The guy tying my hands behind my back has sticky fingers. This isn’t exactly as much cause for alarm as it would be under “normal” circumstances—I mean, I saw him eating peanut butter with his hands—but still. Gross much? This coming from the girl who had to go to the hospital after a bird shitted on her head—yeah, it’s a big deal.

Ann Marie is always insisting we go out to clubs on Friday night. Not the quote-unquote “normal” kind, either—you know, dancing, number-handing-out, the sucking down of various unknown substances, Roofies included—no, here they play fucking games. And it’s like some sort of cult ritual: participate or get bounced. Well, at least it feels that way with Ann Marie hissing in my ear. So far we’ve given each other (as in the entire club and me) mouth-to-mouth using clothespins, I (figuratively) lost my virginity again while we passed around a grapefruit with our nether regions, and we fed each other with our hands. Hence the peanut butter. I put my foot down on that last one—literally. Poor guy with the coleslaw is currently sitting with an icepack, but at least his grubby man fingers never touched my lips.

As my loyal friend has once again deserted me when I have no useable limbs (aka I’m pretty much too tired to stand and my arms are bound cruelly tight), I drag myself toward the bar, planning on downing a cocktail or two. Or three. The walls and floors are all made of glass—I say floors, plural, because the club is multileveled. You’d think a place as chic and modern as this would’ve moved on from seventh grade flirting games. Or maybe it’s just my luck that I was here on a blast-from-the-past type day. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Everything has a blue tinge to it, from the lighting, and I find it hard to keep upright. Taking into account the combination of my lack of arms, the wonky lighting, and the couple margaritas I’ve already consumed with food, it’s really spectacular that I’m still standing, even if it is just to get drunker. I stumble through the seething mass of bodies (as I see it), trying my best not to contract too many STDs from their dirty looks. It’s amazing these girls can still shimmy like that with their hands tied behind their backs—but some people got it, some people don’t. Apparently, I’m the only person who doesn’t have it here, because there are no other wallflowers to speak of.

I’ve gotten used to the peculiar body shape of the poor people roped into this stupid game. A weird, triangular, Quasimodo-esque…thing. So you can imagine how much this particular man sticks out with his use of limbs. I think I may have been drawn to him anyway, with his mysterious long, dark, and handsome appeal. But oh my God he just ate a cookie with his hands! As opposed to these nasty apple (and weed cookie) bobbers using their gaping, drooling, mono-spreading mouths. I take a few sips of my grey goose martini from the bar (in case you’re wondering how that worked—well, it wasn’t pretty) and try to ignore the rather urgent pressing in my lower half. Nature calls, however, and I step down in search for the bathroom. Lo and behold, I just so happen to pass Mr. Hot Wallflower in the sexiest waddle I can pull off.

“I noticed you staring at me.” His hand is across my chest, stopping me in place. I put on my best coy smile—or “koi”, I should say, as Ann Marie claims it makes me look like a fish. But a sexy fish. I’d stand by that faced with an enclosed room filled with B-list celebrities with yellow fever—the two things I abhor most in the world. The public expulsion of bodily fluids and bad acting.

“I was wondering how you managed to resist,” I say in what I hope is a sultry voice, gesturing at his freely moving arms. “You lucky bastard.”

He laughs. My God, this guy is good-looking. I can’t help but violate him with my eyes—and sure enough, I like what I see. Snug fitting jeans (I’ll forgive him that they’re acid wash) and a plain (also snug fitting, what do you know?) black T-shirt. I never find good guys in clubs—fuck, I have to pee though! Nelly, this is a once in a lifetime chance. Well, once in a weekend. HOLD IT.

“I don’t dance. Definitely don’t play spin the bottle with lonely singles.”

“I think that’s next.” I grin, and he smiles back. Oh, he is fine. I start hopping from foot to foot, not wanting to leave until I’d developed some kind of connection. You know, his number, or spontaneous sex on the bar—I’d take either. Oh, my God, I have to pee.

“You know, I just said I don’t dance,” Wallflower says, eyeing me with a cross between irritation and amusement. But then he starts swaying. With my pee dance.

“I’m not trying to,” I whine.

Wallflower nods. “This song does have rhythm, I guess.” I hadn’t noticed, being tone deaf. And rhythm-inept. I’m on the verge of passing from uncomfortable into about-to-combust, but the hopping that results just makes Wallflower’s dancing more…vigorous. I push against his chest with my chest, but that gives him the wrong idea. He pulls me closer to him. Panicked, my OCD-vision picks up, as it always does when I’m under pressure.

“Straighten your shirt!” I snap at Mr. Hot Wallflower. “It’s higher on the right side than the left, and I can’t fix it.” Almost immediately after being snippy my conscience kicks in, but I feel like I’m about to explode, so I console myself that I’d find him and explain later. When it is just a funny story, and not the end of life as I know it. He lets me go to do so, and I run through the blue, the ropes binding my arms cutting into my skin, but I have more pressing matters to attend to—quite literally.

I hear, “Wait! Come back!” from behind me, and yell “Going to the bar!” over my shoulder. I mean, he’s hot. And has use of his limbs. And is chasing me through a club. Don’t want to lose him.

“Where’s the restroom?” I ask after tapping an awkwardly-shimmying blue person on the shoulder. She gives me a look that would scare small children—and grown adults, for that matter—huffs, and turns back around. Okay. No help there. Wallflower grasps my shoulders and turns me around.

“Hey, you ran away!” he scolds, pouting his lips. Yum…lips… God, bladder!

“I was, um, hungry.” Yeah, no, far from it, actually.

“Here, let me buy you some nachos.” Oh, goody. He drags me to the bar, oblivious to the fact that I’m being openly reluctant now. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Nelly. Yours?”

“John.” I can’t help it. I let out a snort of laughter. “What’s wrong with John?” he asks defensively.

“Nothing, I just thought mysterious wallflowers would have names like Javier, or Maurice,” I say with a wink. My smile quickly dies, because I feel like I’m about to. Ugh, that guy has a stain on his shirt…those wall hangings have threads hanging from them… My vision blurs for a second, and I clench my thighs. God.

“Hey, do you know where the restroom is?” I ask John through clenched teeth.

He rubs the back of his head. “Um…Actually, this joint doesn’t have one.”

Oh. My. GOD.

John drops a nacho into his mouth, and a glob of cheese runs down his cheek. I feel my jaw drop, hear myself gasp, and—snap. I lean forward, and suck the cheese off of his face, having no other means, and give it an extra lick, just in case.

“Did you just bite me?” he asks incredulously.

I just click my teeth at him, and turn on my heel, trying to ignore the trickle of wet running down my leg.

I find Ann Marie scarfing down weed cookies (using her mouth) with a gaggle of “friends” around her. She sees the look on my face and cocks her head, questioning. "Nelly?"

“Don’t even ask. It’s four AM, I’m high, I’m smashed, and I just wet myself.”

Ann Marie just bumps her bound shoulder with mine and ushers me towards the exit, presumably postponing her laughter for after I get out of these panties.

“Next Friday,” I growl, “we’re going bowling.”

A/N: This was a challenge from the SKoW website.

Challenge #8 - With Bite

Requirements:
1) Must be a one-shot, Minimum 1000 words.
2) Plot: Protagonist wandering around in a club, meets someone, they flirt, then dance, and the person bites protagonist. You can take it from there.
3) Must have the quote, "Did you just bite me?" and/or "Not cool to go around biting strangers!”
4) Must involve a cookie. Of some sort.
5) Large doses of humor.

No:
1) cannibals. As much as that'd be fun to write, it wouldn't be too fun for me to read.
2) long, meaningful moments. This challenge is meant to be quick, light, and fun.

I hope I pulled it off all right! Review, please! :) My first bit of fluff. How fun.