Cincinnati, Ohio.
Thursday, 9:15 p.m.
Firefly Lounge.
“ Dude!” Willow says, approaching. “Where’ve you been all my life?”
She stops two feet away, wearing a smile and very little else.
“Glenlivit 21, thirty bucks a shot, right?”
I glance at the dark amber liquid in my glass, then back at her.
She says, “We don’t serve many of those. By the way, I’m Willow.”
“Chris,” I say. “Chris Fowler.”
She laughs. “We don’t use last names in here, Chris.”
I nod.
“You’re in the chair,” she says. “Will I do?”
“Sure.”
Of course she’ll do. Willow’s by far the class of the place. The problem is she knows it.
She flashes me the smile that earns more in tips than hookers get for a toss. It’s a spectacular smile, well worth the fortune her parents must’ve spent on braces a few years back.
I wonder how proud they’d be to see Willow giving lap dances.
She hikes a leg over mine, taking care not to injure me with her five-inch stiletto. Her panties, blood-spatter red to match the shoes, hug her crotch so tightly they could pass for spray-on. Her cropped tee is bright white.
She’s on my lap now, facing me, our eyes two feet apart. Mine black, hers, goldenrod.
I sip my drink. “Want one?”
“What, a Scotch?”
She laughs. “I wouldn’t know it from lighter fluid.”
I place the drink on the table beside us.
Willow says, “You want me facing, or turned away?”
“Facing. I like your smile.”
“Then we’re good.”
She closes her eyes half-mast, pouts her lips, shows me her sultry look.
“You ready?” she purrs.
“What, no music?”
“DJ’s cuing it. I could’ve waited another thirty seconds, but you’re too cute. One of the other girls might’ve stolen you.”
Right, stolen me.
Because I’m so cute.
To keep the conversation going I ask, “What do you drink?”
“Vodka cranberry.”
“Can I buy you one of those?”
“Not here. You know, it’s-”
“Against the rules?”
She laughs. “Against the law, actually.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m underage. For liquor, anyway.”
“Seriously?”
“I know,” she says. “Weird, right?”
The music starts. Willow arches her back, lifts her chin, lowers it, raises it again, licks her lips seductively, then removes her top.
“Show time,” she says.
She puts her hands high over her head and gives her tits a shake. Then leans into me, brushes her nipples across my lips and says, “You like that, sugar?”
“I do. Thanks.”
She gives me an odd look and does that boobs-across-my-lips thing again, expecting me to kiss them, but I don’t.
I picture her ten minutes from now, telling her friend, Cameron about it. She’ll say, “See the older guy in the corner? Black jeans, t-shirt? I was grinding him just now, really working it. I rubbed my tits in his face and asked if he liked it, and guess what he said?”
Cameron will shrug.
“He said, ‘Thanks.’”
They’ll laugh, probably snort a line.
Cameron will ask how much I tipped.
“Two hundred.”
“No shit?” Cameron will say.
Next time they come out, I’ll completely ignore Willow and signal Cameron to come over. They’ll exchange a glance, but really, what can Willow do? She can’t claim I’m her customer if I ask for someone else.
It’s just that no one, especially Willow, expects me to ditch her for Cameron.
If Willow’s a solid eight, Cameron’s a barely-five. But she’ll do her best, and hope to earn a Franklin, or at least a Jackson. I’ll compliment the hell out of her, act like I’m really into it, then I’ll pretend to have an accident. They love it when that happens. Builds their confidence, makes them feel sexier than the others.
I’ll tip Cameron four hundred for a twenty dollar lap dance.
All part of the plan.
Cameron will tell Willow I came in my pants and gave her four hundred bucks.
Willow won’t understand. She’ll flirt, try to get my attention. But I’ll ignore her, break her confidence.
Women want what they can’t have. Even dancers like Willow, who think they’re hot shit.
The music ends, and I hand Willow the two hundred.
She smiles and says, “Thanks, Jimmy.”
“Chris,” I say.
Willow smiles and tosses her head the way pretty women do when they know you want them. She walks away, confident my eyes are on her ass.
Thanks Jimmy, she’d said, all matter-of-fact.
Like it’s every day she gets two hundred bucks for a lap dance.
In her mind she’s got me right where she wants me.
I can’t wait to see her face when she hears about Cameron’s tip.
2
“Oh my God, you were incredible!” Willow gushes, three hours later. “Best sex I ever had!”
I’m lying.
I mean, yeah, we had sex, and I did my part, but Willow was barely involved.
She’s lying on the bed, on her side, her back toward me. When she’s sure I’m done, she moves forward till I slide out of her. She sits up, wipes herself with the bed sheet, and turns to watch me remove the condom and set it on the nightstand.
She regards it with disgust. Then gives me the same look.
Makes sense.
She’s eighteen, I’m forty-two. It is disgusting.
From her perspective.
I prop a pillow beneath my neck and settle in to relax, but catch her looking away, and take the opportunity to suddenly lift my head and kiss her boob.
