I can feel the beat in my chest. The music throbs, the bright strobes leaving split-second images of a pulsing throng of people imprinted on my retinas. I can smell spilled drinks and sweat. Cigarette smoke looms in a hazy cloud in the rafters. I close my eyes and slide through the crowds, letting the flow of people propel me to wherever I end up. My slinky black dress hugs my hips tightly, and I don't care if it's slipping dangerously low in the front; normally, I wouldn't even step out of the house in this tiny, tight dress, but tonight I don't care if anyone wants to look. I want them to look; I want them to stare. I keep sliding through the masses, brushing up against people, skin on skin, split-second almost lovers that turn to me with sky-high eyes. A random stranger grabs me around the waist; normally, I would push this stranger away with disgust, but not tonight. Tonight, I turn to him or her, I don't know or care which, smile coyly, and rub up against them as I continue on. I throw a glance over my shoulder, notice the grunge chick with four-tone hair staring after me with a halfway-sleazy half-smile. I flutter my fingers before disappearing into the crowd.

I make my way to the bar. Normally, I'd order a Pepsi, but tonight, I say to the bartender,

"Shot of something. I don't care what. Make it two."

I down them one after the other, the cheap alcohol burning all the way down my throat. A man I don't know slides up next to me at the bar and slips the bartender a five before I can pay. He takes my hand, murmurs something in my ear, and leads me to seats on the edge of the floor. I let a small smile play across my lips as he takes my elbow and shoots me up with I-don-t-even-know what, and I'm flying, I'm molten-golden, my skin is shiny and my eyes are wide. My mystery man and I make it out to the dance floor. I know I'm walking slowly in my five-inch stilettos, but I feel like I'm rushing, my pulse is racing, thumping in time to the pounding beat. I have never danced this way, I'm a wild child, touching people I've never met and kissing people I can't even see. I've lost track of my mystery man, but thats okay; he's one of a thousand here. I can have any of these people I want and I want them all.

Someone offers to buy me a drink, then someone else. I accept all and any offers, the gutsy grunge girls and glitzy glam guys trying to get me passed out; not knowing that I can't tell if I'm drunk or not because of the gold hitting my system, the one bruising needle track turning to two. I snort a hastily cut line off of a compact mirror offered by a scene girl with red lipstick and soon some of that lipstick is mine. I'm here in this raving underground room with its hard floors and bartenders with joints in their hands and I'll do almost anything.

I'm touched by everyone I pass and sip the drinks of anyone whose tongue meets mine. I taste bubblegum, vodka, lipstick, and salt. I don't know any of these people's names and I don't want to. Punk girls in tight, torn jeans and tank tops slashed in all the right places, boys with tongue rings that clack against my teeth, they're all mine for tonight in this club.

I don't remember what I would normally do anymore and I don't care. I'm here to get fucked up.