It was Prince night Sunday at Berlin and my girls from the south side were shaking their 300 pound sweet chocolate asses wearing nothing but lingerie.
After about ten minutes of watching the intoxicating rhythm of the dance floor, I was doing my own rump shaking as well – though these days it’s more of a jiggle than a full-on ass quake. Until the drinks started pouring anyway.
The crowd was a sea of tall hats, lace veils, twirling scarves and some serious weave piled to the ceiling; the kind of fashion only The Funky One can inspire.
Straight boys danced along side gay boys with all sorts of girls mashed up in between. And I don’t think it mattered to anyone whether the booty knocking into you belonged to man or woman or if the hand on your ass was black or white.
We danced like that for hours, girls with their orgasmic cries and boys shrieking a falsetto “Pussy Control” in unison. Even Miss Valium, who usually doesn’t last long on the dancefloor, could not resist the all out sexiness exploding through the club.
And even though the night ended without any legitimate, off-the-dance floor hooking up, I walked out of there feeling like I had just slipped the beef to just about everybody in the club.
And the way my muscles still ache today, I might as well have broken the world gang-bang record. God damn you Prince and your sexy beats and naughty lyrics. GOD DAMN YOU!
Ahh, but it was so worth it.