Girls Night Out (Patreon)

There's something about the way she walked down that sidewalk that told you everything you needed to know about the night ahead.

She was wearing a red dress. Not a subtle one. A tight, short, spaghetti-strap number that looked like it was specifically designed to lose an argument with her shoulders. Her arms were covered in tattoos from her hands all the way up to her neck and chest, every inch of sleeve filled with intricate work. Her brown hair swung in a ponytail behind her as she and her girls headed out for the night.

"Girls night out. Let's do this."

Her friends were with her. A blonde in a black dress, a brunette in white, another in a black romper. They were laughing and talking, feeding off each other's energy the way women do when the plan is to go out and not come back until the stories are worth telling.

They got to the door and there was a guy working it. Big enough to look official. Not big enough for what was about to happen.

"How about you let us in, or I will be forced to embarrass you in front of all these people."

He stepped aside. Smart man.

Inside, the bass hit first. Purple lights, string lights, a packed bar with everyone holding drinks and moving to something electronic and heavy. Her crew grabbed beers, clinked glasses, and started dancing before the toast was even finished. Arms in the air, that kind of dancing where you forget anyone's watching.

Then she picked up her friend. Just lifted her right off the ground, the one in the blue dress, like she weighed nothing. Held her there in a bear hug with the biggest smile on her face while her friend laughed and probably wondered, not for the first time, how this was her life.

But the real moment came next.

Two of her friends climbed up on her shoulders. Two full-grown women, sitting on her shoulders while she stood there in heels on a nightclub floor. And then she squatted. Not once. Multiple times. Deep, controlled reps with two humans as the weight, in a red dress and heels, while the crowd around her lost their minds. Cheering, shouting, phones out. You could hear the whole bar reacting.

She finished, set them down, turned to the camera, and flexed. Front bicep first, then she turned around to show her back. Every muscle in her upper body standing at attention, the tattoos stretching over ridges and valleys of muscle that had no business being in a nightclub. But there they were.

That's the thing about her. She wasn't performing strength in some controlled gym environment. She was out with her friends, wearing a dress, having a drink, and she just happened to be the strongest person in the building by a factor nobody wanted to test. Her friends weren't intimidated. They were having the time of their lives. The crowd wasn't scared. They were in awe.

Some people carry their strength like a burden. She carries hers like it's the best accessory she owns.

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