A Girl's Night Out
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The magic number: 21. You’re finally the right age. After floundering through high school and a bit of college with your unaccepting family and clueless friends, after hearing for the millionth time, “but you don’t <i>look</i> like a lesbian”, you’ve made your way here on a Friday night. And damn it, you’re gonna have fun. | The magic number: 21. You’re finally the right age. After floundering through high school and a bit of college with your unaccepting family and clueless friends, after hearing for the millionth time, “but you don’t <i>look</i> like a lesbian”, you’ve made your way here on a Friday night. And damn it, you’re gonna have fun. | ||
| - | A small neon sign decorates the entrance, the | + | A small neon sign decorates the entrance, the name of the bar flashing in bright crimson and yellow. The hem of your red dress, which reaches around your mid-thigh, flaps in the warm wind as you walk briskly. You hope you aren’t dressed too formally. You just wanted to look pretty. Before now, there’s never been a point in looking pretty for anyone you might like. It’s not like girls tape signs on themselves, “Hey, I’m gay too!”. |
You chuckle at the thought and summon up your courage. You’ve nearly reached the front of the line to get in. Two bouncers stand by the door, one male and one, surprisingly, female. She’s got close-cropped hair blonde hair and striking blue eyes. Beneath her loose-fitting army jacket is a white tank top that clings to her modest figure. A pair of cargo pants and old boots completes her strong, reliable look. | You chuckle at the thought and summon up your courage. You’ve nearly reached the front of the line to get in. Two bouncers stand by the door, one male and one, surprisingly, female. She’s got close-cropped hair blonde hair and striking blue eyes. Beneath her loose-fitting army jacket is a white tank top that clings to her modest figure. A pair of cargo pants and old boots completes her strong, reliable look. | ||
Revision as of 16:25, 13 September 2015
The magic number: 21. You’re finally the right age. After floundering through high school and a bit of college with your unaccepting family and clueless friends, after hearing for the millionth time, “but you don’t look like a lesbian”, you’ve made your way here on a Friday night. And damn it, you’re gonna have fun.
A small neon sign decorates the entrance, the name of the bar flashing in bright crimson and yellow. The hem of your red dress, which reaches around your mid-thigh, flaps in the warm wind as you walk briskly. You hope you aren’t dressed too formally. You just wanted to look pretty. Before now, there’s never been a point in looking pretty for anyone you might like. It’s not like girls tape signs on themselves, “Hey, I’m gay too!”.
You chuckle at the thought and summon up your courage. You’ve nearly reached the front of the line to get in. Two bouncers stand by the door, one male and one, surprisingly, female. She’s got close-cropped hair blonde hair and striking blue eyes. Beneath her loose-fitting army jacket is a white tank top that clings to her modest figure. A pair of cargo pants and old boots completes her strong, reliable look.
When you step to the front of the line, she smiles kindly. “ID?”
You hand it to her along with some cash, your hand trembling. She takes it for a moment, her fingers brushing yours. A bit rough, but gentle. You blush.
“Here you go,” she says smoothly, handing it back. “Enjoy.”
“I will,” you say earnestly. “It’s my first time.”
She raises an eyebrow. You blink and wave your hands. “Not like that! Well, that too actually… I mean…!”
She chuckles and pats your head. “Woah there. Whatever it is, you just need to enjoy it, right?” Her sapphire eyes are warm and welcoming. “You don’t have to be afraid here.”
You nod stiffly, face flushed. God, you say the stupidest things when you’re nervous. Still, it’s almost worth it to have her hand on you.
“Now get in there and have fun!” she laughs, rubbing your back a little forcefully to nudge you inside the bar. “There’s the bar, tables, some games, couches.” She winks. “And a basement.”
You step inside and are surrounded by music and voices of all kinds. There are plenty of women there, some masculine, some feminine like yourself, and others everywhere in between. Where to start?
Do you...
