I’m already sweating, and the night hasn’t even started. Shirt’s half on, collar twisted like I lost a fight with it. My other boot’s under the sink for some reason, and I’ve opened the fridge three times, hoping cold air will do something. It doesn’t.

The apartment’s too small for this many people, and there’s only four of us. Veloria’s doing her eyeliner off the reflection of the microwave. Whatever Jet’s taken has hit, and he's walking on tiptoes like the floor might attack him if he doesn’t. Felix is on the couch, casually slicing up something chalky on the back of an old MetroCard. Might be speed. Might be Adderall. Could be drywall dust. Depends where he got it from.

And me? I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

Veloria leans in. “Here. Take this.”

A pill, yellow, I think. I swallow it before I get a good look.

The vodka’s warm. The label’s in Cyrillic. Probably black-market. Someone pours it into a cracked espresso cup and calls it a Russian coffee. I chase it with a sip of beer that’s been out long enough to taste like burnt pennies.

Jet’s got a hot pink iPod Nano with a Hello Kitty sticker on it hooked up to speakers. He’s scrolling through playlists like he’s choosing the vibe for the end of the world.

Peaches followed by Justice into something German with no vowels.

The bass thuds too hard for this tiny room. Or maybe that's the neighbor telling us to shut the fuck up. Either way, the broken wall clock is rattling. The lightbulb flickers every time someone shuts the bathroom door too hard. There’s a poster of Paris Hilton on the wall, signed in Sharpie, just not by her.

My leg vibrates. Maybe it’s my phone.

It’s a text from—

Her.

“see u at Scandal”

That’s all she ever sends. Little teases. I never text first. I wait, and she delivers.

I stare at the screen for a few seconds.

“You need to forget about her,” Jet says, not looking up, still afraid of what the floor might do to him. “You’re with us tonight.”

I want that to be enough, but they know she always draws me in.

I tell myself I’m not chasing tonight. If she shows, she shows.

Felix lays out a line of something in front of me.

“It’ll go great with the pill,” he says. “One brings you up, the other brings you down. I think.”

Veloria’s putting glitter on her collarbone with a makeup brush that’s definitely a paintbrush left here by three roommates ago.

Someone yells that the Uber’s close. We all stand up at once like there’s a fire drill.

Phone. Wallet. Keys. Gum. Where’s my other sock?

Felix grabs a jacket that isn’t his. Veloria’s sparkling. Jet forms a truce with the floor, allowing him safe passage across the room.

I open the front door.

The hallway hits like a brick wall, the smell of piss, weed, and desperation. That sweet, sour, chemical cocktail you only get in old East Village buildings.

We start moving.

We’re not famous. We’re not rich. But in this light, in this moment, with just enough buzz and bad decisions tucked into our pocket… we’re gods.

Lords of the Underground.

Car ride. Traffic. Club. We descend.

The stairs down to Scandal are slick and steep. They don’t welcome visitors. They challenge the brave. Veloria slips, catches herself, and laughs like it was intentional. First test passed.

We get waved past the door guy. I don’t know if he recognizes us or just doesn’t care. The air inside hits like a wet slap, a fog machine that’s either working too hard or broken.

The club is all red lights and leather. There are mirrors on every wall, like the room’s trying to watch itself. LCD Soundsystem’s “Time to Get Away” is being played, slowed just enough to sound like a warning. Or maybe that’s the yellow pill kicking in.

The crowd’s already writhing, no rhythm, just hips and flailing arms, skin reflecting strobes, glitter smeared on chests and cheekbones. Some girl in ironic cowboy boots screams lyrics that don’t exist. A guy in sunglasses licks her shoulder while palming her tits. She doesn’t seem to notice either.

I lose Veloria in the first thirty seconds. Felix is at the bar trying to trade what he’s calling Molly for drink tickets. Jet’s grinding on someone who might be a mannequin dressed in bondage gear.

I make it five minutes before someone grabs my shirt and yanks. I turn, but they’re already gone. My shirt’s gone too. How did that happen?

And then—

her.                     

Back of the club, beside the DJ booth. Black mesh top. No bra. Arms over her head, body like a sin on loop. She locks eyes with me across the sweat-slicked crowd and smiles like she knows what I did to her in my dreams last night.

Then she turns and disappears, swallowed by bodies and smoke.

I don’t follow.

I’m not chasing tonight. I’m here. She can find me.

Tequila gets handed to me by someone I don’t know. I drink it. Another shot. A girl with silver lipstick pours a third one straight into her own mouth and then kisses it into mine. My lips burn.

A new hand finds mine. Nails. Rings. Tug.

Pulled to the bathroom.

Too bright. Or maybe too white. Or maybe too late.

She pushes me into a stall like she’s mad at the door. I don’t recognize her.

Her knees hit the tile floor. Cold. Wet. Definitely not just water. She doesn’t care. Just pulls at my pants and takes my cock out.

She spits on it before she even looks up. Lets saliva hang from her lips before she smears it down my length with the back of her hand.

“I’m gonna make your ex jealous,” she says.

I don’t know who she means. Dara, maybe?

She takes me in her mouth like my cock is already hers, slow, just for a second, then all at once. Wet and sloppy, no teasing, just full-throttle suction, tongue dragging underneath, lips tight around the base.

Her mascara’s already streaking, and she hasn’t come up for air yet.

She’s holding onto my thighs, nails pressing in hard enough to hurt, anchoring herself like she might pull me in deeper if physics let her.

She chokes and doesn’t stop. Gags around me, swallows it down, keeps going. The noise is obscene, slick, fast, wet. She’s using a hand now, stroking and twisting at the base like she’s trying to rip it off and take it home with her.

“You in here?” Felix’s voice, muffled.

A bit busy.

“Sounds like you’re getting your dick sucked.”

“One at a time,” my new acquaintance says, not even pausing.

A small bag of powder sails over the stall wall and lands at my feet.

Well played, Felix.

The girl’s face is soaked. Her chin’s dripping. She pulls off just to breathe and jerks me while staring up, tongue out, spit clinging between her fingers and the head of my cock like a bridge.

My hips twitch. She smiles.

Back in her mouth, deeper this time. She hums. I feel it in my knees. She’s moaning like it’s good for her.

I try to tell her, slower, but fuck…

It’s too late.

It’s already happening. I’m already gone. I grab the metal bar behind me just to stay upright, legs shaking, whole body tensing like I’ve been tasered. I barely make a sound. Just a grunt, sharp, tight in my throat.

She doesn’t stop when I come. She keeps sucking like she wants to drain me dry. Swallows it, wipes her mouth with two fingers, and smears the rest on her shirt.

The girl stands up without a word. Doesn’t even look at me. Just opens the stall and walks out. Mission accomplished.

I zip up in silence. Palms on the sink, trying to breathe. There’s sweat on my face. There’s lipstick on my abs. It’s the quiet that gets me.

I look in the mirror.

I look like a crime scene.

But feel like a fucking altar.

Back in the main room, the first few bars of The Dare’s “Girls” cut through the smoke. When the bass drops, the room explodes, shouting a line about girls who like drugs.

The dance floor becomes an orgy of permission. Drinks fly. Hands grab. Tops come off. Flesh and sweat everywhere. Live porn, set to an electroclash soundtrack.

I charge into the middle of it all, adding to the filth.

In the chaos, I spot Veloria getting fingered against a speaker, her ass pulsing with the bass. Jet’s on his knees, a girl’s leg hooked over his shoulder, face buried under her skirt. Felix has his phone out, recording everything. Each flash of light catches some form of sin.

She is nowhere to be seen.

Next thing I know, I’m in an Uber that reeks of the last club, headed to the next one. Jet’s in the front seat, losing an argument with a driver who doesn’t speak English. Veloria’s touching up her smeared lips. Felix says we’re going to a place called The Warehouse, but won’t say how he knows about it.

We get dropped off on a side street that smells like hot trash and Chanel. There’s no sign, just a guy in zebra print pants holding a velvet rope in front of a loading dock.

We’re in.

Inside is pure distortion.

Not exactly music. Just static, sex noises, and bass lines that don’t match.

Strobe lights hit like seizures. The ceiling drips. The floor’s coated in whatever leaks from bodies, drinks, and regrets.

The walls pulse. The crowd pulses. There’s a giant screen behind the bar looping a VHS of someone getting spanked in night vision.

Veloria hands me something small, round, and white. I don’t ask what it is.

Felix says it’s cut with something weird. Jet’s already gone.

I’m not sure if I took half or two. My gums feel too big for my mouth. I love it. I hate it. I love it.

My tongue’s gone numb, and the floor feels like it’s vibrating through my bones. I close my eyes. Everything flashes. Everything melts.

Of course—

her.

Perfect timing.

She’s like a fever dream, in the middle of the floor, dancing with two girls. One of them is shirtless under a leather jacket, nipples glossed in glitter or someone’s glistening saliva. The other has thigh-highs and a skirt that could pass for a belt.

She sees me. She grins like the villain in a cartoon and pulls me into the fold; her fingers loop my pants, her mouth near my ear, but not saying anything.

We’re dancing now.

Jacket-girl’s behind me. Thigh-high’s in front. She’s everywhere.

I’m kissing the girl in the jacket while Thing-high is rubbing my cock through my jeans. I bite my lip. My head falls back. Someone’s taking photos. I don’t care.

The greenroom door opens. We fall into it like we’re being swallowed whole.

Somewhere behind me, Jet, Felix, and Veloria are still out there. But not for me. Not anymore. I haven’t seen them since I took the white pill. I don’t know if they forgot about me, or if I forgot about them. Doesn’t matter. I’m with her now.

Inside the room, there’s a fake leather couch, and someone’s coat is already on the floor. Lights are dim. There's music, but it’s muffled now, just a dull throb that hits under the skin, felt more than heard.

They’re on me before I sit. Jacket-girl’s straddling my lap. Thigh-high’s pulling my head to her tits. She’s watching. Not helping yet. Just watching.

Then a tongue hits my mouth, and a hand starts undoing my fly. Someone’s moaning. It’s probably me.

Jacket-girl spits in her palm and jerks me while sucking on my neck. The other one yanks at something. I realize I’m wearing a shirt. When did I get a new shirt? Thigh-high girl licks my face before dropping to her knees.

My jeans are at my ankles. My head’s against the wall. There’s too many lips, too many hands, someone’s fingers in my mouth. Someone else’s nails scratch my chest and follow it with a kiss. Then again, from another hand and a different mouth. Scratch. Lick. Repeat.

I look around. I’ve lost track of where she is.

Looking down, Thigh-high girl is stroking me slowly, up and down with both hands while the other girl licks at my chest and we moan into each other.

I still don’t see her, but I hear the voice.

“They’re for you tonight,” she whispers.

It sounds like a reward for something I might’ve already done.

Jacket-girl climbs onto the arm of the couch, legs spread like an invitation.

Thigh-high girl drops to all fours and buries her face between them, starving for pussy like it’s oxygen.

She’s back, reaches for me. Her fingers curl around my cock like it’s a leash, dragging me behind Thigh-high girl, lining me up.

I slide in too easily.

Mine’s not the first cock she’s taken tonight.

I don’t care.

My mind blanks.

Now I’m on my back. Thigh-high girl’s riding my face, head squeezed between her knees, my hands gripping her ass to keep her from falling. Jacket-girl’s bouncing on my cock, grinding like she needs it more than I do.

She’s in the corner now, still watching, enjoying the show.

I try to call her over, but my tongue’s already committed to making Thigh-high girl cum.

My brain checks out again.

Now I’ve got Jacket-girl bent over the back of the couch. I’m fucking her harder than either of our bodies should allow. Beside her, Thigh-high girl’s in the same position, swaying her hips like an invitation, waiting for her turn. Jacket-girl cums. I feel her cunt clench around me. I want to stay buried deep inside of her for the rest of the night. But duty calls. I pull out, shift over, and slide into the other one like changing tracks.

I can’t see her anymore.

That’s the last thing I remember.

I wake up on the same couch. Or maybe a different one in a similar room.

My shirt’s gone again. My pants are half on. My cock’s still out, with different shades of lipstick smeared across it.

I’m soaked in sweat that doesn’t smell like mine.

There’s glitter in my teeth and perfume I can’t name stuck in the back of my throat.

I don’t even know if I came.

I feel divine.

The party has mostly emptied. Only the most degenerate among us are left behind.

And then I’m outside. Not sure how I got there. Not sure where I thought I was going. The club’s behind me, or maybe not. Someone’s throwing up between two trash cans. A guy who could pass for Felix’s brother is passed out on the sidewalk, hand down his pants like sleep claimed him mid-wank. A girl’s offering a blowjob to a lamppost in exchange for a ride home.

I walk three blocks in the wrong direction just to hear my boots echo.

I check my phone. No notifications.

I check my pockets. No wallet.

I keep walking anyway.

And then she’s beside me. I don’t know where she came from. I never do. But she always finds me.

Doesn’t say hi. Doesn’t ask where I’ve been. Just slips her arm through mine like we’d planned it.

“Let’s go see the sunrise,” she says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I don’t know how we got up here. The door to the roof was locked when we tried it, but now it’s open, or maybe it always was, and we just kicked hard enough. My knee’s bleeding. The jeans are ruined. I think I left my wallet in a bathroom stall or a stranger’s purse or clenched between someone’s teeth.

I notice now. She’s wearing my shirt. The first one I lost. It’s too big on her, unbuttoned, just hanging loose like she’s claimed it.

She’s got the same nail marks, kissed in lipstick, across her chest that I have on mine.
Scratch. Lick. Repeat.

There’s cigarette ash in a Solo cup between us and a half-empty water bottle that keeps changing hands. She takes a sip, swishes it like mouthwash, spits over the edge, and passes it back.

Neither of us says anything. The city’s as quiet as it’ll ever be, but still too loud for the mess spinning in my head. I need peace. She gives me that.

I don’t look at her until she’s looking at me.

Her eyes are soft now. Or maybe mine are just slower.

She says it—

James.

Reminding me of who I am.

And it hits me harder than anything I took tonight.

She said my name like it belonged to her.

I kissed her like I wanted to steal it from her lips.

Her tongue was gentle now. Her breath tasted like smoke and cheap lipstick and something I recognized but still haven’t figured out. Her fingers held the back of my neck and didn’t move.

She kissed me like she wasn’t high anymore. Like maybe I wasn’t either.

I wasn’t sure if I was falling in love or still rolling.

Probably both.

Maybe neither.

The sun came up, knowing we were waiting for it.

She lit another Camel and passed it to me. The way her fingers touched mine was the most intimate moment of the night. It felt real.

I still don’t remember where it started, but I think this is where it ended.