A Flapper Girl Story

Jenna sits on the floor flipping through the yellow pages. Her great-grandmother’s diary. The letters mention a women’s club from the twenties, the sort of place where the smoke and sweat ran thick. She starts reading aloud and the room tilts. Now she is that young woman, sixty years gone, slipping through silk and satin while the lights glow gold. Across the room Ivy catches her eye, a quick nod toward the bathroom like a dare. Jenna shakes her head. Back out on the floor, Eliza spots her and slides along the bar rail, gaze pinned. Ivy’s eyes catch the same view. The two girls trade a shared grin and begin closing in. Napkin notes slide to Jenna across the lacquered wood. She reads the corners of their mouths before the ink: tonight you’re ours. They move in, tongues and teeth at once, silk straps sliding from shoulders. The three of them tumble onto the bar top, naked under the hot light, mouths diving low. Legs open, cunts glistening. Tongues work fast and wet until each girl’s hips jerk in the same shaking rhythm, moans spilling loud over the crowd, wet fingers still buried deep when the last tremor hits. They lie trembling, sweat shining. Watchers edge closer, already imagining their own night laid out like this.