Don't Get Caught

Chapter 1 - Ariel

2018
Bristol, England

Don't judge me, but—

The four little words that preface all my stories. Whether I'm talking to my friends after an eventful night out, my boss after an unsuccessful field trip, my lover as our relationship draws to a close or my parents after deciding to get married at eighteen.

And that's how this story also begins...

Don't judge me, but it was my fortieth birthday and I was out out. My last shred of dignity disappeared as the mixture of glossy brown and amber liquid hit the back of my throat; my fourth Jägerbomb heading off to join its friends in my intoxicated bloodstream.

"Ariel, come and dance," my drink provider insisted with his sing-song Italian accent, his fingers interlocking with mine.

I let him drag me to the crowded dance floor of the club. The sea of people seemed to part as we selected our spot, before closing again, locking us in. Jägerbomb guy spun me around, both of us singing along to whatever track the DJ had chosen, me pretending to enjoy (OK, actually enjoying) his groping and grinding. My little black dress clung to my hips and only just covered my bum. The top half of my outfit, in contrast, made of loose-fitting material that fell in waves, revealed a strip of flesh from my neck almost to my navel and giving his roaming hands easy access.

Other bodies kept bumping into us; sweat, alcohol and stale aftershave filled my nostrils. I briefly longed for the days smoking was permitted in clubs to mask all the other offending odours.

Not only were my nostrils screaming at me, so were my feet, having been forced into stupid stiletto heels at the start of the night. But the alcohol in my system gave me an unusual yet useful superpower which allowed me to dance with my feet crushed and contorted into an impossible shape and angle with just a narrow spike supporting each heel.

I tried to focus on the man I had acquired. Who was he again?

Alex, or Alessandro, half Italian, half Irish, so while he had the look of a typical Irishman, the Italian accent coming out of his mouth threw me each time we met. And if my memory served correctly, this was the third time I'd run into him on a night out in Bristol in the last six months. He appeared to be one of those guys always out and up for a laugh. He looked older than his thirty-five years thanks to too much partying, but for the most part, he carried it well. I wasn't tall, but my four-inch heels gave me a slight height advantage.

But the height situation wasn't enough to put a downer on my birthday. My primary goal being to see all my friends out together - a rare treat at our life-stage – which had been achieved earlier in the evening. My secondary goal was to have men pay me attention, hence the tiny dress and killer heels. I hadn't necessarily meant for it to culminate in a sleazy club, doing shots and dancing with short, horny men, but I'd take it.

The night I entered my fifth decade had started with a civilised gathering of people in a reserved area of my favourite bar in Bristol's city centre. The Thistle, with its decadent, vintage interior, boasting an extensive cocktail menu featuring rare spirits from around the world. I'd put money behind the bar which, along with a steady stream of posh bar snacks, kept guests there for a few hours. But I was frustrated by how most made their excuses by 9:30 p.m. to go home to partners and children or simply to get an early night.

Switch gears to the secondary objective and many hours later...

"Ariel! Let's get out of here," Alex shouted over the music, pulling me towards him.

I took a quick glance around. The few leftover friends I'd shepherded from The Thistle to the club had disappeared leaving just the two of us. I nodded, smiling, and allowed him to lead me outside. The dance floor was emptying anyway; it was time to go.