Thursday Night Out

I don't even know what his name was.

We'd been at the club several hours at that point, and after four drinks my entire world was spinning, the dance floor a dizzy, throbbing, colorful arena around me.

He walked up, and at first I thought he wanted to get past me.

People had been jostling back and forth all night, wading precariously through the mass of sweating bodies, through the human humidity that pulled at our consciousness. It was like moving in a dream or fantasy, the stomach-rumbling beat of the bass always threatening to lift us off our feet.

I stepped aside to let him go, and, being drunk, gestured with a small hand motion that he should head through.

He looked at me with an expression that asked, "What is this nonsense?"

I'll never quite forget the moment when I realized what he was thinking.

His eyes locked on my face like wolves' eyes on a prey about to be devoured. How could he have been certain I was gay? Maybe the look of total shock I'm sure I immediately produced, shock tempered only by eagerness.

My heart thundered, anxious and excited. I was a little afraid.

Without saying a word to me, he put his hands around my small waist, fastened his fingers on my thighs.

He was a Latino, shorter than me but broader as well, and his grip was firm.

I fell willingly into him, putting my hands around his neck. I'd been waiting for this all night, all year. I'd fantasized endlessly about yielding to abandon with a perfect stranger, one who may or may not have been a young Hispanic man in a night club.

The people around us were packed so densely together that almost no one, my own friends several feet away included, saw what we were doing. We attracted some looks from those in our immediate vicinity, but I was too drunk and too ecstatic to care.

"You're really hot!" I yelled into his ear.

I looked at his face, his hungry face, and I wanted to kiss him so much.

Then, once again without saying anything to me, his palms moved across the arch of my back and descended to my hips, where they slid past the waist of my jeans.

His fingers curled into the bare flesh of my back side, and I started in surprise. My eyes showed mild alarm, while his seemed to say, "Alright then" before he withdrew his hands.

I didn't want him to go, though.

When he did it again, his fingers tickled, and I probably responded the worst way I could have: I laughed and jumped back.

He pulled away once more, and I rubbed myself, both ends, against him. I squeezed the rear of his own jeans, brushed my fingers against the side of his stomach, and let my hand drift briefly over his crotch.

Then he was gone.

When I looked over, he was dancing suggestively with a young woman.

"Wow," I thought. "He must be into everything."

And then, because I knew no one could hear me over the din of the music, I yelled as loudly as I could, "I can't believe that just happened!" and jumped into the air.

I'm sure they thought it was the Reggaeton.

In the car on the way home, I reveled in my quick encounter, but lamented to Peruvian Girl that it had passed without a kiss.

"I made two summer resoultions this year," I said. "One, that I would record that song; and two, that I would have my first kiss. So far, I've managed to record the song and get felt up, but I still haven't been kissed!"

"'Summer resolutions?'" asked Curly Hair Guy incredulously. "Only white people would think up something like that."