My Wish Upon A Star

Chapter 6 - This is a Taxi and You're Not Wearing Pants

Chapter 6

This is a Taxi and You’re Not Wearing Pants

During parties, I had what you could call a bipolar tendency. One minute I was silent and sulking against the bar and the next I was up on a box taking my shirt of and offering to everyone to take body shots off of my belly button.

            And right now, I was on the low wave of things. I was nursing my drink, sitting at a booth, looking at the crowded bar.

            It was one of Victor’s old school buddies birthday party. One of his filthy rich old school buddies. The whole bar was close for all of his friends and he had even hired high class strip pole dancers—well that’s how I saw them, from what Victor had told me they were actually circus performers but in my honest opinion it was probably that his friend didn’t want to admit he had hired an entire strip club. Seriously, they were up on boxes, jiggling their asses, some of them doing some pretty impressive contortionist stuff, some were actually dancing around poles, though it wasn’t your cheap, run down the mile, find in every truck stop pole dancing. Okay, I think I saw one or two spit fire, but maybe those two were actual circus performers.

            Anyway, it was more amusing to think they were all strippers and would start taking their clothes off soon. There were a couple of those dudes that I wouldn’t mind seeing in their birthday suits. It was a birthday party after all.

Speaking of clothing, I was wearing a really skimpy dress—I mean really skimpy. Victor had bought it for me, it was Versace, it was from the Winter 2013 collection and it was pale pink which worked very well against my olive skin complexion and light brown hair and it made my waist look incredibly thin, but it was strapless and it was short. If I bended, everyone would see I hadn’t graced them with underwear tonight.

            I took another gulp of my Scotch and pouted. I like dancing in parties like this but Victor had only graced me with his presence for like, three dances, and they were short and sure he was an okay dancer but he didn’t exactly take the lead, he just followed my movement so it wasn’t my most exciting experience with him. And I couldn’t go and dance with anyone. I didn’t exactly feel comfortable with grabbing some stranger that had gone to school with my too-high-class non-boyfriend and rub my ass and boobs all over them. Maybe I could jump on one of those boxes with the strippers-non-strippers and rub my skimpy dress covered body against theirs?

            I wanted to dance god dammit. I missed it.

So, I might have wasted most of my college years partying. I hung around the buildings where the people in art were and managed to find the ones in the dancing troupes. That was how, before I even got to my reading week during my first semester, I met my boyfriend of six months, Myles. Myles knew how to dance. He was hot too, hot damn he was hot. He looked a lot like Eggs in True Blood. The same abs too, you know, the kind of abs you want to wash clothes on, like you know, take your clothes off and rub them on him, yeah. He was hot. And we’d go to parties all the time and that’s how I found my inner dancing slut. Dancing with Myles gave me rhythm and skills. I was not ashamed to admit that Myles made me decent in bed—previous to Myles, my track record only held a precocious ejaculator and a few simple make-outs with random dudes. Myles was the second guy I did it with, and he was generous enough to share his knowledge. It shouldn’t really shock anyone that good dancers were bound to be good in bed—if you got the rhythm up, you got the rhythm down baby. But then he got a scholarship and he moved to California and long distance relationships weren’t my thing so we split up. That was my longest relationship actually.