The beat vibrating through the dance floor pulses through me as I move along to the rhythm. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt a need to let loose, but tonight is an exception.

Being broken up with over a text message isn’t only impersonal, it’s cowardice. Like, he didn’t even have the nerve to approach me in person and explain how over the course of the last two years, he somehow developed some level of disdain for me.

Nope. He just hid it.

The whole time.

And when I just seek understanding on all of it, he shuts me down and says I’m just a nagging bitch.

I feel like I’m in high school again. If you hate me, fine. So be it.

But at least have the audacity to be honest about it, and more importantly, have some reasoning to back yourself up.

I walk back to our table. As I push my sweat-dripped hair back, I see Jeremy just standing with his back against the mirror-lined wall. He’s a great friend for coming out with me and trying to get my mind off of the jerk that left me without any reasoning.

It’s not healthy to sit and question why over and over. So instead, tonight, we drink, laugh, dance, and goof off like we did years ago when we first became friends.

As I approach the table, I let out a heavy sigh.

Dancing now is a lot more exhausting than it was in college. I think when you get out into the real world, it takes a big toll on your ability to shake your ass for hours on end.

“Are you having a good time?” I ask Jeremy, who has just been a wallflower since he got a beer from the bar. So not like him.

“Yeah! Absolutely. I’m entertained. You’re really killing it out there, Laura,” he answers.

“Why don’t you come out here and join me?”

“Nah, I think I’m good right here,” he replies.

I latch onto that inner frat boy and try my best to drag it out of him.

“Oh, come on! When’s the next time we’ll be here? Realistically, it could be a last hurrah for us,” I insist.

He considers it. I see it in his lips as he gives me that trademark half-smirk and his eyes roll up as though he’s actually looking at a thought bubble over his head.

But he stays right there against the wall, even as I start tugging at his wrist to come with me. I glare at him to show my displeasure, take a sip of my Sex on the Beach, and return to the dance floor alone.

And there’s the one thing I don’t see eye-to-eye on with him. He always recognizes a good time and always wants to be around it, but lately he never wants to be a part of it.

I can’t think of a single reason for him to not get out here and dance with me.

Shit, he could even find a hot girl for himself and take her home with him.

I’m not going to lie. If someone approached me tonight trying to give me a good time, I’d probably do it. I’m fragile, full of bad judgement, and incredibly horny now that I don’t have regular, guaranteed sex in the palm of my hand.

I rotate myself on the dance floor to get a view of anything other than Jeremy just hanging out against the wall, and I get pumped up when I hear the next song starting. I look out ahead of me in the crowd as my hips start swaying rhythmically to the melody. It’s one of those songs you could get really hot and heavy with someone to.

My hands travel from my shoulders, caressing my breasts, and down to my hips. I’m enjoying touching myself, and I’m fine with anyone and everyone knowing it.

My light blue tank top barely contains my perky, size-E tits and my erect nipples, hard through the slightly sheer material.

I’m getting some very hungry stares from some lustful, sexy twenty-somethings.

As if seeing my tits isn’t enough, I’m also sporting a mini skirt, my black G-string thong totally visible from the sides and the back, my ass cheeks just peeking out from the bottom of the skirt.

I look fucking hot.

I’m absolutely smoking.

Every other girl in this club is giving me the stink eye, and every man here is just eating me up. But as I scan the crowd, I come to realize there’s not one man here that I could see handling the fucking volcano that I am behind closed doors. They’re all in their first couple years of college, and I’m about four years into an actual career.

I don’t think they would understand, but there’s just so much difference in that time, especially in terms of sexual development. Everyone loves a good fuck, but your definition of a good fuck changes in that time, and we’re just not on the same wavelength.

Eat your hearts out, boys.

My buzz is wearing off, and I’m getting a little too real for myself right now, coming to the obvious conclusion that I need another drink.

Just when I go to step off the dance floor, I’m taken aback by a couple that’s standing toward the far edge of the floor, the guy rubbing the chick’s pussy through her skin-tight leggings.

She’s got her back against his chest, and her head rests against his shoulder. Her arm is hooked around his neck, and she’s grinding against his cock as his finger is between her well-pronounced slit, rubbing her clit through her thin fabric.

I only see it happening for a moment, but it affects me.

Just seeing the raw passion between the two of them sends a jolt through my body and a pooling wetness in my panties.

Christ.

I need that next drink.