You’d only turned your back for two minutes. Maybe three. Enough time to pay the tab for the round and do a quick scan of the club’s packed dance floor. You thought you saw him out there—dark shirt clinging to his back with sweat, hips rolling with that god-given swagger, grinding on some beat that made you hiss as you inhaled. Then you heard it.

“SCOTLAND FOREVERRRR!”

The words roared over the music like a battle cry, heads turning toward the source just as the DJ cranked up Pour Some Sugar On Me.

And there he was. Soap. On top of the bar.

Shirt already gone, flung into the void of drunk strangers below. His body glistened under neon lights, abs flexing with every pelvic thrust like he was reenacting Magic Mike. A group of women screamed. A man slipped on an ice cube. Someone was filming.

“Oi! Ye want a show?” Soap hollered, grabbing a bottle of scotch from the bar and throwing his arms wide like some drunk, sexy prophet. “Then feast yer bloody eyes!”

You didn’t know whether to be impressed, aroused, or call the authorities. His jeans were riding scandalously low, the “MacTavish” waistband of his underwear showing as he gyrated and mouthed the lyrics with devastating commitment.

He thrusts his hips like he owes rent, then glides down, knees hitting the bar top and legs spreading wide. He pops back up with a wild swing of his arm, and out of nowhere, a bra goes flying through the air and lands perfectly on the bartender’s head. Someone in the crowd shouts, “TAKE IT OFF BEEFCAKE!”

You nearly choke on your own spit, caught somewhere between horror and thirst.

Soap locks eyes with you mid-thrust, sweat-slick and a wild, drunken look in his eyes.