driver as we kissed and touched each other, and the moment we arrived at his apartment, we stumbled out of the backseat and up the steps. He fumbled with the lock, we busted through the door, he carried me to his room, and the rest is history. When it’s all said and done, and the morning after allows some thought to pass, I sometimes wonder why I even go out. It’s fun, but it’s dirty. Like jumping into a puddle, expecting to be splashed by fresh rainwater, but getting sprayed, instead, by a thick layer of mud.
When Sunday night rolls around, and it’s time to return to the university, I say my goodbyes and I’m forced to pretend none of it ever happened.