It was half past midnight at Club Sky; sweat was beginning to overpower the smell of cheap cologne and booze. On the dance floor what looked liked a large school of confused sardines, wriggled around to a rhythm.
"It's your round, bro." Patrick asserted. "I've got two bids over there eyeing me in the corner. They're looking a little thirsty—parched, if you will."
Gerald lifted his head over the crowd to catch a glance of the duo he was referring to.
"What are you an ostrich?" Pat said, grabbing Gerald by his shoulders and forcing him down, "Don't fuck my shit up—I got a good feeling about them. The Savage Belt is mine for the week."
The Savage Belt is a title belt that transfers between Gerald's group of friends. Every Sunday night, members of the group share files that prove their weekly savagery. Members then vote for who they believe deserves the title for that given week.
"Alright, John Cena—go get them before the Undertaker over there," Gerald motioned at a massive mop-headed man coolly leaning against the edge of the counter at the end of the bar, "snatches them up."
Patrick took off, taking heed of his warning.
"Four Vodka Redbulls, please," Gerald ordered, with uncertainty in his voice.
But what if they're Jack and Coke kind of girls?
it then occurred to him, noting that there was for an oddly profound divide in personality depending on the type of liquor an individual prefers. "Sorry—scratch that—two Vodka Redbulls and two Jack and Cokes."
Gerald took a sip of one of the Jack and Cokes and gagged. His internal narrator took on Patrick's voice:
What ladyboy country did you come from?
"In America we drink bourbon," he voiced, the dialogue accidentally becoming both external and physical as he puffed out his chest, jacked his shoulders up, and dropped an octave.
A girl to the left of him snickered. The barman placed a glass of water in front of her. Then she turned to Gerald who dove into an empty glass, seeking solitude in the crevices between the ice cubes.
In an effort to redeem himself he turned to her, stuck his hand out and said: "Hi, I'm Gerald."
"Elisia," she smiled charmingly, feathering her soft thin hand in his palm.
The bartender slid four drinks toward him. "Forty-five," he commanded.
Gerald slipped a credit card between his two fingers, attempting to suavely flick it at the barman. But the flick was too ambitious, his grip too weak as the card tomahawked over the counter, into a dark, scummy trench.
Elisia now broke into full-fledged laughter. If it wasn't for the lack of light, she would've seen the reddened pigment of Gerald's cheeks.
"You're cute," she smiled. Raising the glass of water, she continued, "I gotta go bring this to my friend—are you gonna be around?"
"I gotta go bring these to
my
friend, but I'm sure I'll be hovering around," he said, smugly indifferent about the last bit.
"Four drinks for one friend, huh. Well ok—maybe we'll run into each other."
Before Gerald could explain, she was off.
Shit! You could've at least asked for her number. You know how this goes—you'll never find her.
Gerald made eye contact with the bartender who shrugged, sighing as if sorry for him. Gerald mimicked the motion like a parrot, then walked away with the drinks. He raised his heels and stretched his neck out attempting to see if Patrick and the girls were conversing in the corner. Much to his prediction, they weren't. The corner was now occupied by two different girls, equally as delectable and prey-like.
But Patrick is not one to lose hope at the first taste of rejection. It's not until last call, when he hears the fat man sing, "I love it when you call me Big Poppa," and has no flesh to rub up on, does Pat call it quits.
Regardless, Gerald dived into the sea of sweat hoping to find Patrick.
Now dead center in this school of drunk fish, like a shark biting into a surfers dangling calf, a hand suddenly clasped Gerald's ass, it's fingers sinking deep into his glute.
Gerald jolted forward, spilling practically the entirety of Patrick's order all over Patrick himself, as well as the two female recipients first seen in the corner.
"Dude, what the fuck—you wasted?" Patrick turned and said as a brasier-less girl in a white tank-top next to him pulled forward her now transparent shirt. The other female stepped in to shield her exposed friend.
"We need to go, now—order us an Uber," the shield snapped at Gerald.
"I'm so sorry. Those were actually
you're
drinks," he replied.
She turned to Pat. "Evelyna. Irene. Excuse him. He's super drunk. Those drinks
were
for you. Let me get you new drinks."
Gerald opened up the app on his phone and asked what the drop-off address was.
"Forty-four Mulberry Street," Evelyna cawed, ignoring Pat.
"We don't need to do this," Patrick interjected.
"It'll be here in five minutes. Sorry again," Gerald replied.
"
Thanks
bro," Pat said, gripping Gerald's shoulder, a murderous glare in his eyes. "Round of shots on me before you and Mrs. Spring Break have to leave?" he continued, rude without repercussion in the face of bleak odds.
Evelyna burst into laughter. Patrick's humor dampened the mood. Irene came out from behind Evelyna and beamed a look of scorn at Gerald. Her forearm shielded those sacred nipples.
"We're good with the shots," Evelyna said, "but—"
"Your chariot awaits," Gerald interrupted.
Irene grabbed Evelyna and started to machete her way through the crowd. Evelyna's arm seemed to stretch like Elastigirl as she remained in place. She bore a bittersweet expression. A split second before her elasticity gave way, she grabbed Patrick's forearm.
As Patrick sped into uncharted waters, before losing Gerald to the horizon, he fired off a rapturous wink that read, "I don't need it, but wish me luck bro!" Gerald stood for a moment, the way a younger sibling stands watching his enlisted brother depart on his first tour, dreading the loneliness that comes from the abrupt transition into a singleton.
Gerald never fend well for himself alone. Without Pat he was like a sailor lost at sea, unable to secure provisions even though a plethora of hungry fish swam around him.
He thought back to what had caused this incident. Swinging around to the source of this series of ambivalent events, a small female clad in a black, diamond encrusted bodycon mini dress, dove toward his face causing him to flinch.
"Hiiiiiii," she began. "You gots a cute butt mister."
Gerald, perplexed, simply smiled and said, "Thank you."
"My name is, Bay-be," she slurred.
"Nice to meet you, Baby—I'm Gerald," he stuck his hand out. "That's the first compliment I've received all night."
"No way. My name is, 'Beck-ah, Rah-beck-ah."
"Well then, Rebecca it is."
"No—I'm just kidding. My name is, Lu-see!"
"Well it's nice to meet you, Lucy," Gerald said anxiously, with no end in sight.
"Look at my diamonds." She thrust her arm out, promoting a bracelet, which complemented her dress and flickered incessantly as the strobe lights coursed across the dance floor.
"They're beautiful, Lucy."
"Now look up!" She thrust her arm up and waved. The diamonds danced around her wrist.
"Lucy in the sky with dia-munds," she giggled.
Gerald smirked gaily, the way she slurred her words was cute. Her inebriated innocence was only helping her cause. Infatuated by everything Lucy had done thus far, he began to worry that her actions lacked awareness and that he was falling in love with a facade.
Lucy latched onto a clearing between the buttons on his short-sleeved dress shirt and yanked him near. With their bodies pressed together she looked up and said, "I'm Leaving today."
"Where are you going?"
"Far away. Far—away. —Far away from you!" she pouted, crossing her arms and jerking her shoulders ninety degrees. Her sullen expression made Gerald aggressively benevolent as he snapped her shoulders back and in a determined tone asked Lucy what was wrong.
Tears began to stream down her healthy sun-kissed cheeks, absorbed by Gerald's shirt she now took refuge on.
Gerald stroked her hair. A circumstance still undefined to him cast a dark shadow over her. Without context, he could only console her through cheap gestures.
Suddenly a female perched her chin upon Lucy's shoulder and spoke softly, "Is everything ok, babe?"
Lucy detached her face from Gerald's chest, looked up at him, a faint smile crossing her face, and nodded as if Gerald had commanded her to do so and she was happy to oblige. Unhooking her arms from his torso, she threw herself against Elisia and settled her chin upon her shoulder.
"There, there," Elisia said as she patted Lucy's back. Looking up at Gerald, she continued, "I'm glad you two have met. This is the friend I referred to earlier—you're gonna take care of her?"
He hesitated for a moment, confused by the role he was being forced into and the responsibilities that went along with it. "Of course—but what's wrong? She hasn't told me."
Elisia shook her head, displeased but not surprised. "She's going back home, this evening actually, to Italy. Her Student Visa expired and she couldn't find a job here quick enough that would enable her stay."
"Ah—I understand. So last night together?"
"Unfortunately."
Lucy whimpered into Elisia's shoulder.
"I'm gonna find our friend, Mark," Elisia continued. "Then we'll be heading out. Can I trust you with her? Lucy do you mind staying with Gerald for a bit?"
Lucy fervently shook her head.
Elisia drove off and like a magnet Lucy latched back onto Gerald, staring up at him with a bug-eyed gaze, a bittersweet smile crossing her face. The song "Trap Queen" by Fetty Wap came on.
As if a switch flipped inside of her, Lucy became ecstatic, a childlike excitement replaced former grief. "Dance with me! Dance with me! Dance with me!"
Gerald, addled by the abrupt shift in her demeanor, was unsure how to proceed with this feverish dancing queen.
Pressing her backside against his pelvis, she rubbed incessantly around the area with slow, smooth, intimate motions that would've left a series of figure-eights upon his crotch had the bristled end of a paintbrush stuck out her ass. She then slid down his trousers like a stripper using an amputee's prosthetic as a pole. Gerald, unable to further contain his yearning for control grabbed her waist and began to paint his own figure eights.
Gerald folded her upper body so it was flush against his own. It looked like they were to morph into one. Her eyes were closed, her fingers danced around him as if she was blind reading something erotic in braille.
The environment, the alcohol, the sounds, and Gerald's sudden bold controlling physical guidance emancipated her from inhibition. She was flying toward a less familiar, yet, more welcoming place than was on her itinerary.
She spun and hooked her hands around Gerald's nape. As if choreographed, she sprang up, locking her thighs around his waist. At the cusp of collapse he supported her thighs under his hands, heavy, but only till the muscles in his arms shriveled up like prunes would he let her go. Now level with him, she dove at his lips, intertwining her tongue with his own.
Gerald's knees went weak, a circumstance he hadn't anticipated. The sea of clubbers parted as if a large man had stage-dove into the crowd unannounced. Lucy's womanly mass crushed his lanky body.
Her present position, sitting atop Gerald's genitals, amplified her elation. She came down upon him, giggling and whispering fragmented thoughts into his ear, "I want...sex...take me...tie me...won't go back...I won't...promise."
She erected her torso and it was then that Gerald realized the true extent of her drunkenness. She went at him furiously, humping as if friction alone could set her bleak bidding aflame.
Completely detached from the environment around her, she was either unbothered by or unaware of the audience that encircled them.
Concerned owl-like faces darted looks of disgust at Gerald.
Removing Lucy from his waist, he rose, helping her up in the process. "I'm sorry—I must be drunker than I thought. Are you ok?"
"I'm ok," she paused for a moment, clasping a hand over her mouth, giggling, "But you're not." A proud bulge looked like it was about to burst through his fly. Before he had time to react to this ambivalent circumstance, Lucy grabbed his triceps and reeled him towards her. "Gimmie," she smiled with an inspired air.
A sharp pain had coursed through Gerald from his tricep. He shuddered then twisted his arm around to reveal a shard of glass lodged into his skin. "You're not ok—you're not ok!" she said, horrified at the sight of her blood soaked hand. She grabbed his arm with her unstained hand and began to truck through the crowd.
The line to the the bathroom was comparable to a consumer electronics store an hour from Black Friday. A group of girls at the front whispered something to themselves and giggled. Lucy stomped up to them and twisted Gerald's arm around. Gasping, they nodded. Lucy pounded on the door. "Hurry up!"
"Fuck off," a male voice uttered dryly. Simultaneously, as Lucy kicked the door, the male behind had swung it open, knocking her to the ground.
"Hey—hey!" Gerald exclaimed, sizing up to a pinkish man with pig-like nostrils, a bloated face, and hair that spiked up like grass greased with morning dew.
