Mr Dominican Republic

Dancing comes naturally to me, but I was surrounded by stiffness all around me. They stiffness was inhibiting my passion for the jingling of the the trunk. Drama in Mayfair is the kind of place where stiffness flourishes due to the massive sticks people have up their asses. The club is filled with B list celebs I could not care less about. 
I decide three coffee tequilas is what it is going to take to make everyone look like the insignificant tree trunks they are aiming for with all those sticks. I was completely on point. Three shots and a lavatory visit later, I dragged a reluctant friend to the centre and I totally ‘wilded out on her’. 
Rather rudely, my artistic flow was disrupted by Mr Dominican Republic. ‘Let me show you Bachata’. He talks and I am indifferent. He seems to find my indifference pretty bad ass as he invites my friends and I to his table. The table is filled with 8 bottles of Dom Perignon and Vodka. For the first time, I am actually looking at him as opposed to looking through him and all the way past him. I think: is he a drug dealer? I sum him up: it seems like probably not, so I gather a corporate event. What did I care anyway? I grab my drink and head straight back to the dance floor, but not before he slipped me his business card. I sway a little bit more towards corporate event than before. 
At the end of the night, I spot him dancing. Boy knows how to dance. He catches my eyes and he walks over. Gosh he was such a vulture, any signal and he would commence circling. 
‘Are you coming to the after party?’ I politely decline and he tells me we are doing lunch tomorrow. He sets the date, time and venue before I have a chance to even decline. He had a strange creepy charm about him, so despite warning signals I go for lunch at the Rivea. 

                                                                                  

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