It was suggested that we wear something comfortable (especially shoes) and that we bring a cover. I wore a black one-shoulder bow-tied satin mini dress and G Ballet Flats and I was able to fold a sheer shirt into my tiny purse (for a later cover).

The stretch limo pulled into our driveway.
“Is it prom night already?” my brother Brice snarked.
“Be careful,” my mom said sternly, pulling my short dress down a bit. “you have your phone?”
I rolled my eyes, produced my phone and she made sure “Find my” was working.
“You’re staying at Bili’s (my BFF), ya?”, she confirmed. “You three stick TOGETHER.”, she adds.
“Yes mam.” we answer, with nods all around.

As Bili, Kim (my 2 BFFs) and I excitedly settled in, the boat-like car moved smoothly off into the night. There were ten of us - five guys and five girls - but no set “dates”.

Everett (nick-named “Ev”), all business at the moment, made sure he had all of our cell phone numbers - which he sent back to us as a custom contact list called “Dance Monkeys”, HA! Then he pushed a button or two, the interior lights dimmed, background music filled the air, a partition lowered and a bar appeared. The club, in Atlanta, was an hour away.

The cover charge for the Havana club VIP lounge is $500 a person (but you get a “free” drink). Everett waved, said, “Eddie!” and two Dwayne Johnson clones parted like a bank vault door. We passed through an airlock-like foyer where “Ev’s” polite apple-pay tap allowed the ten of us to enter the industrial looking, VIP lounge area.

A pretty girl dressed in black leather named Holly was our “steward” for the night - Everett, our guide to pleasure, passed her our cell number list. A second later we all received the message, “Hi!, I’m Holly - text me if you need anything.”

We passed through one last set of black glass doors and I practically flinched as the night exploded into shards of light, ear grinding bass riffs and pure, laser-lit decadence. “Holy crap,” I said - I couldn’t hear myself so I knew no one else could either - my arms prickled - it felt like the room was 45 degrees.

We were led through an ocean of writhing people below a live, aerial, Cirque du Solei like ballet display. Video played on every inch of wall space - the song “Get out of my head” played like a jet engine - the video was skin on every surface - the effect was stunning and somewhat disorienting.

Eventually, we came to a private “cabana” where we settled in.
Someone pulled my arm and I was out on the dance floor. ****, THIS is what I’d been missing - FUN.

Every few songs I was able to get back to the table and gulp whatever drink was at my seat but then someone pulled my arm and again, I was out on the dance floor. The club seemed to morph with every video - the crowd roared each time a favorite cut, like “Wasted love” began.

I was offered, more than once, a triangular pill with an “X” on it - we (Bili, Kim and I) were pretty sure it was ecstasy. We passed on it. However, it seemed a tray of shooters arrived at our cabana every 5 minutes.

There were half-assed horderves, but I hadn’t really eaten and after about 90 minutes of shooters and dancing I was starting to spin. Then, like magic or an unconscious prayer, the field of dancers parted for - a pizza delivery!!

Ok, now, in my animal-like hunger, I’m thinking maybe Everett is a genius. People at other  cabanas point and eye us with naked envy. No one else thought of this. I greedily, unladylikely help myself to a life-saving slice of cheesy heaven and groan with pleasure at each new bite.

I’m greedy for more than pizza.