The Sona

A touch became a kiss, became a flagrant near-miss. I've made stupid mistakes so far in my life. This one tops the list:

I spotted her across the dance floor, swaying seductively to the trance music which made this place famous. The Sona was known for its sound system, made popular by its guest DJ's, and turned into legend through its tales of free-game debauchery.

I spotted her as soon as I walked in. I'd been lined up for hours, in my finest garb, clueless about the art of getting past the bouncer. At 24 years of age, I'd never been in a club. I'd never dared confront my timidity, my fear of rejection. At 6ft, dark blue eyes and short blonde hair, a basketball playing bachelor of fine arts, I was considered a catch. Yet I'd never dared venture into the pond.

At 24, I'd never cheated on a lover. I'd never had a drink or a smoke. I was clean, honest, for all intents and purposes married to my girlfriend of two years, and lonely. Unfulfilled. And so here I was, outside my cave, inside my fantasy. Bold, daring, and terrified.

And there she danced, in those lost hours between night and day. Tall, slim, with hair as black as was fair her skin - her dress, darker still, molding her every luscious curve. It held her perfect breasts with perfect subtlety. Ample, yet pert. Perfect in proportion to a perfect silhouette. As she turned away from my gaze, impervious to my obsession, lost in her own dance, her dress showed me how it yielded to the soft tone of her naked back. Only a strip of material across her upper neck hinted to her being dressed at all above the navel. And as she moved, her back rippled symmetrically. Perfection in her every muscle, which covered her every bone. An athlete, no doubt. Hers was not the body of aerobics classes, or fashion runways, but rather of contemporary dancers.

And she moved as water glides over a rock in a spring brook. Smooth, calm, yet vibrant. From across the room, she was the physical incarnation of feminine perfection to me.

And so, at age 24, having never dared ask for anything but friendship from a lady, I nervously moved in for the kill. I didn't want to know her name, nor even hear her voice. I didn't want to know her ambitions, or even give her a choice. All these things which were all I ever got, I wanted nothing to do with. My girlfriend had been my best friend first. Nothing had ever been risked. Nothing had ever been won. Only evolved. And she had my love, but the lust I had always repressed out of insecurity and cowardice had caught up to me on this night. And before I should wed or fiancé myself to anyone, I needed to live this - the hunt, the chase, the risk inherent to her dance.

"Massage?" I heard myself ask, as I kept pace with her, motion for motion. I had slowly cut my way through the mass of sweating, groping strangers, up to her side. Because there was no room to move, there was no space of hers, or mine, left to be invaded. All here danced skin to skin, making contact with someone new at every beat. Here, the turn-tablist dictated the mood, shirts came off with the growing heat, and afterhours invited people through sex-riddled windows. The club acted as a door to a forbidden place, and "massage" was its key.

Whispered in her ear as I melted to her side, I waited for her sign. I knew nothing of this game, and the music had me as it did her, so I danced in my wait, as if the proposition had never been made. Whereas normally, I would have turned away and disappeared in the crowd, there I stayed, next to her, admiring. Insisting. She danced as if deafened by the song. She danced as seductively as when I first saw her. And she did not move - for nor against. I removed my shirt, awkwardly enough, and leaned in a little. She was going to have to be blunt, because I was through thinking for others. I'd spent high-school doing just that, never accepting that maybe I needed to be aggressive. So taken was I with women's rights that I refused myself any chance at ever being the object of their pure sexual desire.

I was as toned as 24 year-old point-guards get. Not something I was used to flaunting, and so doubt slowly began to creep into my mind. But then a quick peek on her behalf, to her left, straight to my chest, then down to my lower abs, gave me hope. Her thin black brow lifted ever so slightly. Her lips turned into a mischievous grin and her hips stroked me gently.

It was more than I needed. Aroused and fully erect since our first contact, I pivoted to face her. She stared straight into my bewilderment, daring me to risk humiliation, taunting me with her smile. So this was the game. I was to be slapped and insulted, or be victorious and laid. But only if I dared. Otherwise, I would get nothing.

Leaning in while we danced, our lips mere inches apart, and grinding my arousal into her sex, I lightly brushed her bare back with my right hand, and asked again: "Un massage, madame?"

In a gesture gentle and slow, she tipped her head to my ear and whispered: "or shall we skip the massage?"

To Be Continued...