Fluidity of Motion

I took my drink and left the money at the far edge of the bar. The bartender wasn’t attractive enough to bother making banter; the night was too young and I too sober and too hopeful. I made my way across the club, sliding deftly through a stumbling crowd. It was dark, the intermittent flash of a strobe light and the alien glow of a ceiling lined with black lights making the whites glow, smiles flashing and eyes floating in the dark throb of the oversized basement.

I made it to our corner—we were regulars in the club, friends of the owner, chummy with the bartenders, respected by the bouncers and constantly sought after by the multitudes that sought entry into this dark haven. We were The Three—superheroes in our own right. Jarred grinned at me from his seat, a girl latched to him and working furiously at his neck.

“Nice one,” I said, admiring his find.

There is a way to speak in clubs, if one takes the time to learn. We three are masters of the club, and our voices cut through the thickness of the music. We do not shout. Shouting is for the commoner.

“Isn’t she?” he answered back. “This has to be one of the better nights.”

Jarred, you see, lived in the shadow of the other member of our triad, Aaron. I was the wise one, enjoying the atmosphere of our hideaway without needing to embark in any of the standard clubbing adventures. One or two drinks and a good seat would suite me, the energy of the place filling me, casting shivers through my skin every so often. Jarred required a little more adventure, which was often womanizing, though he wasn’t very good at it. He often satisfied himself with a quick alleyway fight or dance floor mosh pit when his primary endeavor failed. Aaron was only there for the women, and one would be hard pressed to find a man better skilled at luring beautiful women into his clutches. He had a tendency to monopolize, with little regard for the needs of his comrades. Jarred suffered the most at his hands, and the exemplary specimen grinding on his lap was a victory and major accomplishment for the youngest of the group.

“Know what’s even better?” He asked grinning again, his face flushed, his eyes never leaving his gorgeous find. “Take a look at Aaron. Notice his slacks. And tell me if he’s getting any action.”

He winked at me, then fell back into his chair, captivated.

I glanced toward the middle of the floor: Aaron’s spot. I could see him through the crowd. He was dancing his usual dance, well practiced and impressive to all but Jarred and myself. He was alone. This was bizarre. He could always be counted on to have at least two women on him, one of them often willing to be introduced to me. I can’t say I minded this. In fact, I’d grown to expect it. The fact that he was alone meant that I would have to find a woman on my own, or sleep alone tonight.

Grumbling, I walked through the crowd toward him. As I approached I saw it. I groaned, but let it drown in the music. No wonder. It was glowing like a fucking highlighter on his pants, dribbled down to his knee. No fucking wonder.

I wasn’t in the mood to woman hunt. I simply wasn’t. I wanted to tell him, to whisper in his ear, dude, you have cum all over your fucking pants, but something stopped me. I glanced back at Jarred, who would not be breaking any bottles, any hands, or any laws tonight. I saw him and realized how ecstatic he was, not about the perfect ass glued to his lap, but that he’d finally outdone the ladies man.

I guess one night alone won’t kill me, I decided.

The Other Side needs to do laundry