A little story loosely inspired by the Katy Perry song "Walking on Air." It's not required that you listen to the song, but its recommended, because it will make you want to party.

Andréa out of the blue told me that she wanted "to do something gay tonight," whatever that means. So here we are in what seems to be the gayest nightclub in Paris. And that's saying something.

I tried to argue back that we are not actually "gay" since I chose to never label my sexuality, and Andréa told me she never chose to either. However, her reply was that I seemed pretty gay the night before in bed. Touché.

Fashion Week is over for the most part, and I promised my girlfriend that she and I could spend the following week in the city of lights just enjoying each other. She decided at the last minute to accompany me, and told me that the novel she's in the midst of writing can be written from anywhere. That's the beauty of being a free lancer, Andréa isn't chained to a location or a desk.

She appreciated the nice, relaxing activities I planned and suggested, but tonight Andréa's in a party mood. Her face exudes happiness, so I suppose I can't complain. I may as well let loose on account of this is one of the first times during Fashion Week that Nigel does not tiptoe around me with silent disdain. It took quite some time and a hefty promotion to regain his trust.

But Nigel is one of my dearest friends, and he deserved every penny and ounce of respect. Not to mention, anyone with half a mind could see that James Holt International was doomed from the start. Mr. Holt apparently learned nothing from the "giant bow on the front of a glaring red dress" episode. Honestly.

I'm also somewhat convinced that this silly idea was put into Andréa's head by Nigel himself, on account of they both have soft spots for quality booze and ridiculous dancing. Before we left for the night, they were out in the main room of our hotel suite "pre-gaming" which I assume from the state they are currently in, just means getting pre-drunk. I was under the senseless impression that we were no longer college co-eds.

So anyway, here I am. Miranda Priestly in a gay club. It took long enough to find one where Nigel and I did not feel like part of the geriatric ward. Out of nowhere Emily and her pretty Brazilian friend have joined our group, which feels surprisingly not strange. I was glad when Emily stopped choking on her own spit when in my presence. She's got a good eye for fashion and quite a lot of potential.

The club seems passible and the space is littered with people of all ages and colors so I feel comfortable enough, I think. Also, the dance floor is a nice size, which is a plus, so at least I won't have anyone undesirable sweating all over me. Part of me still can't really believe that I'm here, but then I take a look at Andréa in that dress and remember how little convincing I actually needed.

It should probably be illegal, really, that dress. Andréa had incredible cleavage on any given day, but in this dress, her breasts made me want to take a year off from work and spend it mapping out each contour with my mouth. The dress was black and sheer, with tiny sparkles, and had a series of leather straps holding it together across her back. I would be fighting people off of her all night. I feel as though I'm older than most of them, so I guess if it comes to it, I can just beat them off with my cane.

As for me, my dress is much shorter than what I'd like, but I know how Andréa feels about my legs. It's maroon, and completely backless all the way down to my rear. If I were anywhere else I would probably feel a little indecent. Andréa approved though, and that's all that really matters. Besides, if she wanted to leave the hotel room tonight looking like pure sex, I would rather not be mistaken for her mother.

While my love busies herself with giggling with Nigel, I take it upon myself to find our table. Andréa is nothing if not efficient, and called ahead to reserve one by dropping a few names. This club has some sea-themed title I can't remember, so everything is somewhat dark and in the blue tinted light, and the patrons all seem kind of ethereal. It could be worse.

Emily yells over the techno music about going to fetch drinks. This seems like the kind of club that specializes in martinis, and I let Andréa order for me. As much as I want to, I do not order a Scotch. I already feel 70 years old, and my drink order would probably come back to me pre-packaged with slippers, a smoking jacket, and a box of cigars.

I hop up onto a seat at the high table, and Andréa chooses to stand next to me with her hand on my bare back instead of sitting down next to me. Any time her hands are upon me, I certainly will not object. She kisses my ear making me shiver and whispers, "thank you for coming with me tonight."

Like there is anywhere else I would rather be. I smile and kiss her because I can. I am in Paris at a gay club, and there is alcohol in front of me. The night actually isn't half bad. Perhaps with a few more sips in me I will feel up to a dance. The dresses we are wearing were meant to show off, not hide behind a table all night. Still, I need a little liquid encouragement, it's been a while since I've gone dancing.

Nigel has already spotted a piece of man candy and is chatting him up at the bar. Admittedly he looks quite sharp with contact lenses and in his tailored outfit, and his companion seems interested. I'm happy for him, and hope he has some fun tonight. I keep up with the conversation between myself, Andréa, Emily, and her friend who I now know is named Serena. She's tall and funny, not to mention model-gorgeous, and Emily is clearly smitten. I am happy for her too.

I would probably contribute more to this conversation if Andréa was not rubbing little circles on the inside of my thigh. Perhaps it is the alcohol, but all over I feel warmer and more sensitive than usual. The lure of the dance floor seems a little bit stronger now, if only because it will give me an excuse to touch the woman next to me.

A few minutes pass by, more alcohol is consumed, and the song changes to something new, with a pulsing beat. Before I know what's happening, Andréa has grabbed my by the arm and pulled me to the dance floor after shouting, "I love this song!"

She catches Nigel's eye, and there is some silent agreement to drag both of their respective partners to the floor to dance. The song actually is catchy, and not half bad, or maybe that's the martinis clouding my judgment. Andréa stands in front of me, her back pressed tight against my front and starts to move. I've never danced with anyone like this before, but there isn't much more to it than moving with her and letting her gyrate on me. I can indeed start to see what all the fuss was about.

I get a bit bolder and grab her hips, moving my hands along her sides. She feels amazing in my arms, even though we are surrounded my dozens of other people. They pay us no mind, and I'm glad for this fact when Andréa turns her head to kiss me. Her arm comes up behind her head, and her fingers find my neck to hold me in place while she claims my mouth. There is tongue involved, and I'm pretty sure I look like a harlot, but it's Andréa's tongue, which makes me not care.

Andréa is an excellent kisser, and we are both drunk. I don't know how, but in the middle of this public dance floor, my hands find her breasts. I can't help it if she was blessed in this region and oh my god she's not wearing a bra. How did I not know this before? I can feel her nipples, and my own tighten in response to hers. The woman in my hands gasps into our kiss and I wonder if she's pleased with how gay we currently look. We probably can't get much gayer, at least not in public.

I don't want to be arrested, so I move my hands back to more respectable parts of Andréa's body, and our kiss comes to an end. She turns around and the look on her face suggests that she wants to consume me whole, right here. One more drink, and I would probably let her. I feel a little silly for wanting to spend this night in any other way.

Once again Andréa's resourcefulness comes to light when she suggests we move to a darkened hallway that leads to a bathroom. Nigel wags a chastising finger at as us she drags me past him, but I ignore him completely. I didn't think at any point of this night I would be pushed up against the wall of a club, intoxicated by frou-frou mixed drinks, with my girlfriend quite literally clawing at my back. In a hotel, sure, but not here.

"I want you so bad," she breathes in between kisses that are becoming sloppier and wetter and more arousing by the second.

"Mmm," I moan, "so take me." I clearly don't know what I'm saying. I am not Miranda Priestly. I am not a fashion magazine editor. I am not doing very gay things in a very gay bar.

Andréa is dangerously close to slipping a hand under my dress, when someone bursts out of the bathroom, illuminating us for a second in its fluorescent light. I'm instantly embarrassed, and Andréa laughs at my tinged cheeks. I join in because this whole night is ridiculous.

We go back to the table and try to look like we were not just about to fuck on a wall. Emily and Serena have apparently not missed us at all, which I think is for the best. My feet hurt, but my legs still probably look good. Nigel comes back to the table with his new friend and a tray of shots that are neon purple. I will regret this in the morning, but cannot find it in myself right now to care.

Andréa sits close beside me on her own stool, although she may as well be in my lap. Her hand is in the back of my dress, cupping my hip to pull me close to her. I would like her hand in other places, but I don't think the rest of the table would enjoy the show. No one else can see what we're doing and it makes me feel giddy. When I am this drunk, I do not feel so old. Like I said, I'll care tomorrow.

The night goes on, Andréa secretly touching me, and me secretly touching her, and both of us wanting to get far away from these people so we can have lots of drunk, messy sex. I don't know if I've ever been this turned on in a public place. The time is creeping up on 1:30 a.m. and I decide to call us all cabs. I'm not sure I how much longer I can wait.

Andréa and I claim one cab for ourselves, and leave the others to split the second one. We could have all shared, since our rooms are in the same hotel, but there wasn't enough room. Also, if other people were watching, we wouldn't be able to make out like we are right now. I wouldn't want to scare off Nigel's new male companion.

People probably assume that I am the dominant one in our relationship, but those people have obviously never seen Andréa push me passionately against the walls like this one in the elevator. The ceiling of it has a mirror, so that when she kisses my neck, I look up and see us both reflecting quite a naughty picture. When the lift chimes that we have reached the floor, I am barely coherent enough to move. When that woman kisses me, I swear I lose my mind.

We almost don't make it to the room, when Andréa pushes me up against yet another wall. I somehow convince her to move the extra ten feet so that we can make it at least inside the door of our room. I still don't know how I managed that.

The second we are inside, clothes are ripped down and heels are kicked off, and we are naked and panting and wonderful. The plush carpet at the foot of the bed will have to do because this is where we have landed, and I am about to have an orgasm. Andréa looks like she isn't far behind, and the way she is clenching around my fingers and moaning unabashedly confirms it.

We take a few moments, then go at it again, never really making it onto the mattress. Add this to the list of things that will not bother me until after the sun rises.

When we are both too tired to move, I pull the cover and a pillow off of the bed, resigned to the fact that we'll be camping out on the floor tonight. At least we wont freeze. The only thing Andréa says to me before falling asleep is "thanks for being gay with me." I chuckle.

"Anytime."

The sun is surely not this bright in New York City. And from what I can remember, this room had a bed, so why on earth am I on the floor? There's a warm mass of woman and brown hair sleeping on my arm, and I can't feel my fingers. What I can feel, is rug burn on my knees and back, and my hip kind of hurts.

Jesus, what did we do?

The lump of pretty pale skin and brown hair chooses now to moan, "I feel like death."

I am inclined to agree. Death might actually feel a little better than this. My mouth feels like its coated with velvet, otherwise I would try to reply. Neon purple shots were a terrible idea.

Andréa is first to attempt to get up. She makes it, but is more hunched than erect. At the sight of her clutching her sore back I don't feel on the brink of being sent to a nursing home anymore. My love for her only grows when I see that she has come back to me with about a gallon of water and four aspirin. I wonder how Nigel is doing.

After brushed teeth and a buttery breakfast delivered by room service, we feel a little more human. I know for certain Andréa will appreciate that I booked a spa day for us today, because being gay with her was completely exhausting. But I look to my right and decide that there's no one else in the whole world I'd rather be gay with.

Thanks for reading! Got a prompt or a song? Send it to me on my tumblr (hearrtonmysleeve) or PM me, or put it in the reviews. I check all three. I hope you liked it. -A