Black Lace

When good girls fall in love, they sing songs, write in their diaries, dream of starry skies, and ride ponies.

When good girls crush on a beautiful boy, they write him notes, bake him cookies, leave him gifts, and watch him from afar. If they are caught, they giggle and run away like a bumbling idiot, because that's the thing to do.

Good girls do many things when they are in love.

I am fairly certain they do NOT sensuously GRIND against their crush in black lace so scandalous, it makes Victoria's secret seem lame and anti-climatic.

I had no idea that it would turn out like this. This all started innocent enough. My friend Delia wanted to have the best birthday party ever. You know how it is when you turn twenty-one. You're legal, you can drink legally, you can do a lot of other things legally, and despite getting drunk off you arse at nineteen, you want to celebrate your newly-minted legal-ness anyway.

Delia's no different. She rented a hot spot that hosts burlesque shows every so often and invited like a million people. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but hell, Delia knows a lot of freaking people.

Delia's always been an over-the-top person; so of course, she had to have an over-the-top party. What I didn't expect was for her theme to be a raunchy, hot, sweaty, sexy-theme night of debauchery. I mean dark stage, red lights, sweat, sexy beats, and people wearing masks a-la "Eyes Wide Shut". No sex allowed (all kinds) but teasing and grinding are highly encouraged.

And she wanted me in on it.

I'm no prude. I'm no trollop, either. But I'm like "okay, let's go for it". What the heck, right? She's my friend, and I just want to have fun, as the song goes. So when she asks me and a few other girls to dance sensuously to "Train" by Goldfrapp as a way to welcome people to the party (and to set the tone of things, of course), I hop on board. Not like my parents are going to be there, right? Again, all in good fun, right? Parents won't be around for miles.

The weekends of sexy dance lessons and sexy outfit shopping paid off. When we hit the stage, the crowd went crazy. I mean, whistles, cat calls, and wolf howls. You could just feel the sexual energy rising in the room. Guys rushed to the stage, crisp one dollar bills in hand, and the ladies lustfully licked their lips. I mean, it was crazy.

Meanwhile, I'm very nervous. After all, I'm dancing in my skivvies for crying out loud. But as the energy of the crowd flows into me, I feel alive. I am drunk with sexual power. These guys are strangers, right? I'm not going to look any of these guys in the eye on Monday morning. I'm sure my friends and I will laugh about this later. And I'm pretty sure I won't be seeing this on Youtube either, since those nice, big, burly bouncers confiscated all that stuff at the door.

So I dance. I shake my hips. I whip my hair back and forth. My skin glistens with sweat. I'm such a lady, but I'm dancing like a...you know the rest.

The dance ends, the crowd applauds, some people start drinking, some people start kissing, some people run out the doors already. I can't help but smile in triumph. I figure I'll harmlessly flirt, have a drink, and maybe have another go at the pole – though by the looks of it, it'll be busy all night.

So how the HELL did I end up in the VIP room, skin-to-skin with the guy I'm freaking crazy about but don't have the balls to step up to?

Freaking Delia, that's who.

Damn woman, she ALWAYS does this. Whenever I tell her I like a guy, she always has to intercede and try to hook us up "because she's so damn nice". It always ends in disaster – they either don't turn out to be the guy I think they are, or they're enamoured by Delia's big ass rack. Seriously. This guy is no exception for her.