Post by Macy on Jun 18, 2006 20:23:52 GMT -4
Macy was tired of academic life for the moment- she wanted to break free! She knew a sweet spot hidden in Manhattan that only the most happenin’ people knew about, a little place called Feva Crayze. She didn’t know who at Hawthorne knew about it. Obviously her friends and some boys they had taken there once, but she liked to think the club was pretty secret to only the hottest cats in school.
Macy got seriously dolled up. She wore her silver sequined halter that only had strings in the back, and she wore her shortest jean skirt—it barely covered her fine black ass. She straightened her relaxed hair until it shined and glistened. She wore her clear plastic “stripper heels” (as her mom called them) and enough make-up to make Christina Aguilera jealous. But Macy looked good. She knew how to dress for a night clubbin’. Finally, she slipped her Colt .38 into her purse and strapped a knife to her thihg for good measure. It never hurt to be prepared.
Since it was a school night, Macy had to sneak out. She might still run into some students—she knew plenty of kids who snuck out after hours to visit the scene in Manhattan. Macy used her grapple gun and her precise eye to shoot a wire into a nearby tree so she could glide out of her window. It was all silent—she had the best gear available. She put on a tight black hoodie over her flashy shirt and let her black skin help her blend into the night as she tiptoed to the huge brick wall that surrounded the school. She used her grapple gun again and left it there—she’d get it on the way back. She knew the way to Feva Crayze by heart, and she felt the familiar rush of exhilaration creep under her skin as she brushed shoulders with bums and prostitutes as she hurried down the sidewalk. The inner city was Macy’s haven—she knew she’d live in Manhattan one day.
Her powerful dancer’s legs (that’s club dancin’, ya heard?) carried her the necessary distance without so much as a sigh. Macy was built for physical exertion, almost as much as she was built for gettin’ down.
She finally stopped in from of the little basement door with the plain sign that told her she was home. With a nod at the bouncer (they went way back), Macy strolled in like she owned the place. Unlike the plain exterior, Feva was alive and vibrant within. Colored lights zigged and zagged all over. The music thumped and throbbed. The dancers gyrated against each other, their hips moving in time to the music and their breath going faster and faster. Macy whipped off her hoodie and got right in the thick of it, grinding against some guy while another nuzzled her neck. Dancing was Macy’s specialty, right up there with guns and fightin’ crackas. Her hips picked up the rhythm instantly and she was lost, the anonymity of the thrusting made her more comfortable, and she wondered if anyone from Hawthorne would show up…
Macy got seriously dolled up. She wore her silver sequined halter that only had strings in the back, and she wore her shortest jean skirt—it barely covered her fine black ass. She straightened her relaxed hair until it shined and glistened. She wore her clear plastic “stripper heels” (as her mom called them) and enough make-up to make Christina Aguilera jealous. But Macy looked good. She knew how to dress for a night clubbin’. Finally, she slipped her Colt .38 into her purse and strapped a knife to her thihg for good measure. It never hurt to be prepared.
Since it was a school night, Macy had to sneak out. She might still run into some students—she knew plenty of kids who snuck out after hours to visit the scene in Manhattan. Macy used her grapple gun and her precise eye to shoot a wire into a nearby tree so she could glide out of her window. It was all silent—she had the best gear available. She put on a tight black hoodie over her flashy shirt and let her black skin help her blend into the night as she tiptoed to the huge brick wall that surrounded the school. She used her grapple gun again and left it there—she’d get it on the way back. She knew the way to Feva Crayze by heart, and she felt the familiar rush of exhilaration creep under her skin as she brushed shoulders with bums and prostitutes as she hurried down the sidewalk. The inner city was Macy’s haven—she knew she’d live in Manhattan one day.
Her powerful dancer’s legs (that’s club dancin’, ya heard?) carried her the necessary distance without so much as a sigh. Macy was built for physical exertion, almost as much as she was built for gettin’ down.
She finally stopped in from of the little basement door with the plain sign that told her she was home. With a nod at the bouncer (they went way back), Macy strolled in like she owned the place. Unlike the plain exterior, Feva was alive and vibrant within. Colored lights zigged and zagged all over. The music thumped and throbbed. The dancers gyrated against each other, their hips moving in time to the music and their breath going faster and faster. Macy whipped off her hoodie and got right in the thick of it, grinding against some guy while another nuzzled her neck. Dancing was Macy’s specialty, right up there with guns and fightin’ crackas. Her hips picked up the rhythm instantly and she was lost, the anonymity of the thrusting made her more comfortable, and she wondered if anyone from Hawthorne would show up…
