“Over there.”
“The short redhead in the really short skirt.”

I scanned the dancing crowd, sorting out individuals from the throbbing mass of half-dressed swingers. Flashing colored lights and the motion of the crowd made it nearly impossible to find an individual, much less hold them in sight long enough to identify them. Then I saw her, the pudendal bulge of her white cotton pants peeking out from beneath a hem too high to be called clothing in ordinary circumstances.

“Oh. Her?”
“Yeah, that one. She keeps looking over here.”
“Who’s she with?”
“I don’t know.”

“All right,” shouted the DJ in fierce amplified tones. “Now it’s time for a ladies dance. Let’s clear the men away and get the juicy funk juices flowing.”

My wife jumped off her bar stool and headed onto the crowded half-dressed floor. A thumping beat took hold of the vast mass of flesh and began a feminine pulsation of exploration and exhibition. I took a long pull of my vodka drink, smacked the glass down awkwardly, picked up the bottle and poured another. The redhead joined my wife in delightful rhythms, rising and falling, pushing and pulling, twisting and turning, lost in her eyes. A small man joined me with a nod.

“I guess our wives are hitting it off.”
“Looks that way.”
“She has a boyfriend.”

The song began to transform steadily into another, similar song and the DJ released the dance floor from it’s proscription, leading masses of men back onto the floor as some of the women began to flow away. The redhead headed toward the DJ and mounted the four foot high speaker that flanked him on the right. Her white panties glowed and shimmered beneath her pseudo-skirt as her hips gyrated hypnotically. Eyes closed, or so it seems, she lost herself in the beat.

“We’re taking off soon.”
“So are we.”
“As soon as she finishes dancing.”
“She looks great.”

She joined us momentarily, long enough to say “hello” and “goodbye.” We wound our way through a sexualized crowd, breasts and cocks and kisses and thrusts. The night air burned hot, the darkness giving no relief on a late Dallas night. The valet brought their car and we watched them drive away.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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