Graffiti etched into the wall, next to the hand I've thrown out for support. Can't make out what it says. Is it my name? Right shape. No. That doesn't make sense.
This isn't the girls' bathroom. God. That thought makes me feel sick. Not the girls' bathroom part, but that some girl might have scratched my name into a fucking bathroom wall while taking a shit.
Maybe it's that; maybe it's the vodka. And beer. Churning and burning.
So I'm supposed to be relieving myself. Let's get this show on the road. But... I don't really need to go right now. Fuck, maybe I'll just kick the toilet seat down and sit here a while, alone in my own cubicle. It's peaceful here, despite the distant beats and the smell.
Actually I'll check my phone. Help clear my head. "Your latest photoshoot is online", a million notifications tell me. There it is, me and my girl. We are both so fucking hot. Our lips an inch apart, my hands on her waist, one of her impossibly smooth, long, shiny, mini-skirted legs raised and held against me.
It looks better than I remember it being. She's sexier than I've ever seen her in reality. Looks less complicated, too. I look taller. My hands look like they belong.
I wish I could fuck this image of her. It's all I want, you can have everything else.
Holy shit, am I getting hard? Here? Now? Should I?
... I am still alone. No-one will know. Next best thing. Why not?