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I kind of liked the hip hop joint. Women were still scantily clad, most wearing barely-there board shorts and bikini tops. The guys wore shorts and T-shirts or wife beaters.

Why wife beaters? And why has that become such an accepted term? I’m even guilty of using it. Just the other day my friend Susie called to see if I wanted to go to a movie with her after work.

My reply? “Ah, I don’t know. Today’s a lazy day. I’m sitting around in boxers and a wife beater.”

Such a violent term for such a sexy piece of clothing.

Well even with all the wife beaters around, the place was really laid back.

No lasers blasted me in the eyes like at the previous night’s club and I saw very few glow sticks. The music was pounding.

As we entered, a hoarse voiced reggae singer belted out a bunch of lyrics in broken English. The only word I made out was “pussy.” It was a major part of the chorus and most of the people in the crowd seemed to know every word of the song. Even Ben started singing along.

It went something like this, “Blah blah gial blah pussy, anna inna banna man gial dem pussy!”

Okay, so I totally made that up. But it did kind of sound like that. Since when did the sacred part of a woman’s anatomy become a crowd pleasing chant?

“I’ve never heard you listen to reggae,” I said as I nudged Ben.

“Haha! Remember Bose?” he replied.

“The stereo company?”

“No, the hot as shit black guy I was dating a couple of months ago!”

“Umm no.”

“Well, he loved reggae…almost as much as he loved getting his dick sucked. Unfortunately he loved getting his dick sucked a little too much,” Ben said as he pointed a thumb at his own chest. “And not just by this guy. The whore!”

I could write a book on Ben’s wild dating stories. He has some doozies that’s for sure.

“Come on let’s dance,” Ben said, grabbing my hand.

I was in no tail feather shaking mood. I waved him off and picked a spot at a banister overlooking the dance floor. Ben, as if it were the mid-80s, held his hands up like he was driving a car and steered his way out to Jill on the dance floor.

From my little nest I watched the sweaty bodies below grind along to the music. When you’re in the middle of the fray it all seems perfectly normal. Bodies bump, jump, and dip down low. Booties shake, arms flap, and knees bend. It’s all part of the game.

But if you never have, you should check out the scene from a high up perch. It’s pretty ridiculous. If nothing else you’ll be amused.

I had front row seats to a musical orgy. I watched one girl with braids all over her head, a bathing suit top that barely held her boobs inside, and shorts that were so short her pockets stuck out the bottom bend over on the dance floor while a guy danced doggy style behind her.

If it weren’t for the clothes between them, he’d be penetrating her easily. I didn’t want to watch them, but I was enthralled. I couldn’t turn away.

The guy’s face was shrouded in the shadows but the girl’s was clearly visible and the look on her face was ecstasy. She was enjoying that dance and I could tell by her pursed lips and dopey eyes that she was thinking about fucking him later. That was a definite hook up.

Two couples down, a shy looking guy wasn’t doing much dancing. He was just sort of rocking from one foot to the other, knees barely bent, arms at his sides.

The woman behind him was making up for his lack of moves as her ass gyrated to the music, bouncing up and down along with the beat while her arms reached around him and groped every inch of his body. One hand was on his stomach while the other was gripping his thigh. I wasn’t quite sure if that was a hookup. She seemed to be wanting it but he wasn’t entirely sure.

My eyes darted around the room from one couple to the next. I was a people watcher and I was having fun watching these people.

“There you are,” came a familiar voice, right in my ear, whispered less than an inch away. “You look bored.”

Instant aggravation washed over me. It wasn’t the voice I’d been waiting to hear. This had no “choo” in it. “You look bored” was not nearly as sensual sounding as “Choo look bored.”

I turned on my heels already knowing who it was. Chad the hunky douchebag (sorry, I know I’ve used this word several times to define him, but come on, it so fits) flight attendant stood there with his shirt unbuttoned a couple of buttons too low, showcasing his slightly hairy chest. It looked like he spent countless hours trimming the hairs to perfection, the way Mr. Miyagi might tidy up a bonsai tree.

“It’s you,” I said.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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