It was a hot summer's evening in South Kensington and I was sitting in my room in our Catholic student hostel. I'd just broken up with my girlfriend and was feeling alone and depressed. The thumping heartbeat of a disco came from the basement. There was one every week. The music got on my nerves at times like this. There are two things I can do, I thought. I can sit here and be miserable, or I can go down there, get pissed and maybe hit it off with a chick. I chose the latter.nnDown in the basement it was dark and stuffy. The air was thick with the smells of beer, cigarette smoke, sweat and human passion. Beneath the flash of disco lights a mass of heads bobbed up and down in rhythm with the crashing beat. I was too shy and depressed just to plunge into the middle of them so I stood by the bar and downed several beers, one after the other, eyeing up the girls. This was the age of the miniskirt. There were more girls than boys, and many were dancing barefoot with each other, their feet intersecting, their toes twisting on the floor, their long, graceful legs bending and thrusting forward, sometimes between the legs of their partners. My cock swelled. Some were dancing alone. I caught the eye of one of them, a cool, slender leggy blonde wearing a tight, silvery miniskirt. I went over to her and asked her to dance with me.nnSo there we were, bobbing away to the tune of The Police's 'Message in a Bottle'. We moved closer to each other.