Going from the sound of crickets, her heels trucking through gravel, and hellcats revving in competition to Coming Down by The Weeknd, it was a bit jarring for Beyonce.

She definitely differed from the normal patrons of the club, dressed in an expensive blazer minidress with ample cleavage and highlighted figure, diamonds dazzling under the colorful strobe lights, her honey blonde tresses in feathered curls. The men looked like they just came from work; hard hats on the table, ties undone and button ups unbuttoned, mechanic’s jumper sleeves wrapped around the waist, and they were all throwing their gas money on those women. Mm mm mm.

The familiar melody of her hit song, Cuff It, began to play, the irony, and it happened to be the “Wetter Remix”. How fitting for a club called “Blazers”.

She ordered a Bee Sting, which the bartender served with a ripe lemon on the rim with salt. Equally fitting. She sipped through the tiny black straw, watching the dancers swing and twirl to their own rhythms on those poles. Then a twinkle hit her eye, she looked over.

A woman, so supple and pretty in her outfit, a sheer black bodysuit with glittering rhinestones that did not look cheap. Her skin was oiled up and glowy, her slow and daring moves kept Beyoncé’s hazel eyes locked in intently. Before she knew it, she was alongside the men, and all she smelt was cocoa butter wafting off the lady’s body with every move. She could tell this one brought in the money, all the men around her had on suits, or chains and Rolexes. Some gently placed a stack on the stage or sprayed hundreds over her. It was like time slowed down, she caught glimpses of her face between the flurrying bills. Gorgeous.