Bobby is what my mother put on my birth certificate, and I’m not old enough to go by Bob. I must have misread the advertisements for this club and thought it was a goth dive. Megan was a great girlfriend, until she wasn’t. A dance floor took up most of the floor space, with two bars serving up drinks to a combination of college students, LARPers, and old people. I sipped on my whiskey sour, looking around myself. I couldn’t help but admire the way her impressive chest heaved or how well those breasts sat on her chest. It’s really well done. To say I was emotionally confused would be an understatement. “Is it so wrong to want to get out and move?” I asked her, trying to shift the subject. We hadn’t kissed. My hips slammed forward, stuffing her again until I was fully seated inside her, her ass nestled firmly against my crotch. I never understood it, and she never managed to answer when I asked.
