The Dancing Queen: Jack Trexlor

By Terry F. Torrey

In 1991, Jack falls in love with a beauty.

 

Twenty-nine-year-old Jack Trexlor doesn't realize that his life has gone off the rails: tending bar at a topless club, getting too close to the dancers, and getting involved in drugs. He thinks he's living the good life.

 

But when a mysterious stranger stops into the club on a hot September evening, Jack's world gets suddenly turned upside down.

 

Now, Jack works desperately to put together one last big deal to buy a new life for himself and his favorite dancer, but the dealers at this level don't mess around or give second chances, not even for a poor fool who has been double-crossed and betrayed.

 

If you like noir stories where a troubled hero fights the world to get justice for a girl, all while battling his own demons and deficiencies, you'll love the page-turning adventure of The Dancing Queen.

 

The Jack Trexlor books can be read and enjoyed in any order.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Provocative Press
• Release date: Oct 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781961042056

Terry F. Torrey

Born and raised in upstate New York, Terry F. Torrey now lives in Arizona with his amazing wife and awesome daughter. A lifelong learner, his most prized accomplishment is completing the acclaimed Creative Writing program at Phoenix College. Now, Terry spends his days writing page-turning vigilante action novels, riveting suspense novels with shades of noir, campy but realistic pop-culture monster novels, and an assortment of other quirky, compelling, and heartfelt books and shorts. Be sure to join his e-mail list to be notified of promotions, special events, and new releases of things worth reading, and find all of his work online at terryftorrey.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

From my post behind the bar, I happened to see him as he entered through the main door on my right. A lot of people act a little strange when they walk into a topless bar, but this guy was different.

He had a square chin and a military-style haircut, but he looked barely old enough to be in here. Zeke, the doorman, stopped him to ask him for his ID and the cover charge. The stranger seemed surprised by this, acting confused and disgusted before snatching a bill from his wallet. Before he handed it over to Zeke, he looked around the place deliberately, as if for something or someone special.

Looking for trouble, I guessed, and in the right place to find it.

It was a Wednesday night in late September. In most parts of the world, that would have meant it was a cool and crisp evening. In Phoenix, Arizona, though, it was just another of the endless summer nights. I was working behind the bar, alone except for Zeke and the dancers. He had looked straight at me when he walked in, and there was no recognition on his face. He wasn’t looking for me.

It was about seven p.m., a slow time for the bar. The pool table lay silent, cue sticks crossed on the green felt under the bright beer light. A couple of regulars sat at the bar, their backs to the stage. I never understood coming to a topless bar and ignoring the dancers, but they seemed harmless, and they, too, had raised no reaction from the stranger.

Fifteen or twenty small tables, each with two or three chairs, crowded into the main area of the bar, and more chairs sat up against the front wall for lap dances. On any given night, the crowd at Sally’s looked like a group of miscreants ranging from street thugs to serial killers, but they usually turned out to be harmless. At the time, a half-dozen or so guys watched the dancers in this area. The stranger paid them no notice as he walked to a table in the far right corner of the room, farthest from the stage and the bar.

In the middle of the wall to my left was the stage, raised a couple of feet from the floor of the bar, backed by full-length mirrors, and with a brass pole from floor to ceiling right in the center. A brass rail ran along the front and sides, except on the left where the stairs connected. A deck for glasses and ashtrays ran along the edges, with stools for customers. At the moment, only one customer sat on a stool, hunched over his drink and cigarette. Raven, an experienced and attractive dancer with a trim body and dark hair, had finished her first dance, and she surveyed the crowd as she waited for her second song to begin. The stranger seemed to pay her no special attention.

The deejay’s booth occupied the other far corner of the room, beyond the stage. Eddie sat on a tall stool in the booth, wearing his headphones and working the controls of the CD player, his eyes and the end of his cigarette glowing among the stacks of CDs. The stranger had a clear view of Eddie, but he didn’t give him a second look. Scratch one more off the list.

The song ended to a patter of polite applause that Raven greeted with a shy smile. After a moment of quiet, Eddie spun up the next tune, and the insistent thump of White Horse by Laid Back filled the club. At Sally’s, the dancers took the stage for two songs each turn. For the first, the dancer wore her full costume. This was Raven’s second song, and she wasted no time untying her bikini top and casting it to the side by the stairs. She strutted around the stage with her chest thrust out, trying to stir up some interest, get the evening happening. Despite her best efforts, however, the crowd showed little interest in her act. The stranger paid her no attention whatsoever.

To my left, sectioned off with a velvet rope, sat the darkened VIP area, a couple of plush booths for intimate lap dances. These were technically no more permissive than ordinary lap dances, and touching the dancers anywhere in the bar would get a customer thrown out, but it was darker in the VIP area, and more private, and if you could afford the drink surcharge for sitting there, and the right dancer took a liking to you or your wad of cash, who knew what might happen. The right side of this area faced the short side of the stage. Rico, a regular at the club, usually sat in this area, as did Manny Galindo, the club’s owner. Both would probably be in later, but at that time the VIP area was dark and quiet.

Lulu, the primary night-shift waitress, who was young and enthusiastic and not yet too jaded, had just started her shift. She came out of the dressing room on my left at the end of the bar. She was an American Indian, and she had long, dark brown hair pulled back in a sporty ponytail. She spotted the stranger and went over to take his order.

The stranger’s arrival had interrupted my work reorganizing the bottles and tools behind the bar. More than that, he had provided me with an excuse to talk to Brandy. In reality, I wanted a bump, and any excuse would do.

I went to the end of the bar, pushed the thin purple curtain to the side, and stuck my head into the dressing room. Inside, to the left, stood a make-up table with dim lights around an oval mirror. A young dancer with feathered, light blond hair sat at the table, dressed only in a bikini bottom. Her nipples were a succulent pink. I wondered, not for the first time, what they tasted like.

She was chopping a rock of crystal meth into white lines on a small mirror. A girl with mousy brown hair and a cowgirl costume stood to the side, watching her cutting the lines, practically salivating.

There’s a stranger here, I said.

The blond didn’t look up. Duh, Jack, she said. I think that’s the point.

I’m serious, I said, alternating staring between Brandy’s nipples and the white lines. Her breasts and nipples bounced, bounced, bounced, as she chopped and sliced, chopped and sliced. He seems like a guy looking for trouble.

Really? Brandy asked, without interest.

The cowgirl, whose name was Venus, spoke up: Does he look like a cop?

This had not occurred to me, and evidently not to Brandy, either. She frowned at the white piles on the mirror and chopped a little more quickly.

I don’t know, I said.

Jack, you’re so paranoid, Brandy said, still not looking up. You think everyone’s a cop.

I didn’t say I thought he was a cop. I said he seems like he’s looking for trouble.

What’s he doing? Venus asked.

I pulled my head out of the curtain, glanced over at the stranger, stuck my head back in the dressing room. He’s just sitting there, over in the cheap seats, I said. Brandy had finished chopping the powder and cut it into four long, white lines. The math was not in my favor. Four lines: probably two for each of them. She leaned toward the mirror with a short straw in her hand. This might not go well. As she traced the straw over the closest line, inhaling deeply, I asked, Can I get one of those?

Brandy finished her line and sat up straight, her hand to her nose and her eyes watering and closed. She stuck her left hand out with the straw to me.

I grabbed the straw and stepped fully into the dressing room, letting the curtain close behind me.

Hey, Venus said to Brandy. "This was supposed to be for us."

I leaned forward, put the straw to my nose, inhaled a line. Despite my attention on the mirror, I couldn’t help but notice how close this put Brandy’s nipples to my right ear. I finished the line and dropped the straw on the mirror, pinching my nose as I stood up straight. It burned. It burned good.

After a moment, I turned and went back through the curtain. Thanks, Brandy, I said over my shoulder.

Brandy was saying to Venus, "Well, he did get it for me."

I didn’t hear more of Venus’s complaint, because back in the bar I heard what seemed like the entire place collectively inhaling.

My name is Jack Trexlor. This book features things I did, and things I saw, but this is not my story. Rico and Raven and Lulu make strong appearances, but I wouldn’t say it is their story, either. Brandy was a dancer that I knew for a short time. She was young, and she had some rough edges and flaws, but she was beautiful, and in her I saw all the best things in life. And though I knew that I shouldn’t, that it could never work out well, I fell in love with her. More than anything, I think this is her story.

The late summer of 1991 found me at a crossroads again, both in my own life and in the wider world. There, at the intersection of sex and drugs and rock and roll, I found Brandy. And there, in the glow of rebellion and lust and youth, I never wanted to leave, even when I wanted to.

That was the year after my mother died, and I was drifting, lost, alone. I was on the brink of thirty, afraid of losing my youth and good times, and digging in my heels for all I was worth. I was chasing things I would never want to catch. I was hiding my own truth from myself, in plain sight. I was sabotaging all I’d ever learned or built.

I was making a lot of mistakes.

I lived in the desert, and I dreamed of rain.

Back in the bar, I thought something had happened. Raven’s song was approaching its end, and suddenly everyone was interested in her performance. Raven was a real pro, but she was my age, pushing thirty if she wasn’t dragging it already, and she didn’t often cause the entire audience to collectively inhale the way the fresh young girls frequently did. She crawled on the stage like a cat, arching her back and swaying her shoulders, chest, and hips as she moved along the front edge of the stage from the right side by the deejay booth, seemingly unaware of anything amiss. The guy on the stool by the stage leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Raven. The guys in the cheap seats gave her their full attention, too, and several had left their tables to stand by the stage, dollar bills in their hands. Even the stranger stared at her.

I looked at her, too, but I saw nothing unusual at first. Then she reached the middle of the stage and turned toward the mirrors. With her rear end now facing the entire bar, it was obvious what had everyone interested: her costume was coming off.

Zeke hadn’t noticed; he hardly ever looked at the girls. Lulu was coming back to the bar, apparently with some drink orders, and she hadn’t noticed. Eddie’s head was down among his stacks of CDs as he queued up the next song. That left me to do something. I put a finger up to Lulu and headed out from behind the bar.

I didn’t hurry. This didn’t happen every day.

I watched Raven as I walked around the end of the bar. I’d been working here for several months, and lately Raven had been my cohort, riding with me on my motorcycle making package trades for Rico, but I had never seen her like this. And I must admit that, even though I saw Raven nearly naked almost every night, I found this performance arousing. Her pose, on her hands and knees with her back arched, caused her breasts to hang and sway in an image that seemed hard-wired to electrify my brain. Her hair seemed blacker than a natural tone, but the way it draped over her shoulders to hang next to her breasts and trailed down her back was extremely enticing.

All of our attention, however, was pulled to her nice, round, deeply tanned bottom. Somehow, the right side of her bikini bottom had come untied, and she appeared not to have noticed. Her slithering on the stage was working the triangle of fabric down off her rump. Her tan lines were a long way from the edge of her bottom. The crease between the top of her thigh and the flesh between her legs was visible, and everybody was hoping for more.

As I made my way among the tables up to the stage, her costume slipped again, and suddenly we could see her plump lips, smooth and bare with a dark crease between them. All the customers were holding their breath. Everyone—including me—seemed to want just a little more.

As she approached the mirrored wall at the back, the triangle of fabric finished falling down. I heard a distinct gasp from the crowd, but somehow Raven still hadn’t noticed, and her entire vulva was in full view. There, she stopped, turned her head to the side facing the deejay booth, and leaned forward onto her elbows, her knees splayed wide. The position separated her lips, and by the time I reached the stage, she was pink and moist in front of me and everyone.

I leaned over the brass rail and waved my arm at her to get her attention. She was turning to look back at the crowd and the intrusion into the stage space startled her until she recognized me. Your bottom came untied, I said.

She glanced back at herself and gave her behind a shake. Oops, she said with a sly smile. She rose to her feet, completely without modesty. I felt the audience exhale, and I heard a few groans of disappointment as she pulled the bikini bottom back up into position and tied it at her side. As I turned to head back to the bar, I received a little chorus of boos and returned a meek smile and shrug. I completely understood and shared their disappointment.

Zeke had noticed I was out from behind the bar, and he scowled in my direction, wondering if there was something he should be concerned about. He hadn’t noticed the incident with Raven’s bikini bottom because he hadn’t been facing inside the bar. He hardly ever watched the dancers on stage. I hardly ever took my eyes off them.

I reached the bar as the song finished. Eddie keyed the microphone and spoke with what he thought was a mysterious and sultry voice. All right, he said, Everybody show your appreciation for Raven’s ‘assets.’ The small crowd had littered the stage with more than twenty one-dollar bills, which Raven picked up modestly.

Lulu bugged me for orders. I need two two-for-one drafts, a bottle of Bud, and a shot of Jack, she said.

A shot of me? I asked, smiling. It was a very old joke, but one that never failed to get a laugh.

No, shithead, she said pleasantly, "Jack Daniels."

Ah, I said. I started the draft beers pouring. Is any of this for the new stranger over there? I asked.

She looked at my face, then followed my gaze to the stranger. Yes, she said. The bottle and the shot.

Very nice, I said. It seemed he might be ratcheting up his courage for something dramatic. Or maybe I was just paranoid.

As I finished getting the drinks ready, Eddie announced the next dancer. All right, he said suavely into the microphone. Next up we have the west-side wild woman, Venus. The smooth sounds of Too Shy by Kajagoogoo began to thump from the overhead speakers.

I finished putting the drinks on Lulu’s tray, and she hefted it to her shoulder and headed out to deliver them. Venus had taken the stage, trying to look sexy, strutting around in her brown frilly bikini and cowboy boots. Raven had reattached her top and was making her way through the crowd, asking the customers if they wanted a table dance. One of the first she asked was the stranger. He declined. Lulu delivered his beer and shot. He downed the shot in two quick swallows, handed the shot glass back to Lulu, and took a swallow from his beer. Maybe he was looking for trouble, but maybe he was oiling his courage to talk to the pretty girls. Whatever it was, he didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

I turned my attention back to my bar. I could feel the line I’d done with Brandy kicking in, accelerating my heart and my mind. I wanted to rearrange the bottles and storage, though I knew I shouldn’t take on a big job like that in the middle of the shift. Instead, as I looked for an excuse to poke my head in the dressing room to talk to Brandy, the front door swung open, and in walked everybody’s favorite guest, Rico Montoya.

In his typical fashion, he was wearing black shoes, black slacks, and a black blazer with a dark red button-down shirt under it, a few buttons undone at the top and a little dark chest hair showing. With his dark hair slicked back, his gold rings and watch, he seemed to be a budding tycoon, which is more or less what I thought he was. His big, white smile lit up the room.

Zeke got up to greet Rico, but not to collect the cover charge. Some people spent enough money here to be past the cover charge phase. Rico was one of those people. Instead, Zeke just smiled and nodded as Rico clapped him on the back and headed over to the VIP area.

Rico gave me a wave as he passed the bar. How’s business, Jack? he asked cheerfully.

Booming, I said.

He nodded, and his smile became serious. Are you up for some business later tonight? he asked.

I’d been hoping for that. Absolutely, I said.

Good, he said.

Raven had spotted Rico, and she made her way over to him as he slid into a booth in the VIP area. I thought she should be more subtle, but it seemed we were safe here, among friends, and I wasn’t too bothered.

The regulars at the bar needed refills, then Lulu was back with another order, and by the time I had that taken care of, Venus was into her second song, proudly displaying her udders. This had the attention of every guy in the place, it seemed, except for Zeke, and possibly the stranger. She was kind of galloping her boots across the stage, thrusting her chest in time with the bass beat.

A couple of new guys came in, all smiles and good times. They looked like a couple of frat boys, here for a good time. Zeke collected their cover charge, and Lulu met them at one of the tables in the cheap seats. She was bringing me their order when Venus’s second dance finished.

Okay, fellows, said Eddie on the microphone, "put your hands together for the beautiful, the sexy, the dangerous … Brandy. He filled the speakers with Brandy’s signature song, Brandy" by Looking Glass.

Brandy, however, was not out of the dressing room. Venus moved through the bar toward the VIP area, temporarily reattaching her top. The patrons looked around for the missing dancer. All eyes, knowing somehow that they should, turned toward the purple curtain of the dressing room. The music built up, and just as it kicked into full swing⁠—

The curtain flashed aside and Brandy pranced out. She smiled sweetly, like she didn’t know she was late, and headed toward the stage.

She didn’t make it out of the shadows of the VIP area before the stranger grabbed her.

CHAPTER TWO

I don’t remember the name of the funeral home. I do remember that it was in my neighborhood, and that I had never noticed it before, never considered that I might find myself there on business, never thought that it would become one of the places of my life.

They say that when a loved one dies after a long illness, people can feel a kind of relief. I don’t remember feeling that. I remember feeling numb, cold, disconnected. I remember riding my motorcycle through a light mist to the funeral home. I remember thinking that my clothes would be dirty and wet after the ride. I remember not caring.

I remember staring at the floor, smelling the dusty, fake-flower smell of the funeral home. I remember hearing the creak of the wooden floor under the carpet. I remember the chamber music playing softly through chrome grill speakers in the ceiling. I remember not looking at the urn and the candles and her picture on that burgundy velvet-covered table.

I remember trying not to explode.

None of my friends or co-workers were there. Most of them had known she was ill, but I had not shared the news of her passing with most of them. Most of those who knew had recently moved away, and in any case, I did not particularly want company. I felt alone, and I savored the feeling. I relished it. I was alone. Alone consumed me.

Very little of my mother’s family was there. Her parents, my grandparents, had passed away a few years earlier, and most of the family she had left was scattered through central and northern California, too far for most to make the trip.

My mother’s younger brother, my uncle Ray, was there. I was surprised that he’d come. His gambling tournaments and big deals always kept him so busy.

He said, How are you holding up, Jack?

I thought, why are you here? You couldn’t be bothered to come to see her when she was sick. Isn’t there a poker tournament up in Vegas you should be losing? I said, All right.

How’s the old bike running, Jack? he asked

It’s running fine, I said.

He sidled closer and I could smell his cheap aftershave. He said, Listen, I⁠—

I said, Excuse me, and walked away. I didn’t see him again.

Several of my mother’s old friends and co-workers from Kingman had come down, a bunch of blue-hairs, gray-hairs, and no-hairs wearing formal dresses and dark suits I was sure they had set aside just for funerals.

People came up to me, tried to shake my hand, tried to hug me. I looked at the floor, mostly just heard their voices. As the day wore on, everything ran together, everybody talking at me.

They said, We’re so sorry, Jack.

I thought, yes, I know. Everyone is so, so, sorry. I said, Thanks.

They said, She’s in a better place now, Jack.

I thought, if it’s so much better, why don’t you join her? You won’t because you know it’s all a lie, all bullshit. I said, Sure.

They said, You did everything you could, Jack.

I said, Yeah.

They said, If there’s anything we can do, just let us know.

I said, Okay.

It was so good of you to take her into your home and take care of her these past few months, Jack.

Yeah.

They said, She was forty-nine, right? That’s so young.

I said, I know, but what I thought was: My clock is ticking!

Jack, where’s your father?

I don’t know, I lied.

It’s a shame he couldn’t be here today.

I had nothing to say to that.

The funeral director, dapper in his tailored black suit and carefully dour except for the time I saw him chuckling as he came out of the back rooms, approached me toward the end with a pained look on his face.

Mr. Trexlor, I hate to bring it up, but there’s the matter of payment for the cremation and these services. Do you have cash or a check ready for us today?

I handed him the check without saying anything.

I remember it was dark when I left. I remember the starburst glare of the lights in the parking lot. I remember the rain had stopped, but there were little puddles here and there on the black road. I remember it was a cold March evening, and I put the urn inside my jacket. I remember hoping she wouldn’t be cold.

But I don’t remember the ride home.

At that time, six months earlier, I was working as a bartender at a fancy resort on the east side of Phoenix, a job I’d had for a couple years. When I first started working there, it seemed elegant, exotic, and alluring, and the people who worked there seemed caring, intelligent, efficient. I was so taken in that I even considered putting aside my lifelong ambition to be an artist and instead focusing my effort on rising through the ranks at the resort.

When my mother fell sick and I took on the task of caring for her, though, they revealed their true colors. At first, they were happy to change my schedule to accommodate my mother’s needs, but after a while, the changes only came with arguments and threats. It was inconvenient for them that my mother was dying. By the end, they couldn’t wait to shove me back into the shitty parts of the schedule, which meant they couldn’t wait for her to die.

I hadn’t quit yet, but I was done there.

Sally’s was a topless bar only a few miles from my apartment. I’d passed it regularly in the course of driving to work, but I’d never considered going inside. It was in a cinder block building with peeling paint, a sagging roof, and a pockmarked parking lot, definitely not a high-class place. All the same, it seemed honest. It was rough, but it was real.

On a cool night in March, a few days after my mother’s funeral, I stopped into Sally’s for the first time. I’d been out riding around with no real direction, burning off some restless energy, when I saw it coming up. Before I even knew why, I was on the brakes and leaning my motorcycle into the driveway. The parking lot was mostly empty, and I parked close to the red front door. I cut the engine, lowered the kickstand, stepped off the bike, kept my gloves on, and pulled open the heavy wooden door.

I was greeted by the strangely poignant sound of Down Under by Men at Work, and a well-groomed man with a seventies mustache and a black muscle shirt.

Inside, a single pool table and a casual wooden bar lay to the left. To the right was a scattering of chairs and small tables. The stage took up most of the wall across the room, and I strode to the first row and took a seat at a table toward the right side, near the darkened deejay’s booth.

Onstage, an athletic dancer wearing a neon orange bikini bottom gyrated and kicked to the beat. She had a confident smile, a commanding attitude, and my attention. I remember her auburn hair, midway down her back and with a touch of curl. I remember being dazzled by the optimism shining in her piercing hazel eyes. I remember her areolae, dark and inviting. I spent the rest of the song leering at her like a creep.

She moved like a dancer in a music video, graceful and cool with a lot of what seemed to be technique. Only a few other customers sat in the bar, and I was the only one sitting close to the stage. She customized her dance for me, pressing her hands against the mirrored back wall, leaning forward a bit, and moving her head to make her hair play across her back. I saw her watching my reaction in the mirror, and she smiled.

When the song finished, she gathered the few dollars and her bikini top up off the stage and picked a little cloth zipper wallet from the steps. The next dancer was talking to the deejay in the booth, and the room was filled with dead air and the chatter of small talk at the bar.

The dancer leaving the stage walked directly to my seat without putting her top back on. Her eyes met mine, and it was like looking into the eyes of a lover from another time. She said, I’ve been waiting for you.

I said, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.

She said, Well, you seem to have found me.

Behind her, the second dancer finished her deliberations with the deejay and started up the stairs to the stage. Overhead and around us, the speakers lifted with a familiar bass beat, joined quickly by a guitar riff and tambourine.

Great White, I said, ‘Rock Me’.

Her eyes glittered a smile at me. You know your music.

I said, Television rots your brain.

She said, It would if I owned one.

I gave her the warmest smile I’d felt in a long time.

She said, Would you like a dance?

I don’t remember if I looked at her face or her nipples. I said, Absolutely.

She smiled at me again, then broke eye contact to put her top and her wallet down on the table beside me. When she turned back, she pushed my knees apart, stepped between my legs, and leaned against me, hands on the leather jacket on my shoulders. Rocking a little back and forth to the rhythm, she leaned her chest close to me.

Wow, she said, you’re a tall one.

You’re one to talk, I said. I was a shade over six feet tall, but with her in my lap, it was obvious that she was a good deal taller than the average female. It turned out later that she was nearly my own height, a fact that only added to her mystique.

After a moment, she pushed my jacket open and slid her hands inside onto my shoulders.

She was so warm.

She pulled her left hand out of my jacket and cupped the back of my neck, then leaned forward with her mouth next to my ear. Her dangling silver earring tickled my cheek and the bare flesh of her shoulder came up to my nose. She smelled like sweet perfume with an alluring hint of perspiration.

She ran her hand up the back of my neck. I like your hair, she whispered, her breath hot on my ear.

I liked to describe my hair as jet brown, and I kept it cut short, almost in a buzz cut, to keep it from tangling in the wind of riding my motorcycle, as I rarely wore a helmet. I said, You are such a good liar.

No, really, she purred, reaching up with her hand to trace her fingertips from my neck to the back of my head, electrifying my skin. Short hair is sexy.

It sounded like a standard line to me. "Is there any hair you don’t like?" I asked.

She leaned back to glance into my eyes. Sure, she said, smiling and looking away. Down under.

She adjusted her position again, leaning forward with the top of her chest close to my forehead. I could feel the warmth of her breasts on my face as she turned back and forth, teasing her nipples close to my mouth.

Shifting again, she pressed the side of her face against mine, her lips against the curve of my ear. I felt her breasts press against the leather front of my jacket, and I heard her whispering the words of the song:

"… hold me through the night, rock me …"

It was my turn to whisper. "You are such a good dancer."

She turned, drew her left leg up across my lap, and pressed herself against me. In this position, she could feel the tightness in my pants, and the expression in her smile let me know it. She moved her face so close to mine that I could measure her perfect complexion. It helps to have someone who appreciates the arts, she said.

She turned again, pressing her back against me, pushing me to hold her up, but turning her face to mine and smiling.

I said, I’m doing what I can.

She continued pressing against me, a smile on her face the whole time.

This, my own private paradise, carried on for the length of the song, which seemed to be both several hours long and over in an instant. In the space of that song, she proved herself one of the most interesting females I had ever known, simultaneously exotic and familiar.

After the dance, she sat in the chair across the little table from me, casually repositioning her bikini top over her breasts.

A sign on the wall indicated the price of table dances. I gave her