Hot Toot
by Domonique Dierickx Krentz
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
Though Coco may be “famous,” few people flock to our booth. If she’s so famous, wouldn’t more people be bothering her? Asking for selfies and autographs? I am about to challenge this, but after my earlier comment, I don’t think it would go over well. Coco and Jazzi might think I’m jealous. I’m not.
We’re on our second bottle of champagne but skip the shots. No need to get sloppy. Everything is fine right now. We’re relaxed and laughing, and it feels just like it used to, back before Jazzi had her baby and Coco had her channel, and I didn’t have to work so hard just to sell a vacant lot.
Jazzi takes a sip, the rim of her glass concealing her lips when she says, “Those guys have been staring at us since we got here.”
Coco takes up her glass but doesn’t look, and I immediately scan the room to see who Jazzi is talking about.
“Pier! Don’t be so obvious!”
My stomach flips, from both irritation and the lobster spread. I bite my tongue. It seems like they have forgotten about my mean quip, and I want to keep it that way.
“Hey, do either of you have to use the restroom?” The question comes out more desperate than I intended.
They both shake their heads.
“You go,” says Coco with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. “Check out those guys on your way, see if they’re really as hot as they appear or if I just have my champagne goggles on.”
Jazzi giggles and nudges me toward the end of the booth.
I don’t want to go alone, but I need to go. Damn it! I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that last hors d’oeuvre... shouldn’t have touched the first one. I know lobster — and seafood in general — doesn’t agree with my stomach, especially when it’s mixed with cream and cheese. But that’s the problem with me: I do things without thinking about the consequences, like that comment about Coco being bossy. Boy, that really could have ruined the night.
I slide out of the booth and stand in front of the table. I open my mouth to warn them not to talk about me while I’m gone, but that would make me look insecure and, besides, why plant the seed? Instead, I say, “I guess I’ll adjust these babies myself then,” and stick out my chest. Coco may be famous, but I definitely have better boobs. The others laugh, and I strut, chest still out, to the bathrooms.
On the way, I glance at the group of men. Okay, more than glance. The champagne has made me bold, and I undress them, all three of them, with my eyes. Much like the bouncer did when he looked at Coco. And they are hot. No champagne goggles needed.
Two women are leaving the restroom as I enter. They are giggling and more than a little tipsy. One is asking the other if she has a spare condom. She’s feeling lucky and doesn’t want to get caught off guard. “You can’t trust guys anymore,” she says.
I hurry to the furthermost stall, hike up my tight, black dress and sit down, feeling the thrum of the music vibrate through the toilet. The tequila and champagne rush from me, but the lobster spread doesn’t budge. I narrow my eyes. Funny. I literally felt like I might explode a moment ago. Maybe the mere act of sitting on the toilet has remedied the situation, because suddenly, I feel better.
I wash my hands, adjust the girls, then push through the door. The once muffled music is again sharp and loud and clear.
The plan is to get another good look at the group of guys on my way back to the booth. Sure, I gave them a once-over on my way to the ladies’ room but, with the stomach trouble, I was a little preoccupied. Now that I’m feeling better, I can focus.
Edging around the rim of the dance floor, I glance at where they had been congregating, but they are gone. As casually as I can, I scan the general vicinity, thinking the crowd may have displaced them. But no. I sigh, hoping Jazzi and Coco won’t be disappointed that their gawking gallery has left the building.
The club is so crowded that people have spilled from the dance floor and into walkways, making it difficult to get from one place to another. I turn sideways, slip between gyrating couples, and sidestep carefully so not to intentionally bump into anyone.
Finally, I loose myself from the crowd and see the booth. The men have not left. They are with Coco and Jazzi. One of them is sitting in my seat. I can’t help but scoff. Of course, they would wait to make their moves after one of us had gone. Use the advantage, like predators.
As I approach, Coco and Jazzi reach out to me, greeting me like they haven’t seen me for ages. The men slide around and make room. One of them gets out of the booth to let me in. I skid across the black leather, close to Jazzi, and the man who stood retakes his seat. Their drinks are on the table, short tumblers with ice and amber liquid.
Jazzi starts talking. “This is Pier. Pier, this is....” Her eyes dart between the men’s faces, suddenly, she seems confused. “Well, you can introduce yourselves.” She picks up her glass.
I can barely hear them over the pounding music, but learn Oz is sitting to Coco’s right, Rico to her left, and Patrick, who has graciously let me back into my original seat, is now on my left. Jazzi leans her head on my right shoulder and squeezes my knee. She’s excited to have some male attention.
Patrick comes close to my ear and starts to make conversation. I can tell the pairings have already been established. Oz and Coco are having an animated conversation, while Rico seems to talk nonstop as Jazzi listens. I tilt my head closer to Patrick, swiping my hair behind my ear to hear him better.
“So, I know Coco is an influencer and Jazzi has a flower shop... what about you?”
His breath is hot.
“Real estate,” I reply.
His eyebrows raise. “Nice. Market good?”
I shrug. “It’s pretty flat right now, but it’ll bounce back. It always does.” I lift my glass of champagne, which someone filled while I was in the bathroom. “What do you do?”
Patrick has his glass in his hand but uses his pointer finger to indicate Oz and Rico. “We work for Vie.”
He doesn’t have to explain the company. It’s one of the largest employers in the state, and a worldwide dominator in sports equipment and apparel.
“Oh yeah? You like it?”
He frowns thoughtfully and nods. “Yeah. It’s a lot of travel, but I like it.” He sips and chuckles. “I get to meet a lot of professional athletes, so that’s great.”
I don’t know if he’s saying that to impress me, or what. “I don’t really follow sports.”
He leans back and looks at me like I have a wart on my nose. “Really? None of it?”
I shake my head.
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t.” Again, he points at Oz and Rico. “We’re all super competitive. If there is a fantasy league, we’re in it. Takes up a lot of time, and it’s probably going to give me ulcers, but it’s fun.”
I try not to look at him for longer than what seems polite. Patrick is handsome. It’s weird I think so, because he’s got lighter hair and blue eyes, and I have a taste for darker men. Sucker for brown eyes am I.
The six of us are crammed in the booth, and Patrick’s arm brushes against mine when he brings his hands to his lap. My stomach twists, and I’m not sure if it’s because of his touch, or if that damn lobster spread is causing trouble.
The guys order another round, but Coco and I ask for water. Jazzi orders a Lemondrop. I hope she doesn’t regret it.
An hour passes quickly. Everyone is having a great time. Conversation is easy, inhibitions are dropping like panties after prom. If I were a betting woman, I’d say Coco and Oz will kiss by the end of the night, and Jazzi will invite Rico back to her apartment. I’ve already decided if Patrick asks for my number, I’ll give it to him.
Somehow, I end up sitting on his lap.
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Jazzi hauls Rico to the dance floor. She looks amazing in that short, beige dress. If you glimpse her out of the corner of your eye, it looks like she’s not wearing anything at all. Jazzi deserves tonight, to flirt and dance and get as drunk as she wants. Between her shop and being a single mom, she rarely has time for fun like this.
Oz hitches his head toward the undulating crowd and asks if Coco wants to dance. She’s on her feet and they hold hands as they find a spot. Even though the beat is fast, they slow dance, smiling and whispering to each other.
“I kind of like it right here,” Patrick says, close to my ear, but it’s not in a creepy way, like he expects more. The way he says it makes me think he doesn’t want to be mashed up with a bunch of people, or maybe he’s not a good dancer and just doesn’t want to admit it.
“Me, too,” I reply, and I may have sounded a little creepy, even though I didn’t mean to.
We have the whole booth to ourselves, but I remain on his lap. Patrick’s hands stay above table level. He rubs my arms, from my elbows to my shoulders. Though it can’t be heard over the loudness surrounding us, my insides grumble. I take notice. This growl isn’t my stomach asking for a snack, it’s like my guts have encountered something that shouldn’t be there: a kernel in the popcorn, bones in the salmon. I can feel them twisting, contorting, as if trying to decide whether to accept it or spit it out. A cold sweat films my forehead.
In a rush, Jazzi scoots her way into the booth. Rico, Coco, and Oz fall in line; we’re back where we started. The noise level in our little cocoon has increased with their return, and talk turns to the latest Hollywood scandal. I am surprised the guys are up on the latest gossip.
Coco reaches for the second champagne bottle, and splits what’s left between my glass and hers. I hastily bring the flute to my mouth. Maybe a little liquid will settle my stomach. I swallow, feeling the bubbles drain down my throat. Something explodes inside me, as if the lobster spread is baking soda, the champagne, vinegar. A searing pain radiates through my guts, and before I can leap off Patrick’s lap and dash to the restroom, it’s too late.
He doesn’t react other than to draw closer to my ear and laugh through a whisper. “I felt that.” He chuckles some more. “Wow, that was one hot toot.”
I sit, frozen, my mind racing. In about two seconds Patrick is going to realize this was not just a hot toot. I have literally shat myself. Not sure how much, it didn’t feel like a deluge, but it‘s certainly enough to seep through my dress and onto the leg of his slacks.
Without even thinking, I grab my champagne and water glasses, jump off Patrick’s lap, and dump both drinks on him. The water glass holds more, so that one goes onto his leg. The champagne bursts into froth when it hits the front of his shirt. I can feel everyone’s shock as I race-walk out of the club. Coco and Jazzi won’t be far behind, so I run, as best I can in these shoes, around the corner of the block and frantically hail a cab. One pulls over immediately. Thank God it has leather seats.
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Copyright © 2025 by Domonique Dierickx Krentz
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