Page 31 of The Proposal Problem

12

Percy

Saturday 12:11 Pm

Imay not recognize the club, but my body fucking does.

As we walk through the entryway, my nipples get hard and my pussy wet. I feel like Pavlov’s fucking dog, only instead of steaks and whistles—it’s a club floor wreaking of alcohol, and my pussy that wants feeding.

The place doesn’t hold that much appeal to me. It’s not the look—the club is swanky as fuck—but it’s the DJ’s choice in music.

I hate fucking techno Eurotrash music. Give me something you can really fuck to—like a bitching 80s Hair Metal band. Like fucking Mötley Crüe.

Now that’s a band you can get down and fuck to.

I know this because I’ve done it, sometimes even behind closed doors.

The club’s music has a good beat—I could totally get into a blowjob listening to it—but it lacks soul that you get with hair metal. But that was the beauty of the 80s. They sang just as much from the heart as they did from the hair.

“Hey Sam—”

I turn, expecting to see Sammi beside me, only she isn’t there.

Then I turn the other direction hoping to see Mysti May, but she’s gone too.

Fucking bitches.

The sound of Mysti’s giggle from behind me makes me spin around.

I can’t help but scoff when I see them.

Mysti and Becky are throwing foam around at each other like they’re giddy little school girls.

Sammi looks like she’s trying to make a foam party shark—which she’ll probably want to save later since it’ll be the only one of its kind.

Between them, a tiny bear-wearing toddler—with enough foam around his face that he looks like a rabid cub—is chasing bubbles like a bubble junkie.

When Becky and Sammi get into this shit, it’s all hands on deck. But when it’s me in the driver seat, it’s fucking party central.

“Hello? A little help here?” I yell above the music.

The only one who pays any attention to me is the toddler. But he just waves at me before wandering off for another bubble fix.

Fucking hell.

Evidently, the girls aren’t going to be all that useful for the time being, which means I’m on my own.

Leaving them behind, I venture deeper into the club.

As much as I’d like to have some fun with them—because foam parties are a fucking blast—I am on a fucking mission.

I’ve got more fucking multicolored wrist bands on than the colors the rainbow has.

Someone here has to know what the fuck they mean and why the fuck I have them all.

The problem is that it’s next to impossible to find a single person who works here. There’s so much foam everywhere that it’s hard to tell if I’m standing beside Brad Pitt, an employee, or some random nobody.

“Fucking foam, stay the fuck out of my mouth,” I spit foam from my lips in frustration.

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