. . . The HYP and the Englisman stood up and headed to the dance floor with the other three women. I didn't want to dance, but I took the opportunity to escape the awkwardness and jumped out of my seat to join them. Before we made it to the dance floor all 6 of us did two shots of expensive silver tequila, and ordered a round of bottles. The dance floor was a sweaty, loud mess. Tonya decided she liked me however, and almost immediately began backing herself up into my crotch. It was an exquisite bit of human movement—me standing there with a bottle in one hand, and an inebriated woman backing herself into my denim-covered member. I looked around and saw a myriad of others doing something very similar. I should have just stopped thinking, and let myself feel. I should have just let myself feel the sensations of the beer going down my throat and the woman dry humping me into submission. But, I didn't. Instead, I tried to think in between thrusts:
Is this how souls meet?
Or, have we destroyed our souls—scattered even the faint whisper of them—so thoroughly that the only way we can attempt to have an encounter—much less to have one--automatically involves two crotches, sweat, and overpriced alcohol?

Again, I was depressed and excited all at the same time. I didn't have control of either—the depression or the excitement. Naturally, I couldn't control the depression. And, due to Amber grinding into my missile, I couldn't control the excitement. We continued “dancing” through the night. We laughed. We drank.
About a half hour in I whispered into her ear: “You know Amber, ramming a missile can be dangerous. You might end up with an explosion.” Smooth.

She smiled and I realized she didn't hear a word I said over the music. So, we continued without a change.

The Englishman pulled the month and left early with her. The HYP and I stayed with the other two until the sweaty hideaway was lit up into a glimmering, odorous cellar. In an instant the dreams evaporated. In a moment the pretending faded and it was time to saunter home and look forward to the headache that would plague the next day. We gathered our things, exchanged phone numbers with the girls, and walked home. The boardwalk was empty except for bottles, cigarrete butts, and food wrappers. I heard people yelling. I heard woman screaming. I walked past the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop and saw someone urinating on the wall. I walked slowly because of the inebriation, but not slow enough to think. Why did the thinking stop now? At home, I tore off my clothes, took two headache pills, and collapsed onto the bed.