She is known as “the Catalyst.”

In the moments before 2am, when the party is made up of nothing but whiskey fumes and nervous energy, she wiggles out of her little black dress, tight as a snake’s skin, and with a bright smile and bubbly laughter invites the party to follow suit.

You can see the invitation ripple through the crowd. Ties loosen, blouses open, breasts spill out of the dangerously precarious grasp of bras they had been fighting all night. Then the hysterical image of boxers and blazers. Half dressed playboys are pulled onto couches to make out with strangers and old friends. Greedy hands closing around bodies red from corseted bondage.

The shy debate, making eyes with those they hoped might convince them. Those on the fence throw their knickers to the four winds with resolve. The ones who have been waiting all nights for a sign, strip naked and hurl themselves into the fray with abandon.

The Catalyst does not gloat over her effect. She is in the thick of it, bent over a table, possessed by the woman behind her who is pulling her hair and her strings beautifully.

And the party has only just begun.

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