smeared on a hopeless
The MC gave the nod, the DJ let up on the brakes. The models coupled off in cliques, two by two, traveling in an arc around the club. Thievery Corporation stole the show. Stilletos shot into the air, all the pole strippers were there. Clocked in and synchronized. Carrying our eyes. Up in the VIP room, a Lindsay Lohan lookalike and some worthless piece of shit were playing truth or dare. He dared her to go down on him. She went all up in his face, with a backhand and then some! The night had hardly begun.
The socially-challenged took their little pills, and waited for the shit to kick in. Hustlers played nine ball, washing the scene down with tonic, and gin. Versace’s ghost was in the corner scanning fashion mags. Pink was sadly watching the dancefloor and the lights. She excused herself the many times she was asked to dance: no thanks, i’m on the rag. No worries, all was good. The bartenders were on their toes, and that’s just the way things stood.
Bottom line was this club was poppin’. All five stories wrapped around a stage. The BDSM crowd surfed right into their cage. Everyone anticipated the night’s billing, Sweet Fucking Disaster. The band was still back stage, feeling cherry. All the underage girls in their arms, in lieu of instruments. No one asked for ID. Pretty scary. The socially-challenged, started feeling the chills. Thanking false gods for their pills. Dispersing out easily, now that they were lubricated. Like the thighs around the poles. Everyone wanted something, they would most likely get. Touching. Anticipating that Sweet Fucking Disaster that hadn’t quite fallen off — not just yet.
by Katya Mills
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