Nightclub Toilet Tango

Club toilets were where dreams went to die and makeup got reapplied. Sticky floors, broken locks, and the persistent smell of questionable life choices.

I'd ducked in to escape the dance floor—too hot, too crowded, too much bass rattling my teeth. The men's was surprisingly empty for a Saturday night.

Then she walked in.

Wrong door, obviously. She was far too fit for the men's. Tall, slim, dark skin glowing under the harsh lights, silver dress that looked painted on.

"This isn't—" I started.

"I know." She didn't leave. "Queue for the ladies was mental. You gonna tell?"

"Tell who?"

"Anyone." She walked past me to the mirror, started fixing her lipstick. "Besides, I saw you on the floor earlier. You've got moves."

"Thanks?"

"That wasn't a compliment. Your moves are shit." She looked at me through the mirror. "But there's something about you. Can't explain it."

"Cheers. I think."

She laughed—unexpected, genuine. "I'm Zara."

"Marcus."

"Nice to meet you, Marcus." She turned, leaned against the sink. "Want to dance? Properly, I mean. Not whatever you were doing out there."

"Here?"

"Why not? Bass is better in here anyway."

The music thumped through the walls—some remix of something old. She held out her hand.

"Come on. Show me what you've really got."

Dancing in a club toilet with a stranger shouldn't have worked. But somehow, it did.

She moved like water, all fluid grace and confidence. I followed her lead, trying to match energy I didn't know I had.

"Better," she said, pulling me closer. "You just need the right partner."

"That you?"

"Maybe." Her hips rolled against mine. "If you play your cards right."

The music shifted—slower, more intimate. She turned, her back against my chest, grinding in a way that was definitely not PG.

"This okay?" she asked.

"Very okay."

"Good."

Her hand reached back, found my neck, pulled me down. Her lips brushed my ear.

"I don't usually do this," she whispered. "But something about tonight..."

"What do you usually do?"

"Not this." She turned in my arms. "But I want to. With you. Is that insane?"

"Completely."

"Good. Sanity's overrated." She kissed me.

The kiss escalated. Fast.

Her tongue found mine while her hands found my shirt. My hands found everything—her hips, her arse, the warmth of her skin through that silver dress.

"Cubicle," she breathed. "Last one. More private."

We stumbled into it, barely closing the door. She pressed me against the wall, her mouth hot on my neck.

"Been wanting this all night," she admitted. "Watching you dance badly. Thinking about how I could fix that."

"And now?"

"Now I'm thinking about other things."

She dropped to her knees—right there on the club toilet floor—and freed me from my jeans. Took me in her mouth like we had all the time in the world.

"Christ—Zara—"

"Shh. People might hear."

She worked me with mouth and hands, looking up with eyes that promised everything. I lasted longer than I thought I would.

"My turn," I managed, pulling her up.

Her dress rode up easily. Underneath—nothing. She caught my expression.

"Seemed presumptuous to wear knickers. Turns out I was right."

I lifted her onto the sanitary bin—romance wasn't exactly available—and dropped to my knees. She gasped when my tongue found her.

"Yes—fuck—"

I ate her in the club toilet while bass thumped through the walls. She tasted of anticipation and cheap vodka cranberries.

"Gonna come—already—don't stop—"

She came with her hand clamped over her mouth, shaking. Before she'd recovered, she was pulling me up.

"Inside. Now."

"Condom?"

"Clutch bag." She gestured vaguely. "I came prepared."

I found it, rolled it on. She wrapped her legs around my waist as I lifted her.

"Ready?"

"Been ready all night."

I pushed in and she moaned against my shoulder. The bathroom echoed with our sounds, barely hidden by the bass.

"Yes—harder—"

I fucked her against the cubicle wall while people queued outside. The danger made it better somehow.

"Close—touch me—"

I found her clit, rubbed while I thrust. She came with a muffled scream.

"Inside—do it—"

I came hard, buried deep.

We stayed there for a moment, connected, breathing hard.

"Well," she said eventually, "that's the best dancing I've done in years."

"Same here."

"Give me your phone."

I did. She typed in her number.

"For next time." She straightened her dress, fixed her hair. "Same club. Next Saturday. Try not to dance like shit."

"I'll practice."

"You better." She kissed me—quick, hard. "Now leave first. I need to actually use the toilet."

Next Saturday, I showed up with moves I'd practiced all week.

Zara was impressed. We barely made it to the bathroom.

Dancing lessons never stopped.