I’m adrift in a boiling, writhing sea of human skin.
The beat of the music is pulsing, pounding, permeating me. With every beat bright lights flash from the ceilings, momentarily making every bare chest and shoulder and raised arm sparkle — whether from glitter, or sweat, or my own mind creating illusions, in the instant before the flash of light disappears again I can’t tell.
The heat is like a solid object that comes in waves, hitting my face and wrapping itself around me before being pulled off me like a piece of paper being blown in the wind. I can tell by the way my skin’s burning up and freezing at the same time that the molly must be starting to kick in. I’m only starting to realise that my heart’s racing, and I don’t know how long ago it started, all I know is that I’m feeling like any second now it’s going to get free of my body and fly off across the room, leaving me to crumple empty onto the floor, sinking below the heads and shoulders of the crowd like a boat sinking in the sea.
Was this wise? Not at all. I don’t know where my friends are and I don’t know where my phone is to message them with. I haven’t had molly in years and I’ve forgotten what it’s like, and I don’t know if my body can still handle it. I don’t even know the guy who gave it to me that well, Owen’s friend who’s name I can’t remember. Just because he was hot and friendly and offered it, that didn’t mean I should have just taken the pill without question. What if it was bad, cut with something or not what he said it is? What if this rushing heartbeat is the start of a trip I can’t handle, lost in this sea of thousands of bodies with no one to help me?
It’s so fucking hot in here. The thumping beat is so loud it feels like it’s coming from inside my head, but at the same time seems like just an echo, like it’s coming from some party a block away down the street. Or underwater, maybe. I’m being jostled from every side. Strands of synthetic hair from the giant wig on the queen dancing next to me stick in sweat where they touch my skin. The bare, slick, sweaty arm of the shirtless man next to me keeps bumping against my shoulder, electrifying me every time it makes contact. Usually I’d welcome that. Usually I’d let his skin press against mine for a split second longer each time, enjoy his sweat against my skin, look over at him and give him a signal that I’d welcome more physical contact. But right now I can’t even think about that. I just need to get out of here, just for a few minutes, till I get a grip of myself. I need to calm down, so I can get into the headspace to allow myself enjoy this before I’m completely trapped in a panic spiral.
I push my way through the crowds. So many men. I can vaguely comprehend that if I wasn’t having a total freakout right now I’d be living my fantasy, surrounded by all these men stripped down to almost nothing and dripping in sweat. But there’ll be time for that in a bit, once I’m calm. Right? I fucking hope.
I figure I’ll go to the toilets. Splash some water on my face, cool down a little. That’s a thing people do when they’re overheated and overwrought, right? I think about the prospect of cool water splashing across my face and it’s so appealing I can almost feel it.
But as I break free of the gravity of the crowd and burst out of the edge into empty space I see the queue for the toilet, and it’s miles long. Fifty people, maybe even sixty. Why the hell is it so long? I don’t think I can hold it together long enough to make it to the front of that queue, still being bombarded with all the stimulation of the noise and the heat and the flashing lights.
