Four on the Floor

I paint my eyes and I paint my nails and I wear a short skirt and I wear a lush smile.  And my legs are fucking amazing.  I’m Aphrodite in fishnets.  And my people are the most beautiful people in the city.  We are all over the local scene and we are all over the online zines (and we are all over our friends and we are all over ourselves).

And I’m tired.  And I know that there will be no sleep tonight, but I still go.  I’m on the guest-list.

I approach you and I kiss you and I tell you that it’s so good to see you and I slither to the bartender and I flirt and I get free alcohol.  And I bounce around the club and I hug everyone that I know and I make snarky pop culture references and I watch each person laugh.  I take a hundred pictures to later delete and I take a hundred pictures to later Photoshop.  And I know that this is all fake.  I play my men and I play my women and I play my confidence and I secretly I don’t know how much longer I could do this.  I’m twenty-nine years old.  And my Beauty Insider Card is losing its color, but I’m still earning a ton of points.

And I say fuck it.  Let the bass kick.  Let the beans hit.  Let the sweat drip.  Let the nipple slip.  Fuck it.  Just give me a four-four beat and I’ll be fine.

But then the club closes.  Then the after-parties end.  Then the drugs wear off.  Then the morning sun sprays its poison.  And then I say good-bye to my friends with a smile or a wave or a fuck, whatever is most appropriate, and then I hail a cab.  And as I close the yellow door, my face changes shape and my eyes begin to water and I get mascara on my fingertips.

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