Private Dancer

Here you go, a flash story for you – at least what a flash story is for wordy old me. No idea where it came from. Just wanted to see if I could write it, once the idea came to me.

Thanks again for NoneTheWiser for the editing. Hard to do this without you my friend!

*****

As I walked in to the club, I paused to take in the scene. It was your typical strip club – with a big bouncer in an ill-fitting suit by the door - shaved head of course. That is de-rigueur. A girl by the door managing to combine a bored expression with an overeager smile, ready to take your twenty bucks cover. Dim lighting; soft, slightly faded velvety furnishing; a touch too warm, so the girls wearing almost nothing wouldn't be too cold (and so that the men watching them would buy more overpriced cold drinks). There were lots of mirrors to make the place look bigger, and and extended runway with footlights for the dancers, with a split area twin pole dancer position at the end and a bored DJ extolling people to 'put their hands together for Destiny!" and so on.

It had been almost fifteen years since I'd last stepped into a place like this. They made me uncomfortable. The completely artificial bonhomie of the girls just grated on me – what a great word, 'bonhomie'. I was introduced to it by a Scottish client years ago. It means "good humor and cheer". We should use more words like that. And we should have more good humor and cheer.

Before I went in, I did my pre-meeting ritual. Several deep breaths, some internal mantras, some hand flexing – the usual stuff. I was keeping my emotions under control. I had to, or my anger and fear and frustration would boil over and everything I was trying to accomplish would fail. And I couldn't afford that. I had to keep a lid on it. I told myself to be calm. Put on your game face. You've negotiated million dollar deals; this is no big deal.

Except that it was, and I knew it, and I was sweating slightly despite my preparation. Maybe it was the temperature in the club. But probably not.

I paid my twenty bucks, and was told there was a two-drink minimum. I didn't doubt it. The place itself didn't have a liquor license, so the girls could be fully naked. Most places have either one or the other – fully naked girls, or they could serve alcohol. A few places have both, but you really need a friend in high places to get that license, and you are watched by the local authorities big time. This place didn't, which means I'd probably be spending upwards of eight bucks for a can of diet coke. Twice. And if I bought a girl a drink, probably twice that price for hers.

That's the way these places worked, and I understood that. They cost money to run – the bouncers and the DJ and the rent cost money, as did the initial start up costs. And with the girls taking most of their own money, well, the overhead soon mounts up. Naked girls are a premium luxury, and you paid well for it.

I figured I would blend in wearing a suit. Businessmen in these places so often do. When clients came into town and wanted to visit a "gentlemen's club", I'd always sent them with the junior partners who were single or often recently divorced. For my part, when I thought about such places, it made me want to father the girls in there, not watch them disrobe. Not that I'm a prude, it's just... I have a couple of girls, too. I look at these women and I see my daughters, ten years from now. I worry. All that bullshit about 'paying my way through law school' sounds good, but in almost all cases, it's total bullshit. Most of these girls have heavy-duty daddy issues, and often an expensive habit to feed too. The only thing they are paying their way through is the toll for the next binge.

I walked in and took a seat, but not too close to the stage. Too close means the girls will dance right in front of you, trying to get you to deposit dollars into whatever they were still wearing. You look like a total scrooge if they offer you their G string, all pulled out to make room for cash, and you ignore them – it's a calculated ploy. But, you couldn't be too far away from the stage, either. If you were, then you were fair game for the girls as they wandered around, offering everything from a dance to a chance for some desultory conversation – usually for a price, and with them attempting to get you to go back to the "private rooms" for a longer dance. For more money, obviously. In some places, the private rooms were where the sticky, 'personal services' are offered. From the research I'd done, this wasn't one of those places. There were cameras everywhere, and the girls, for the most part, kept their hands – and their more erotic body parts - to themselves.

Either way, I didn't need any of that. I had a mission to accomplish. Or rather, I did need that, but in a very specific way.

So I sat one section of chairs back from the stage, in a small five or six-person curved booth. Close enough so that I could feign interest in the stage action and get the roaming girls to leave me alone, but not so close that I'd be singled out by the girls actually on the stage. It was a selection ritual as old as the one where a guy selects a urinal to pee in. You get one second on entrance to make the decision, and you must avoid at all costs ending up next to someone else if there is any possibility of having two empty stalls flanking you. It's just not done.

So I sat down, and the waitress ambled over. She's usually dressed in something slightly slutty and revealing, but not too over-the-top. Typically it's a younger girl. When I used to frequent these places, - back when I was much younger and unmarried, - I often wondered if the waitresses were proto dancers, or kids who just didn't have the courage. It didn't seem polite to ask.

I ordered a coke and while I waited for the most expensive of soft drinks to arrive, I looked around, checking to see if I could spot my target. She wasn't on stage. It was lunchtime, so it was entirely possible she might be on break, eating. I suppose they ate? It's not something I ever wondered about before. What a strange image -, a bunch of young hotties, wearing almost nothing, sitting around a café table, all eating sandwiches and trying not to disturb their makeup.

As it was, she was there, leaning against the back wall. Her jet-black hair cut in a pageboy – Cleopatra style. It was well done - apparently getting the fringe straight in a bob like that is very difficult for a hair stylist. The weird things I have picked up over the years.

She caught my eye as I looked at her, unabashedly, and smiled knowingly, pushing herself off the wall and making her way over to me. She was wearing a very short pleated skirt, and a tight white top. The sort of completely exaggerated schoolgirl outfit you can find at Halloween time, or at fetish shops. She even had little white thigh high sock / stockings on, with five inch white high heels. How she didn't fall over instantly was a mystery to me.

Looking at her in person, a few things fell right into place as to the 'why' of my situation. It might make trying to persuade her easier, at least I hoped it would. I could always fall back on threats if I had to, but I'd rather not. Threats are messy and you have to follow through on them, or they are just empty. The moment you make an empty threat, you've lost the negotiation, and I didn't intend to lose this one. My future relationship with Alberta – Alby – was in the balance, and that was something I took very seriously. You would too if you had the years and effort invested that I did. Plus, I loved her. That was most important reason of all.

She walked up to where I was sitting and leaned over me, assuming the deal was already done.

"Fancy a dance, handsome?" she breathed on me.

I grinned my most ingratiating smile and said, "Give me a second. Got to keep the Pepsi gods in money." And then I gestured to where the waitress was weaving her way through the tables and chairs back to me, intent on keeping that solitary can of diet coke and long tumbler full of ice upright. The contents of that single can was probably more expensive than water with gold dust in it, but right now it was welcome. It would give me a prop so my hands were occupied.

The dancer dropped into the chair next to me, incidentally angling herself towards me so I could both get a long look at her very shapely legs and also so she could look at me, as though I were the most interesting person in the world and she just had to give me her fullest attention. She was good.

The waitress arrived, left the can and the glass, while looking knowingly at my dancer, told me the drink was eight dollars, and instead of my standing abruptly, with the chair falling over backwards, and yelling, "HOW FUCKING MUCH?" as I should have done, I just nodded, pulled out the wallet and handed her a ten and told her to keep the change.

The dancer's eyes took in the wallet, and the wad of twenties and fifties peaking out the pouch, and if anything, her smile got even more ingratiating. Yeah, it was planned but so what? We all play games.

"I'm Cleo," she offered, extending her hand to me. It wasn't her name, I knew, but that would come later.

"Let's call me James," I said back. If she wasn't going to give me her real name – and there's no reason she would, she was an exotic dancer after all – then I wasn't either.

"So, James," she said accepting the name with good graces, "what brings you in today? Looking for a hot lunch?"

I smiled back. If this was the best she could do for casual conversation, I was amazed she was a problem for me. But she was, and I had a task to accomplish.

"Of a sort, yes. I have this problem to deal with, and well, I need a clear head to get it all sorted out." It was technically true, but not in the way she thought.

Both her hands were lying along the top of the little booth we were sitting in, spread out as she leaned back. She reached out the hand that was close to me and started stroking my shoulder and neck. Break that contact barrier!

"You have a need. I can tell. Well, you've come to the right place. Let Cleo help take your stress away."

I just looked at her, examining her face, studying her, trying to see... she must have noticed my close examination. "What? Is my makeup mussed up?" she asked, halfway between playful and concerned.

"No, just... look, can we do it elsewhere? Are there more...um, private surroundings?"

"Sure, sugar," she said, "c'mon back. There's some more private space back there. But, it's a three song minimum."

"I see," I said, "What's that going to run?"

I was idly curious. I'd pay whatever it was; I just hadn't been in a club like this in so long I had no idea what the going rate was.

"Well, it's twenty for a single song, forty for two, but only fifty for three. Cheaper in bulk!" she laughed, lightly.

I just smiled back. She stood up and held out her hand for me to hold. I looked around as I was led towards the back – there were probably only fifteen of us in the entire place, plus bartenders, waitresses and two bouncers. And the obnoxious DJ. That hadn't changed since I was last in one of these places, for sure.

I scooped up the coke can and took a swig of it, carrying it with my free hand.

We went through some heavy velvet red curtains, and into a corridor with small booths on each side, behind a divider so that people in one booth couldn't see the other. Each booth had a circular chair arrangement, large enough for two, maybe three people, but with enough space for the girls to dance.

There were speakers, so the music came through loud and clear, and I noticed a very small IR camera in the corner. Smile, you're on candid camera! I had to laugh at that thought. Who'd remember that these days? That show was over ten years before "Cleo" was even born.

I was pushed down into the plush velvet chairs, and she stood over me, one hand on her hip, just looking.

Eventually she said, "Ok James. I'm sure you know the rules, but here's a quick refresher, just so we are clear. I can touch you, you can't touch me. We are being watched," she indicated the small camera, "so no funny business. Put the cash on the table, so I know it's there, fair enough?"

She did at least smile when she said it, although there was no real joy in it. A store bought smile for a rented live action doll.

I gave that half shrug/half nod people do when they are saying "Sure, whatever", but with body language only, and then I reached for my wallet again.

Out came a crisp fifty, and then I laid another fifty next to it and smiled at her instead, only my smile was more genuine, although not by much, to be honest.

"There. A tip. Lets see you earn it."

Our timing was impeccable, since the last song was ending and the oil laden voice of the DJ was asking people to 'put their hands together for January, and let's welcome Petra to the stage." There was a smattering of half-hearted applause from beyond the curtains, and then a new song started.

I didn't know it, but Cleo did. She grinned at me, this time absolutely genuine and said, "This is a favorite. Nmercer – it's called Like a White Girl in a Gentleman's club"

And then she danced. I dunno, I'm no real judge, but I thought she was quite good. She undulated, kept good time, was some what flexible, kept her eyes on me the whole time when she was facing me, and the small white blouse she was wearing, tight and tied up showing her stomach, was the first thing to go.

Her tits were perfect. Ripe thirty four B's I judged. Not too big, not too small. Large areoles, and perfect nipples. I'm no expert on boob jobs, but if these were the result of implants, I wanted to give the surgeon a round of applause, cause they sure looked real to me.

She turned away from me, and arched her back, pushing the top of her head onto my chest, and I broke away from my staring at her, frankly, amazing body, and remembered I was here for a reason. I had three songs to get it done.

"I've gotta hand it to you, Cleo," I said, spreading both my arms out on the back of the chair, playing with some of the velvet with one hand, and tilting my head and pretending nonchalance, "I wanted to see the goods, and here I am...checking it all out. I've been very curious about you."

She turned, straddled me, the skirt rising up to show the thinnest of thongs underneath. She pushed herself up, so her tits where literally an inch from my face. She grasped them both with both hands, twisting her own nipples.

"And how do they look, baby?" she said, teasingly. "The goods up to your expectations?"

"Oh definitely. I was very curious about what it was that got my Alby all hot and bothered. Why she's running around on me with you. I figured if she got to enjoy the goods, I should too, don't you think?"

Cleo suddenly stopped writhing, and stepped back, standing up straight.

"What?" she said, a little flustered.

"Well, since you've been screwing my Alby for the past few weeks – three is it? Four? I thought that since you are in this game, I should come in and check out the competition. See what it is I'm up against. Get a look at what's destroying my relationship. I think that's only fair, don't you? It only cost me fifty bucks too – well, plus the coke and the entrance fee. Call it eighty bucks."

"I...I don't..." she stuttered, nervously.

"Yes, you do. Alby. Cute. Pixey. Blond. Five foot four. Tits like yours. But you know that, don't you 'Cleo'? Or can I call you Janice? That's your name. At least that's what it says on your mailbox, anyway. I feel like we are almost family. We're sharing someone very precious already. Lets not insult each other's intelligence with denials, OK? I know what's going on – it's not something I suspect, I KNOW, right?"

Her eyes widened in alarm at these statements. She just stood, staring at me, obviously unsure what to do next.

"Look, Janice. I'm not here to hurt you, ok? That would be stupid, and besides, they are watching, right?" I nodded towards the camera. "You should probably get back to dancing or they are going to want to know what's up. I did pay for three. Up front."

"I could... I could have you thrown out. Say you propositioned me," she said, with less stammering this time. She was obviously recovering her wits. Which was good. I couldn't explain and bargain with her in a rattled state. Or threaten her effectively.

"Yes, you could. I don't know what Alby has told you, but I'm sure she's mentioned I'm a lawyer, yes? I'm a good one too. I know exactly how to make people's lives miserable. Now, all I want to do is talk. I'm not going to touch you or do anything other than that, while you dance. We can do this, or you can get me thrown out, and probably roughed up, and then I'll start peppering this place with lawsuits, with your name prominently mentioned, so they'll have no doubt what is causing the issue, and then we can see what they choose to do? What they think is the easiest way forward, to resolve these issues. Is that what you want?"

I paused and leaned forward and continued, "Look, I paid for three songs. We are half way through the first one. Let me talk to you for the space of three songs, and then I'm gone. OK? Is that so hard? I think you owe me at least that, for the way you've been messing up my relationship. No?"

She glanced at the camera, then at me, and then came to a decision.

"Fine," she spat. "I'll dance. And then you'll leave, and then we won't have to sneak around any more. So that's something."

She started to dance again. Less expressive, and certainly with no passion, but at least she started undulating, slowly.

Then she stopped and looked at me and said, "Or are you here to just threaten me? To keep me away from her? Is that it? Lots of detail in how you are going to make my life miserable?"

"No," I said, leaning back. "I could, for sure. But if it's just threats, then that doesn't deal with the root issue. I need to convince you to back off, so you do it of your own volition. If I don't do that, then you'll just find ways to get around it. Sneak around more effectively. Whatever."

She laughed, humorlessly. "Fine. Go ahead. Convince me to not go after her. Convince me we shouldn't be together. Convince me she's not the love of my life, and I'm not the love of hers. Good fucking luck."

With that, she started dancing, more properly this time.

It was surreal. I was sitting, while the love of my life's stripper lover was dancing for me, trying to convince her to leave Alby alone.

"Ok, well, time's a wasting. So, love of your life eh? Well, look Janice, sorry to break it to you like this, but she may be the love of your life, but you are not the love of hers."

"And you are, right?" she snipped at me, sardonically. "Sure doesn't seem like it from where I'm sitting. It was my bed she was in last night."

"Before she had to leave, right?" I probed. "If she was so in love with you, she wouldn't have left, would she? The thing is Janice, she's not going to leave the marriage for you. She has too much to lose. She's a schoolteacher, for god's sake. Imagine what leaving to be with you would do to her career. Sure, she may survive it – she probably wouldn't, of course – but even if she did the school won't be happy. Her career would stall, and she'd be an instant pariah for the parents. You know that."

I switched gears for a second, to ask a question. "Actually, while I'm talking about that, I have to ask, how did you meet? I mean, I can hardly see her in here...?"

Janice smirked and said, "You might be surprised. But no, I have a younger sister, Polly. She's ten. She's in Alby's class at school."