Make Me Proud

She took my hand and led the way. I followed, keeping grip of her finger tips, trying to maneuver through the tables, and crowd. Trying to keep sight of my destination, through short periods of temporary blindness from shifting black lights and strobes. Trying not to allow the loud and heavy bass distract me from maintaining coordination. Fighting to hold on to my last remaining fraction of my nearly depleted consciousness.

 

I took seat in my temporary throne, as she took her place. Guiding my hands onto the armrest, she brushed her chest past my mouth, sealing her hypnotic trance. That beautiful and seductive smell. So intoxicating that not even a blackout could erase. She licked her lips and snaked up and down, her eyes adding to the illusion that she wanted me, all the while Drake sang of how proud he was of her.

 

My right arm screamed defiance. Escaping it’s exiled imprisonment and sliding past her leg. She smiled, her eyes asking , what it was that I thought I was trying to do. I smirked in an attempt to indicate that it was cool, hoping to inform her that my plane was still under manual operation and not flying under autopilot. My telepathic ability proved nonexistent, my message left without interpretation.

 

The bouncers’ stare begged acknowledgment from my left peripheral. I sent him a head nod. With telepathic functions scrambled, my head nodding up instead of down, I may as well, just offered him my most vocal finger. His stride displaying a cool and calm demeanor as he made his way down the red carpet leading to my throne. My hand finally at it’s goal, I raised two Jackson’s, signifying my interest in another half song.