Things that make you feel good are good things—that's what I thought once upon a time. Drugs that get you high, women to share a bed with, money that can buy you anything you could ever imagine. I had all that and more, and for a time, these were good things. But after so many years of chasing what I was missing, I realized that the good things weren't making me feel good anymore...

So why was I there that night? Was it the pretty neon lights flashing above me? Was it the blaring rap-mixed-with-dubstep music that shook the walls? Was it the warm smoke from my lungs that hovered over me like a cloud? Or was it the bare flesh that engulfed my shoulder as she leaned into my ear, whispering things I can't remember? None of it was special anymore, so why did I bother?

There I was, in the same, blood red sofa I always sat in—smack dab in the middle of the dance floor. My head was tilted toward the ceiling flashing psychedelic pinks and oranges. It was nauseating, but not quite as sickening as seeing the nude woman in the corner showing her daughter how to gyrate against a steel pole. Her daughter couldn't have been more than fourteen years old, yet the men around them laughed and cheered it on. My eardrums were pounded by lyrics about bodying "hatin' niggas" who probably never existed. So many artists in those days tried to sound different, but always wound up sounding the same. Ironic, but at least I found it more enjoyable than whatever the three women at my sides were saying to me at the time. I never listened because it was always the same—some craving attention, some claiming I'm wearing too much clothing (that night I was wearing an unbuttoned shirt exposing my torso and a pair of shorts past my knees), and some offering sexual favors in exchange for drugs that I didn't have. I got away with ignoring them by pretending I was high out of my mind. Either that or they were the ones too high to notice my indifference.

I held my cigarette between my middle and index fingers loosely. I didn't care if it fell. Frankly I was surprised none of the girls took it from me. The one to my left tugged on my waistband, grasping my arm and flirting in a high-pitched voice. Her more-than-a-friend sat behind her on the arm of the sofa, caressing her legs and shoulders as she kissed her neck. I could feel that one's eyes on me almost as vividly as I felt the third one's hand against my sternum. I felt the heat of her breath against my earlobe as she whispered to me. As far as how they looked, they may have been pretty, they may have been gorgeous, all I knew was that none of them had anything interesting to say to me. At the rate things were going, I didn't think I'd ever find one that could hold my attention.

In the midst of the human wild, I wondered once again, why am I here?

"Your arm feels weird..." The observation from the girl on my left stuck out like a sore thumb. It snapped me out of whatever existential haze I trapped myself in, sitting upright to see that the girl had an intrigued frown fixated on my left arm. The grasp she had on my arm started moving up and down. It was less like she was caressing me and more like she was digging into it at that point.

"So let go of it," I snapped with a hard jerk away from her. The action caused her to stumble forward just enough to fall on her knees in front of me. Her friend shot up from the armrest with a gasp. When I looked down to meet the girl's fuming gaze, her impishly round face told me she was no more than sixteen years old. I felt my expression soften with regret. I didn't mean to be so rough with a kid like that. "Wait, I'm—"

Before I could apologize, she flipped me off and cursed me out like a professional as her friend helped her up. The friend was notably older than her, possibly mid-thirties. At that point I realized how disgusting it was when she continued to run her hands throughout the girl's body as they walked away. One other thing I couldn't help but notice about the friend was her broad shoulders and her square jaw. When she looked back at me with a wink, that's when it dawned on me that she used to be a he.

My distaste only got worse in that moment when the girl in my ear sneered, "I don't mind getting rough."

I turned to face her smug, delirious grin. She looked to be a bit younger than I was, and she was cute, too. The makeup over her eyelids was a dark purple, but it wasn't too much—commendable since so many other girls at clubs often overdid their makeup. Her skin was like milk chocolate, and her hair reminded me of cotton candy. She was definitely one of the better options the place had to offer from what I could tell at that point, but she was vulgar. And high. Her looks couldn't make up for what I've had a million times before.

I narrowed my eyes. "Is that right?" I pressed my hand against her ditzy countenance and shoved her away a little harder than I probably should have, but seeing the elated smile in response to my actions put me at ease. I grunted and tilted my head back into its original position. "There. Now beat it." When I pushed her, her upper back hit the armrest with arms spread against it as if she expected me to do that. I could feel her ravenous gaze on me still. As soon as I felt her big toe moving along my hip, my eyes shifted back to her with no patience. "You deaf? I said go..."

My voice trailed off as soon as my eyes did. I scanned her figure without much control. Her legs were open towards me, her chest sprawled at her sides only slightly. Her parting, full lips revealed perfect, white teeth. Natural eyelashes fluttered over her dark eyes. Jaded as I was, I'm still a guy. And there she was. I couldn't stop staring at her. She must've noticed this, because then she rose her leg. Slowly, right in front of me. Then, as if to spite me for my rejection, she closed her smile and planted her foot on the floor, then the other. She stood up, arching her back and keeping her eyes on me, and then she finally walked away. Actually, it was more like a strut. All just to show me what I was missing.

I sighed and took another swig of my cigarette, trying to forget about her. I remembered I would've just regretted it anyway. That it wouldn't have made me happy. So then, what will?

"You cannot be serious!" a shrill voice yelled from across the room. I couldn't believe I was able to make out the words. Not just because of how far away it was, but because of the ridiculous chops she must've had to sound so clear over the music playing. I looked towards where the yell came from and found myself sinking even deeper into disbelief. It was a girl dressed in a low-cut, black tank top with a grey sweatshirt tied around her waist. She was wearing baby blue skinny jeans paired with darker blue, white-laced tennis shoes. Her pecan brown hair was tied up in a messy bun at the top of her head.

Though I wasn't surprised to see that it was a white girl—given the sound of her voice—what really shocked me was the amount of clothes she was wearing. Obviously, her attire wasn't all that modest, but compared to every other girl in the room she was practically a nun. Not only was it rare to see women so fully clothed in public, but to see one like that inside of a club just seemed...impossible. Yet there she was, arms crossed and fuming at a security guard who was wearing nothing but red suspenders and pink pants. She was chewing the guy out over something, gesturing towards a hallway on her left. Whatever it was she was upset about, it didn't seem like there was much the guy could do for her. He kept shrugging his shoulders and rolling his head around as she talked to him. I guess the people nearby were too stoned to pay the scene much attention, despite her obnoxious cry earlier.

I, on the other hand, couldn't take my eyes off her. No, not in the same way I couldn't take my eyes off the other girl (although this one did look good in those jeans). Rather, it was in the way people can't take their eyes off a random fist fight—it's something you don't see often. It's entertaining, even. Except in this case, it was something even more than that: it was alluring. Visually speaking, it was her attire that caught my attention, but what really struck me the longer I stared at her was the fact that she appeared to be in her right mind. She didn't seem high, or drunk, or out of it in any way. She was just...angry. An emotion you didn't see often in a place filled with people in search of cheap thrills. Though I couldn't make out what she was saying from where I sat, I could tell every word she spoke had purpose. I then found the desire to know what she was so upset about. And with that desire, I was finally reminded why I went to that place so habitually. I went there in hopes of finding something different. Something that could reignite some excitement in my life—not just on a physical level. And from the looks of it, she seemed to be that something. I had to meet her.