Wingman

The music was loud, a sound wall to feel deep in your feet, deep in your bones. No room for talk— none was needed. Noise in the stones, too close to a shock. Eye candy galore, my own wingman among all the beauty in my eye that I could admire. Senses overloaded that could turn me on. Senses overloaded, turning me on. My wingman was all in. She moved like she knew what was good for her, what was good for me. Eye candy was not what we were there for. Just trying our luck, hunting a mutual score. They moved like nothing else mattered, connected by sound, flattered by touch. Dancing with them, their moves, their skin felt almost like sex on the dancefloor rim. You feel like a hunter, you’re also the prey. We know what we’re in for, we know the game. Sex is the goods, sex is the coin, the law of the hood where all things join. I noted it as a win — a dance, a night, a broken connection just for the form. My partner, my wingman, my accomplice, my friend — she was my greatest win from that night out.