tart

I dance. Sip my vodka, enjoy the burning sensation as it rolls over my tongue. I discovered early that if I drink it straight, I don't drink it too fast.

That was before I got used to the taste, before I learned to love it.

I still drink it straight, but count the shots.

The heavy beat of the music has me back on the floor, dancing. Leather and latex and black hair surround me. My everyday clothes are out of place, a splash of colour on a goth dance floor. But I don't care, I just let the vodka and the music move me.

Soon I notice another out of place dancer. Tight jeans hug swaying hips and a brown top cover a fit frame. Perky breasts that would fit perfectly in my hands. I'm amused and a little intrigued by how delighted she is with her own reflection, repeatedly lifting her top halfway up to admire her own flat stomach in the mirror by the dance floor. Not for my benefit or anyone else's, but for her own.

As if she isn't quite used to her own body.

We dance. Exchange glances, smiles. Dance.

The D.J. is doing a poor job keeping people on the floor. Great songs and truly awful ones alternate, people come and go. During one of the lulls I go to the bar to refill my glass and meet the self-absorbed dancer there.

She smiles flirtatiously at me, I smile back and introduce myself. Her name is Sally. Or Sandra. Or Samantha. I can't remember. Her face seems strangely older than her body, her hands too. Her voice has a hint of gravel. I have another sip from my glass, relish how it burns. She tells me that I'm very cute.

So cute.

A few songs later, another glass, we meet again and she asks me to follow her to a quiet corner of the club. Sure. I enjoy the attention, try to strike a balance between flattering her back and not leading her on too much. I'm not going to do anything tonight but drink and dance.

She explains to me how her boyfriend is out of town, how he is so often away. She emphasizes how she always likes to play it safe, and it's clear she is talking about sex, offering sex. She says I look fit, can she put her hand on my stomache? Sure, why not? She caresses my stomach and I see hunger in her eyes.

I can imagine her getting down on her knees right there, putting her mouth on me. I'm entertained by the thought of suggesting just that, but nothing escapes my lips but a sly grin. I wasn't going to do anything tonight but drink and dance.

More vodka. More dancing. She's looking pretty good.

Another conversation, she confides in me that she has a strong foot fetish and would love to take me home and just rub my feet. Do I find that repulsive? No, I don't, but it seems a little unusual. Somehow I've never really thought about women having foot fetishes. Although few things would be nicer than a foot rub after dancing for hours at a gay bar turned goth club, I politely decline.

Not giving up, she asks me if I enjoy oral sex. I answer, how could I not? But I'm not doing anything tonight except drinking and dancing.

By now the flirting has gone quite a bit past the point of not disappointing her, I hazily think to myself. Do I care? I'm enjoying myself and I can't bring myself to feel very bad about playing hard to get with a woman who is so blatantly trying to cheat her man. So I flirt, play hard to get. Quite the tart.

The bar closes, the music goes off.

I head out with my mate, she's going in the same direction, we walk her home. We decline her invitation to come in for tea, she makes a point of letting me know where she'll be next weekend. We continue walking. Once out of earshot, my mate tells me he was more than a little amused by the performance. Tells me she had plaintively asked him at one point whether I had something against transsexuals...

Trans... oh.

I hadn't realized. The vodka cushions the blow, I don't feel nearly as dumb as I probably should have. But then again, it didn't matter, did it?

Could have been interesting though.