Stepping into the restroom cut the thump of the techno music to a distant throb, but she had a throb of her own. The guy she had been dancing with all night wants to meet her in the Rumpus Room. He knows she is packing and that she wants to get inside of him and he’s cool with it, even eager for it. She’d had to adjust herself before she could leave the dance floor.
She looks in the mirror as she comes in and watches herself walk behind the other girls touching up their faces. She isn’t vain, but she looks as good as any of them and in that red dress she looks better than most. There is no muffin top showing over her panties, no little roll around her bra strap. She is tight clean curvy lines with a hard ball of intent where her legs meet.
She steps into an empty stall. Part of her wants to pee standing up, just to freak the other girls out a little. Not that anyone would say anything. Even if they clocked her they wouldn’t mention it. But she never got clocked unless she wanted to. She was a ghost among them. That girl with a little something they could never provide, a competitive edge that sends some guys to the moon, like the cute Clark Kent look-a-like she is fixing to dip her wick in.
She knocks the last drop of pee off the tip and stands up to fix it back in place for the trip to the Rumpus Room. She pulls the dress down, but just before she tucks her little girl away she thinks of a selfie. She sets up her phone and looks at herself on the screen. She loves shots like these. She looks amazing and sexy, and then you get to the bottom of the dress and get that little twist at the end. Perfect. She takes the shot and posts it. Her girlfriends will know what the hashtag means.