Nights of Her Life: The First Night

"What a waste."

That was her thought as she jostled in the crowded lady's room for a spot in front of the mirror to rearrange her long brown hair and check her makeup to the outsized, muffled thump of house music. She preened at her curtain bangs and body wave a bit and then took a tube of lip gloss from her clutch, pushed her generous lips out in a duck face and applied it. The girl next to her banged into her shoulder, to which she responded with an irked sideways glance. Even with her high heeled pumps on her petite five-foot frame she was a good three to six inches shorter than every other girl in the crowded lady's room.

While she got out her eye liner, she surreptitiously surveyed her "competition" all dolled out as best as they could and looking hopeful. She noted with satisfaction that no one there outshined her. She wasn't arrogant enough to rate herself a ten, but she was arrogant enough to conclude that if she was a nine, these other hopefuls were at best a pack of sixes. That would give her the "pick of the litter" of the male patrons in this club tonight.

"Rather unfortunate word choice, "litter"," she muttered to herself ruefully. That single word had two definitions that were possibly applicable to the male contingent she had observed in the club tonight. This "litter" could either be a group of baby animals still dependent on their mother's tits or outright trash. Neither did anything to raise her hopes for success this evening. Unfortunately for her lesbianism was simply out of the question. She guessed she would just have to keep sorting through the "litter" and hope to find a diamond.

"Maybe I can get a few of these plain Johns to carry me around on a litter," she smirked to herself while picturing six men carrying her around in the hot desert on a bed with curtains while she snacked on grapes and made like Cleopatra. At least that definition of "litter" had a positive connotation. She sighed at her reflection in the mirror.

Why had she even bothered to come here, anyway?

Well, she knew why she had come. She had been reluctant when her friends asked her to go to the club with them this Friday. She knew nothing ever happened at the clubs and that realization had made her hesitate. Maybe an old movie and a pint of Haagen Daas was all she wanted tonight? Maybe she could find "Gone with the Wind" or "Casablanca" on the tube and she could have a nice pity party complete with a blanket, sniffles and cookie dough, but then again, she didn't have anything better to do since she had broken up with her earnestly plain boyfriend a couple of months ago and she didn't want to put in the extra time on the elliptical that the pint of Haagen Dazs would cost her. Those thoughts alone were enough to get her irrational hopes up just enough to agree to go out with them to this, well let's be honest, monument to human loneliness. The stray thought of her ex distracted her thoughts from the mirror.

With regards to her ex, ending it with him had been the right move in hind sight and probably overdue. He was nice and polite and comfortable and warm, like an old baggy sweat shirt and he was an eager if slightly awkward lover. She never had to worry about him stepping out on her or hurting her. He had less flavor than her favorite cookie dough ice cream when it got right down to it. Not a bad sort of guy at all, and he made her smile, but he was nothing that made her heart go boom and for a too-long and inertia laden relationship denouement, he merely filled a void in her life she did not want to face. Ultimately it was the dull and repetitive nature of their relationship that pushed her to be quit of it. His pained expression when she finally ended it made her feel some sorrow and regret, like she was putting down an old dog, but in the end, she had already convinced herself it was the best thing for both of them.

Of course, he hadn't been as convinced it should be over as she was. He made a few plaintive attempts to reconcile with her and, just to keep her options open and feed her ego a bit, she didn't delete his number from her contacts list and entertained his infrequent calls. This resulted, predictably, in one foolishly lonely drunken hook-up-weekend when the facts that no other man in the world seemed to interest her, her roommate was out of town and her young, horny body got the better of her young, alcohol addled brain combine to create a textbook case of the Friday Night Boozy Blahs. Before she knew it she had dialed his number and in response to her sniffling, sobby pleas, he showed up with her favorite pizza and his familiar throbbing, hard dick she hoped would cure her malaise. He was only too happy to oblige her and, lost in the throes of the Friday Night Boozy Blahs, she convinced herself that she shared his enthusiasm and that, just maybe, all they needed was a second chance. Armed with this little bit of self-deception she initially matched his gusto for the project and the fucking and sucking began with the ferocity of two people seemingly making up for lost time.

She spent the first twelve hours of that rainy weekend with him enjoying his extra-motivated attention. She always got a small, embarrassed smile on her face when she remembered how he had energetically fucked and sucked her like his life depended on it. He made it very clear he was trying out for the team again and was willing to do whatever it took. That gratified her immensely and she let herself sink into and enjoy the familiar feel of it all.

Initially that weekend had been a pleasant and comfortable blend of a gentle buzz brought on by booze and carbohydrates, and whisper-giggle-tickle cuddling while naked under warm blankets interspersed with liberal amounts of frenzied fucking and sucking on every available surface in her apartment. It was all underscored by the romantic patter of raindrops on the windows of her apartment and resulted in a pleasing number of orgasms for her with a side dish of a polite and acceptable minimum number of orgasms for him.

That was good because, up until now at least, she disliked men's cum. It was nasty and sticky and smelly and accompanied by goofy male facial expressions and goofy male grunting and groans. In general, she tolerated cum as an unpleasant adjunct to her own sexual satisfaction, and, at least for the first twelve hours of the weekend, she could almost view his cum in particular as an endearing kind of compliment. That small genetic material matter aside, her ego had enjoyed his extra alert attention, her body had enjoyed his extra effort and her mind had enjoyed the fact that she was comfortable enough with him to not be inhibited as she would have been with a new lover. Yes, for the first twelve hours of that weekend, the comfortably romantic spell of the two of them familiarly snug and alone together very nearly convinced her that this was what she wanted and where she belonged.

However, as the weekend wore on, she noticed that she gradually went from being lightly complimented by his cum to outright dreading his cum all together and was secretly grateful that there wasn't a lot of it for her to deal with. In fact, in her most honest moments of the second twelve hours of that weekend, she had to admit that she hadn't really cared whether he came or not and, if asked, would have preferred he simply didn't cum at all. In hind sight that was the first thing that turned her thinking about the situation and broke the spell of pillow-comfy romance for her.

That coupled with the fact that as her buzz faded, her brain revived enough to lecture her in the mirror during bathroom breaks about how this was all wrong and needed to stop. She almost followed her brain's advice all day Saturday, but whenever she got ready to put him out, he fucked and sucked her so energetically that she would forget she wanted to send him away until her next bathroom break. However, by Saturday night the familiar feeling of dullness and repetitiveness presented her with an unsettling déjà vu. He, blissfully unaware that she was slowly recalling just why she had previously ended their relationship, kept gamely pleasuring her throughout the day and she was simply too lazy to refuse another orgasm and too comfortable to refuse his warm body next to hers.

Then later that Saturday night genital soreness and chaffing began to set in for both of them and that slowed the frantic pace of the sexual activity. That plus the final disgustingly pathetic trickle of cum that he moaned out through a spectacularly goofy look on his face while he dribbled a tired puddle of his self into her navel closed the deal for her. It was clear he'd shot his bolt, so to speak and he was thoroughly fucked and sucked out. Now, with his best efforts and her Friday Night Boozy Blahs in the review mirror, she knew she was no more interested in him than she had been before the Friday Night Boozy Blahs had kicked in.

A guiltily sleepless rest of that night with his arm cast possessively over her shoulder as she listened to him sleep culminated in an early Sunday morning re-breakup when she sent him away with a hangdog expression and an admonishment to never contact her again. The best she could muster for his final efforts that weekend was a few small, sad-face tears that she always kept on hand just in case of an emergency, her best gentle and caring caress of his right cheek and a movie style breakup line to the effect of "I will always cherish our time together, but we just not meant to be, you and I. Maybe in the next life." It had been like throwing out a favorite, but worn-out pair of shoes; something to be casually lamented but not really worth getting that upset over.

That weekend all did have an overall satisfying and positive resolution though. It gave her an excuse to binge on Chinese food and Haagen Dazs that evening and sniffle-pout a little to her roommate when she returned that night as a way to absolve herself of culpability for this mistake. Her roommate had the good sense to sympathize and not remind her that she, not he, had made the lost mistake of a weekend happen. As a reward for that loyalty her roommate got to partake of the leftover Chinese food and a few spoonfuls of Haagen Dazs for dessert.

In hindsight she harbored regrets about that weekend in spite of herself. Part of her regretted that weekend because she figured it was cruel to treat him that way. Part of her regretted that weekend because she had been so incredibly weak as to allow it. Part of her regretted that weekend because during it she had tried to convince herself that that old comfortable shoe type relationship was what she wanted. Part of her regretted that weekend because he was actually heeding the admonishment not to contact her.

And strangely the fact he had gone complete cold turkey no contact vaguely piqued her interest in him again. Curiosity set in and later that week she checked his Instagram account only to find herself blocked off of it and all his other social media. That focused her attention and through a girlfriend she found out he had changed his dating status and claimed to be seeing other women. She had expected to be vigorously offended by this information but instead found it mainly provided her with a sense of relief. But to keep up appearances and be a team player she used it as an excuse to indulge in another pint of Haagen Dazs, which her dutiful roommate earned a share of for her continued sympathies and platitudes.

But mostly she regretted that weekend because it meant that was she was once more back in the dating pool with all its attendant efforts, futilities, creepiness, failure, false hopes, unrequited longings, near misses and phoniness. And her recent Friday night ventures into that dating pool revealed it was even more weed choked and scum covered that she had cared to remember. Dating apps had proven no better, so as a precaution she deleted her ex-boyfriend's number from her phone to prevent another mistake along that line out of desperation or depression.

That brought her to this particular Friday evening in this particular club and, unfortunately, her initial reluctance was born out. She and her girlfriends had been here since seven o'clock, all huddled in the half-dark around a single tall table. Every woman in the club was trolling her wares wearing skirts and dresses that were too short to wear without hauling up or tugging down depending on which end seemed to be revealing too much skin, high heels that were too tall to stand or dance in without discomfort or outright pain, makeup that was too thick to wear even on television and sipping overpriced drinks while hoping that some guy worth the effort would buy them another one that they wouldn't have to make last a while. To her the whole experience resembled hungrily fishing for her dinner in a cesspool; she was pretty sure she wouldn't want most of what she might catch, but just maybe there was something edible swimming under the scum.

Thus, the evening proceeded according to schedule. First only the ladies were allowed in to have a drink or two and get their hopes up. A bit later a few guys were let in and they began to circulate about the room. Certain guys kept circling her and her friends, but so far none were worth the effort in her eyes. Instead, the skulking circulation of the guys grimly reminded her of Quint's scene from Jaws where he described the sinking of the USS Indianopolils. Her girlfriends, depending upon how long it had been since they'd had male companionship, were various shades of less discerning to outright eager. Despite her brooding sense of abject hopelessness about this evenings prospects, she was a team player by doing her part to keep up a cheerful and cautiously approachable group atmosphere.

Moments after the guys arrived, as if on cue, the inter-squad competition between the various groups of ladies over the few guys in the place started and the cattiness broke out. "Ladies' Night" always had that perhaps unintended consequence. She wondered if the people who ran the clubs were secretly aware of this fact and fostered it to subliminally encourage the male egos to buy more drinks, but in the end, it didn't matter because no one forced anyone, male or female, to come to "ladies' night" let alone get catty with one another. That thought made her sigh as it brought a tinge of regret that she hadn't just stayed home and watched TV with another pint of Haagen Dazs.

After a solid hour of casting glances at some of the guys and shooting looks at the other girls, the inevitable intra-squad drama had started. One of her girlfriends, still smarting from her recent break-up which everyone at the table knew privately was due to her inability to keep her panties on and remain monogamous, but publicly agreed was due to her ex-boyfriend's "inconsiderate, unavailable and inattentive nature", and, therefore, playing the essential if slightly uncomfortable role of "Bitter Sister" of the group for the evening, vented her frustrations with all the men currently occupying the planet with not-so-secret hisses of whispers. Ruefully she noted that it seemed the "Bitter sister" was an essential element of any group of women on a "ladies' night" because, even though Bitter Sister can be tiresome or troublesome at times, Bitter Sister also provided a convenient and essential excuse to bail on or block out unwanted advances by guys at the club. This particular Bitter Sister's heavy eye makeup predicably began to run with a few tears that escaped her smoky eyes after her third overpriced drink of the evening giving her a gothic and foreboding look.

The required interval of respectful tolerance passed and then her friends that were more actively on the prowl quietly expressed the opinion that Bitter Sister's negativity seemed to be driving away some of the more prized specimens of guys in the club, and that Bitter Sister should know was that she interfering with the progress of the evening (guys would have called it "cock-blocking" but they weren't guys after all). That elicited a full-blown scene of profuse sobbing apologies from Bitter Sister and to reset the mood the whole group of them trooped out into the evening chill to shiver, shed a few sympathetic tears and let Bitter Sister smoke a cigarette while she alternated between profusely thanking them for their loyal friendship and indulging in the righteous self-pity that there simply were no good men on planet Earth outside of her father and four brothers. With that requirement checked off the agenda for the evening, they all re-entered the club united by Bitter Sister promise to be more upbeat for the rest of the evening. To her credit Bitter Sister was as good as her word and was performing like a good soldier, only shedding infrequent and socially acceptable discrete tears when the DJ played a particular song. For her bravery she was rewarded with lavish sympathy from the grateful group.

Another bump on the elbow jostled her from her reverie. In response, she shot a sideways glare of irritation at the perpetrator, a gangling extra tall girl with her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail and garnished with "slut strands" on the sides of her face, a horse face caked with too much rouge and wearing a gaudy silver sequined party dress that was cut too low on her flat chest and slit too high on her skinny right leg. A tiny hint of black lace panties peeked out indiscreetly from the slit. Somehow Blondie's' attempt at sexiness had exactly the opposite effect and the scent of flowery perfume mingled with desperation emanated from her. In total Blondie was the very portrait of her destiny for that particular evening; the last call hook-up girl.

She knew it as surely as she knew the sun would come up the next day. Thirty minutes after last call Blondie's dress (Admittedly it was a pretty dress. It just wasn't pretty on Blondie) would be in a ball in the corner of some dusty bachelor pad bedroom and her long, gawky legs would be thrown over some half pumped up shoulders and some sweaty male would grunt his cock into her for five to ten minutes before expiring on her thigh, letting her stick around for a polite interval and then ushering her to her an Uber with the empty promise he'd call her tomorrow, which Blondie would naively talk herself into believing for at least the ride home before confronting herself in the mirror and being disappointed in herself. It was so real in her mind it made her a little uneasy.

Blondie's lips moved in response to her look, but she couldn't make out what Blondie said over the thump of the house music and the anticipatory drone in the bathroom full of Friday Night Bang Bitches.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Blondie leaned closer.

"I said, 'you're so pretty'!"

She looked at herself in the mirror and her ego puffed up a bit. Blondie was right. She really was pretty thanks inheriting father's thick, dark brown hair, her mother's striking hour-glass figure and, most importantly, her grandmother's "D" cup English breasts. On her petite frame, they looked even bigger than they had on grandma, so much so that a few people had been so impolitely mistaken as to ask her for a referral to her plastic surgeon. Those unlucky few were treated to the indignant assurance that her breasts were spectacularly natural, thank you, and she enjoyed the catty jealousy that always showed on their faces afterwards. The occasional uncomfortable stab of underwire and the inevitable back pain later in life were totally worth those moments.

Then just as she began to feel confident, she remembered she didn't have a thigh gap and that from the side her lack of a firmly toned ass gave her the shaped like the letter "P" and her ego quickly deflated back to its normal level of vague insecurity, which allowed her to appreciate, but not really believe Blondie's compliment. To cover that self-doubt up she made a show of hauling up on her strapless black sheath dress so that the tops of her generous breasts giggled merrily for everyone to see. Blondie tried not to take the bait, but she couldn't help herself and after the implied comparison, Blondie cross her arms self-consciously over her flatter chest. A tinge of victorious pity at Blondie's discomfort played in her mind. Convention required her to repair the pin hole she had just poked in Blondie's ego.