SCENE IN A NIGHT CLUB

copyright: Lesley Tara, 2011

I’m sending little darting glances over to where you are, on the other side of the bar – hoping to catch your attention, to attract your interest.

And why not? You are just my type: a tall, slender, leggy blonde, with your profile displaying an enticing curve of breasts – they look firm and perky, a nice handful but not too large. Your hair is neatly styled, you are smartly turned out for a night on the town – you have that indefinable chic. You carry yourself really well, with confidence and a kind of unstated command, an oasis of cool serenity in this noisy packed club with its crowd at the bar and the mass of pulsating bodies on the dance floor nearby. You look well-educated and professional: a business executive, perhaps in advertising, or a banker, or maybe a lawyer? All this turns me on so much – and most of all that you look about a dozen years older than me, in your early 30s.

I’m always easy meat for a stylish mature woman, and slim blondes most of all – I suppose it goes back to the woman who first seduced me, a tennis coach at summer camp six years ago, when I was just legal at sixteen. She knew what I needed even before I did, and ever since I’ve been exclusively a girl for girls – or, rather, for women, whenever I get the chance. And now I’ve left college and got a job in this city, I can do what I want – and that’s to trawl the lesbian bars and clubs every Saturday night, looking to get off with someone like you, just exactly like you!

You caught my eye almost as soon as you came into this members-only lesbian night club; I realise that I’ve noticed you here a few times before, but I never got the chance to trail my coat (well, my pussy) in your path. You are with two other women, perhaps in their late twenties, both quite attractive and smart – but you stand out, to me you shine like a beacon, and all the other femmes in the club are just a grey indistinct background behind you. I’m not worried about the chicks you are with, because I’ve seen them around and I know they are a couple. But I don’t want some other bitch cutting in and hooking you before I do, and hence my increasingly unsubtle signs of interest.

C’mon, take a chance, you won’t regret it, I promise you! Look my way, and see what’s on offer – I’m a very pretty girl, everyone has always said so, a cute dark-eyed brunette, quite busty, quite young, in a short tight skirt and black boots – what is there to lose? Try your luck – it’s your lucky night, believe me!

I’m standing deliberately by myself, just at the side of the bar, cradling a vodka and lime and nursing it to last. I sense from the corner of my eye that your head has turned a little in my direction, and I swing a little sideways – I’m giving you my profile, so that you can’t miss my best features, my trim jutting ass and my tits, a fully rounded thrusting pair of 30 double-Ds.

I slip a sly glance back towards you, half-hidden under my large dark eyelashes – I’m a classic brunette, my hair a rich chestnut brown, slightly curly as it hangs to brush my shoulders.

You are looking my way! Yes, definitely, you are – with a slightly amused upturn to your lips, and a glint in your eye. Has the bait so artlessly laid been taken?

Hmm … oh! Yes, I think it has!

Still looking in my direction, you murmur something to the woman next to you, the blonde of the couple, and she gives an amused shake of her head and a small laugh, as if to say ‘off you go then, don’t let us hold you back’. But then you turn away, more in the direction of the door, and you disappear into the press of the crowd behind you, and I have a moment to admire the sway of your hips and the svelte curve of your ass, so elegantly showcased in a pair of sheer tight-fitting grey linen trousers.

Oh! Oh shit! No, don’t say that you’ve gone, heading off to some better pussy-hunting ground? Surely the hottest, most available babes are right here, right now? I mean, lookit me, for one!

I bite my lower lip with a crushing sense of disappointment, and then – for I’m not a girl to go home alone – I give the room another scan, seeking the next best (but very much second-best) prospect. Perhaps that black woman, although at only little more than my own age, she’s younger than I really want – but she does look quite commanding and authoritative. Oh, fuck, she’s with that cute little busty Latina, who looks hardly old enough to get entry here, I don’t believe she’s 18, not for a moment. Hmm … well, what about that brunette in the far corner? I don’t know, maybe … aah!!

My heart gives a lurch, as you suddenly materialise out of the crowd behind me – you have made a circuit around three sides of the room, I guess checking me out from various angles, and seeing if I really am on my own. In an instant you are right beside me, and your hand gently touches my arm, making me almost jump with the electric shock of excitement which this sends surging through me.

Up close, you look even better, if that is possible. You have lovely skin, a smooth flawless complexion, with a light tan that gives a healthy glow and offsets your straw blonde hair and your striking blue eyes. I’m thinking there must be Vikings in your long-ago ancestors, and maybe like them you’d like to seize a local maiden and carry her away in your longship? OK, so nowadays it’s a Mercedes 350SL convertible, but the same principle applies … I hope!

You are three or four inches taller than me, at about five feet ten, and your greater age and experience add even more authority to that. You are wearing smart designer heels in black below your silver-grey slacks, and you must have gone by the cloakroom – I realise now that this was why you started out in the direction of the entrance – because the matching double-breasted jacket of your suit is nowhere in sight, and I am very conscious of the shiny silk fabric of your shirt-style short-sleeve white top. You have left several buttons open … well, it is hot in here, as the evening builds up and more hormone-radiating babes pack in to this small space … but this does afford a nice view down your front, and I seem to be well-placed at an angle to do so. I try not to be too obvious in checking this out, spying the top of a lacy black bra and the promising start of your cleavage.

I realise that you have said something – which, between the noise of the dance music and the pounding of the blood in my ears, I haven’t registered. Oh, great, here’s my chance to come across as a complete idiot!

You smile again, so attractively, your blue eyes surprisingly warm in their regard. Your hand still rests on my forearm, as you repeat:

‘Hallo, I’m glory’.

For a moment I stand, rooted to the spot, mouth half-open in surprise – shit, are you putting me on here? You don’t have to tell me, I know you are glorious – deliciously, amazingly, stunningly, pussy-wettingly, earth-shakingly, orgasmically glorious. Then I realise that in the noise I have misheard you, that actually you said that your name is Gloria – oh, girl, someone knew what they were doing at your christening, you sure had a fairy godmother! Somehow I manage to get out a strangled, tongue-tied reply:

‘Hi, umm – yes, err … I’m Alison.’

‘Such a pretty name,’ you say softly, running your eyes over my face and body – and I can feel your gaze lingering on the ripe swell of my tits, as you add ‘… for such a pretty babe.’

Oh, yes! It may be an old line, but the old ones work just fine – and when said in your slightly husky tone, and with that sultry look in your eye, I’m falling for it for sure … of course, I probably would even if you recited the railway timetable or the Mets batting averages, but it’s the thought that counts. I’m so thrilled, because now I know for sure that you are interested, that you want me, that we are going to end up fucking like rabbits … maybe at my apartment, maybe at yours?

You smile, nicely but just a little hawkish, a little hungry – and that turns me on, I’m getting wetter by the second, my cunny-juices must be dribbling down to the lacy tops of my hold-up stockings, and a sudden shiver goes down my spine.

You take my nearly-empty glass out of my nerveless fingers and set it down on the shiny wooden surface of the bar, just behind my elbow. Then you move your hand to my shoulder, not quite resting there but slightly squeezing, possessively – mmm, I like that.

‘Dance’, you say, and it is not quite a question and not quite an order.

My breath and voice have taken a vacation, as I look at you wordlessly, at the pinnacles of your breasts, now visibly pressing against the confines of your smooth cream silk shirt, at your slightly-parted full lips, your lightly flushed-cheeks, and the hot gleam in your eyes. My stomach does a little flip-flop of excited anticipation, my knees go wobbly and for just a second I fear that I won’t be able to take a step with folding up and falling over. I just nod soundlessly and you reach for my hand, your palm warm and surprisingly dry in mine, and you pull me along behind you into the crowd on the dance floor, into the mass of gyrating, thrusting butts and the eye-catching bouncing of breasts.

The first few numbers are fast and furious, and it gives each of us the chance to show our moves, to do what dancing has been ever since the days of cavewomen – a mating display, to attract the best fuck available.