The Boathouse

The lights pierced.

Everyone was either thrusting, gyrating, or just plain all up on somebody.

No one checked the time.

It was 1:30. AM that is…

We couldn’t have gotten any closer to each other.

People making room for those entering, we’d already surpassed maximum capacity by far. Although it didn’t look it.

Girls on girls.

Guys on girls.

It was a mess, a hot mess.

We laughed until we cried with serious faces. Hard like metal beautiful as gold. We danced until our bodies hurt to inhale.

They were taken aback by so much rhythm. T-shirts left enough to the imagination with the dancing taking away the rest.

Substitution was enabled so that purses weren’t stolen.

She left her phone in the bathroom anyways. Poor Jalynne.

Very little Spanish music but the Hispanic male population made up for the lack of tunes.

That blazer made you sweat.

Funny thing is…

He was wearing it. And what his name was we didn’t care he was just damn good eye candy.

Things seemed a little distorted as the night progressed. Never knowing the people around us we were safer than usual.

How ironic.

The boys smoked Phillies as their little sisters kissed on their girls. Best friends lost control and found new partners to make it with.

Sex on not hard wood but concrete.

The couple closest to her made her retreat on to our minimal space.

They were basically f*****g each other and there was no way around that one. Unlike her legs which managed to find their way around his waist.

Various other girls busted out of their clothes as the boys dropped their drawers.

How holy the ritual we were partaking in.

- Memory as noted by Charolette.