50

We had arrived at the club, and the music was deafening, with bass that resonated in my stomach.

We had been at the party for about two hours. If I were a party person, I would say the show was great, but I didn't feel that way.

I had danced a couple of songs with my friends, and, of course, several men had approached me to dance, but I trusted very few of them enough to let my body move with theirs.

Whenever they played songs I liked, like they did just now with Daft Punk's "One More Time," I got all excited and danced with everyone I encountered. The music intoxicated me, making me want to dance, and I didn't care if they pressed their bodies against mine. I was having a relatively good time.

I was having fun, but it wasn't the same sense of enjoyment as being at home with a pijama party and the 15 cats I would soon be living with.

A while ago, my friends had disappeared into the crowd.

I had sat at the bar to get some fresh air because my feet were killing me. I ordered a glass of