I’m wearing a short, tight skirt and a shirt made up of two scarves tied behind my neck. No bra, and my tits push against the silky fabric like twin melons. They barely bounce when I dance, and I’m proud of them. They’re worth the college tuition they cost to buy. Guys have been approaching me all night. I let them buy me drink after drink, but I dance alone or with a girlfriend, shaking our asses in time to the pounding rhythm. My skirt rides up over tanned, taut thighs, and tawny hair glistens in the blue strobe lights. I’m hips and tits and hair. I’m smooth, fluid motion. I’m sex for the sake of sex. There’s a guy watching me from across the dance floor. There are lots of guys watching me, but this one is different. He’s alone, not part of a pack. Just standing there, watching. His long-sleeved, black sweater hugs his shoulders and chest and fades into the black of his trousers, making him a shadow. I put on a little more effort for him, a wiggle of my hips and ass and tits.
