It’s crowded and the blaring blue neon lights are giving everyone an underground sheen. I’m stumbling around trying to find my friends and my thoughts.
Filled with a little too much liquid courage I start swaying my hips to the syrupy hip hop, muted autotune masking the crass and overly sexual lyrics.
I never go out like this.
The combination of the increasing temperature and sweaty bodies all around make me grateful for this sorry excuse of a shirt.
I’m trying to dance while struggling to peer over much taller heads as the room transitions to liquid gyrating pairs. Someone comes behind and holds my waist, but I don’t care and continue dancing. The music changes and he starts leading my hips; am I one of those gyrating pairs?
My world is too blurred to notice that I’m losing control, and starting to love it. He’s moving his hands roughly up and down my body and kissing my neck. Is this hookup culture?
He leads me by the hand out the door and I slowly follow behind. Come back to my room, maybe? Can I fend for myself and my boundaries, yes? We begin walking back through the brisk night with him holding my body steady and tight to his.
The personal questions start and I realize I just had met this cliched guy in a bar. Exchanging pleasantries feels strange for someone who just spent the last hour pressed against my body. Major, hometown, etc etc etc… less drunk than I, he analyzes my answers and is completely off. It’s comforting to know that he doesn’t really know me.
Back in his room I settle in the fluff of his blankets anticipating what’s coming. He turns the lights off, a disguise as we move closer together.
Much to the dismay of his pleading voice I slink away at 3AM, craving my own bed and warmth.
On the walk back, to the comfort of my now sober mind, I realize; he doesn’t even know my name.