I like my little black dress. The way that the fabric wraps around me makes me feel tugged in and secure – snug stretch around my chest and butt. The black hole dark color fresh off the store shelve injects me with confidence – elegant for a social occasion, sultry for a club. The plenty skin of my legs, chest, and arms – je ne sais quo – gives me a sense of freedom. You know that badass bomb disarmer in the movie Hurt Locker? He's way too cool for those heavily padded safety vest, hardcore helmet, and astronaut gloves. Being that exposed is scary. Though, you got to own it like you don't need any safety 'cause you got this shit – with a smile.
Oh, I get so excited wearing that little dress because it makes me do stuff. I swear it's like there is a little devil inside of me that I didn't even know. A little chill comes over my lungs, and then I plain simply do it. When I'm in my scrubs, I'm a nice little lady that worries about people's feelings and doesn't want to get in trouble. When I'm in my little black dress, I step out of my life. I live responsibility and continuity – yes, the continuity of going to the same job every day, of slowly nurturing relationships, and of plugging away at my studies – behind. There is my in that moment. There is no past. There is no future. There is only the mission that that sneaky little demon planted in my mind to make my lips smirk and my eyes sparkle.
Sometimes, I worry, as I run my fingers along my legs to spread the lotion to make them look smooth and moist, that the magic is wearing off. An image of my blond friend Lisa holding a bottle of cheap liquor store champagne by the neck, laughing with her mouth wide open in abandon. My chubby friend Melanie was still laughing at this point sitting on the Planet Hollywood hotel bed. A minute later, Melanie was struggling double-handed against Lisa pouring the rest of the bottle of champagne over Melanie's black hair ruining a seventy dollar haircut, which was a lot on a student's budget. That fight created quite a few black-and-yellow spots. Lisa's gone to anger management since. Melanie's church doesn't allow her to go partying anymore.
I want the magic to work, very badly. This is my first Diesel little black dress. The draping of designer clothing is a miracle how it reshapes the body with subtle little details. There I had a butt a little on the chunky side. Now, I have a silhouette that's fit for a shadow shape in a strip club. The fabric feels a little cold, it's that smooth. And I love the little cheeky secrets. On the inside of the hemline going up the side is a long white label stitched in. It says, "If forgot this at your place, return this dress to (empty space for my address). No questions asked." Oh, it makes me giggle so much at the idea of forgetting the dress at some hot boy's room. What would I walk out in? Would I steal one of his shirts and strut out wearing nothing else!
What shall I name this black dress? It doesn't have a name yet... Matthew as in Matthew McConaughey, the strange, deranged detective from the TV show True Detective. Oh, I want this dress to turn me into a mythical creature of spouting wild, raving philosophical rambles and do things I beyond the realm of social confines. I want that little black dress to take me to a mystical land of adventure, like that deep swamp land full of cult and occult. I took another sip from the near empty New Amsterdam vodka bottle on my nightstand. Don't pre-party too hard, my friend! You are only 98 lbs. Ugh, I'm so excited!
"Are you ready girlfriend?" asked Lisa out through the slightly ajar bathroom door through which I could see the bright yellow light and her reflection in the mirror of the face close to it and the eyes raised wide open while she blackened the eye lashes.
"Fight on!" I hollered back. "I named my little black dress Matthew McConaughey!"
"That old creepy guy?" asked Lisa quizzically.
"Maybe, I'm so twisted that I like old creepy guys!" I came right back.
"Oh boy, tonight's gonna be trouble," Lisa replied with worry and excitement.
Getting out of the hotel room was like stepping into the opening scene of a James Bond movie. The sound track of daring music was playing in my head. I felt like the whole theatre audience was focused on me to dazzle them. The long corridor to the elevator was a runway to the ménage. And that old man with the wrinkly facial skin and those armpit-high pants was going to be my victim. Like a gentleman, he was putting down the tray from room service while his wife waited for him. Both their backs were towards me. His butt was reaching high in the gray slacks, skinny, long ass.
The thrill chocked the breath out of me. I jumped forward on my black heels, comic like Charlie Chaplin. With the little finger elegantly splayed to the side, I squeezed his butt right in between the butt cheeks, where there is this puff of air. My fingers grazed his balls and asshole. I felt him freeze mid motion. My heart dropped into my stomach. I grabbed Lisa's hand and started running – running as fast as our heels let us gallop like Laurel and Hardy.
Then that exciting feeling hit me, tiny little bubbles bursting all over my skin and a rush of energy, so much energy that I felt boundless. I felt like a little girl shark who had tasted blood. My mind was a frenzy for looking for the next thrill. "This is Vegas!" I had to hug Lisa, press my boobs against hers and jump. She was appeasing me and struggling not to fall backwards as I yanked on her body with abandon.
The elevator lobby had a giant vase with a two feet tall fresh flower arrangement. The windows showed the huge Bellagio fountain pool outside. The elevator arrived with an elegant bing. There were three guys in the elevator, your typical guys dressed up for a night out with a clean haircut and fresh aftershave. One was wearing a vest with a tie running behind it. They seized us up for a second and looked at a spot on the wall in that attitude of pretending not to pay attention while every sense was keenly attuned to us girls. An artistic rendering of a botanical plant rotated on the flat screen TV in the elevator.
I hate that subdued atmosphere! I want fun! I'm gonna make fun. I stepped behind Lisa to hug her from behind. Her eyes perked up to figure out what I was doing. "My friend Lisa is one sexy momma!" I purred seductively while showing her off. The guys starred with a panicked look. The vest guy turned to a smirk. "She is out of your league," I dared them. I sensually caressed her body. Lisa was relaxing into my embrace. That's where I wanted her. The guys got that horny look in their eyes. The elevator sound had wound up to a whirl as we travelled at full speed now on our way from the fifty-third floor.
"Those girls are mine," I cooed as I massaged Lisa's boobs. Lisa's lip burst into a nervous smile, letting me cautiously proceed under the pretext of this being Vegas. I pressed her boobs together, so that I could get my hands onto the front. I yanked the top down in a sharp motion. There were her white boobs naked. What made them look really naked was that the rest of her body was shaped by her dress to be polished. Without any support, they were simply, normal, girl next door boobs. A blood curdling yell surged out of her body. Hugging Lisa from behind, holding her little body, I could feel her whole body contract in raw instinct of terror. I love that feeling of raw emotion. I closed her back up before she could overcome the freeze of shock. "But you can have a little peak. That's all you are getting boys!"
I cradled Lisa in my arms. I could feel her little hard beating like the little engine that could. I love that moment, being there with her is feeding something in me, maybe a demon. I hugged her hard to hold her in to take her fear. My mouth was pressed against the skin of her neck. She was shivering. There was that feeling of her surrendering to my hold, letting herself be comforted by me. It makes me feel so close to her. There is this doe-like quality about her where she lets me do these things to her without complaining.
"Can I buy you a drink?" asked the guy in the vest with a jolly smile and sweaty forehead. The intonation of his voice went up tentatively. He bowed a little forward.
The buddy to his left whispered to himself, "Holy fuck!"
"Mediate on this, asshole," I told the guy sternly and showed him my index finger. I walked Lisa out of the elevator pushing her ahead of me, still cradling her.
We spilled into the casino. The casino always has a sobering effect. There are so many people walking around. There are so many dings from slot machines. There are guys in their thirties who have real careers. There are girls with dresses ten times the prize of mine. There are girls with perfect makeup. There are girls who have figured out hair. I'm a nobody. Those two hundred bucks for the dress were a lot to me. It's nothing to the girls out here with monthly ten thousand dollar allowances on credit cards from rich guys. I can spot a purse that must be a new fashion trend that hasn't even arrived yet at the stores back home. I push Lisa into the crowd. We disappear.
Being short, it's hard to see in crowds. I hold onto Lisa's hand tightly. There are three broad suit shoulders in front of me. I can spot the slot machines with the swivel chairs in between people. A tall woman behind us is closing in as she tries to rush past us. I get a little claustrophobic. I know that somewhere straight is an elevator. A corn fed Mid-Western football defense guy with an XXL shirt keeps talking to a skinny girl and runs right into me. With both hands, I push against him. The heft of his body moves me back. Lisa is holding me upright. "Sorry," he says, not looking and a second later disappearing into the wall of the crowd.
Panic came over me. I couldn't move. There was a group of twelve bachelorette party girls in pink tutu's slowly walking ahead of us. People behind us kept pushing into us. This blond California surfer dude had kicked my heels for the third time from behind. Left and right of the bachelorette group were people pressing in from the opposite direction. And I could not see over the people. I did not know where I was. Lisa's hand turned sweaty. We were two lost little girls.
A Tarzan scream came over from a table followed by a chorus of cheers that roused the casino. A tall, icy-Russian looking girl strutted in a see-through dress that showed her lingerie, skinny bands of fabric shimmering. A promoter in a cookie-cutter suit waved a fistful of purple wristbands: "Reduced admission for Marquee Nightclub!" A Japanese girl was sitting inside of a horse sized red high heel making a V-sign for a photo. Overwhelmed by impressions, I walked on dazed.
Somehow, we made it up the escalator, walked to the table service line, and showed our wares to get in. We didn't have a table reservations nor did we pay admission. It's simply a shorter line to get in rather than general admission, which is for peasants. The bouncers worked together to usher us through lines of velvet rope into the elevator up to the club. The elevator guy was a big black dude with a jolly, warm smile and a suave beret. "Diplo is in the house tonight. You better get those twerking muscles warmed up!"
The elevator led into a room only lit by dim lights behind the bottles at the bar. Vaguely, two very dark spots in the darkness suggested passage ways to the main club. Club revelers were packed tight. We were searching for a break in the crowd to step into. A big VIP host in an elegant white suit with red highlights walked up to us. "Hey, ladies, I'd like to introduce you to a cool crew who has a table." I simply wanted to get space to move. So, I nodded.
The VIP host forged a path through the crowd. Boldly, he pushed people away. Occasionally, an angry glare would shoot back at him. The glare would melt in a second when the club reveler realized the authority of the VIP host. There was ample space left and right of me to easily walk because the VIP host was so wide. He walked us to the main stage. Burlesque girls were dancing on construction scaffolding in skimpy leather uniforms. The strobe lights were flashing.
The VIP host pushed into the wall to open a secret door. The bare, black metal suggested that this was a service passageway. A narrow spiral staircase lead up two floors. We struggled in our heels. The VIP host waited patiently. It definitely wasn't safe. The steps were so narrow that it was hard to fit the shoes on it. There was a lack of air conditioning behind here. The bass of the sound droned in its own reflections in here.
Another black door opened in the dim light. The table became apparent. We were on a balcony above the main stage. This definitely wasn't a cheap table. With the exclusive location, it probably cost $10,000. Three middle ages guys were sitting by themselves with plenty of space on the couch. The twenty glasses were still piled in a neat pyramid. The carafes with orange and cranberry juice were neatly arranged and full. So, that's the company that we have to put up for at least five minutes for politeness.
