Naughty or Nice (22 page)

T
ommie's number showed up on my caller ID.

I didn't answer, just turned my phone off and put my hand back in Carpe's lap.

Carpe drove me down Rosecrans, away from the beaches, past the 405, across Hawthorne, down under the dim lights on Western, an urban area that was black and Hispanic. Second-rate businesses, used car shops. Nothing sparkled on this strip.

He turned right on Western, slowed, then pulled over in the parking lot of a strip club.

He asked, “This okay?”

The building was stucco, small, nothing special. But the small parking lot was full.

I said, “Never been to one.”

“Never?”

Vibrations ran through me. The bass line from the music they were playing inside.

“Been to a bachelorette party,” I said. “Never a strip club.”

“How was the bachelorette party?”

“Wild.”

“How wild?”

“Women were on the guy jacking him off.”

“Pretending?”

“No, for real.”

“They make him come?”

“I think so.”

“You touch him?”

I laughed. “No comment.”

We sat in the car and looked out at the front of the building. Watched the people walking inside. My hand was on his leg, moving up and down, then making circles on his crotch.

He asked, “You want to?”

“I'm with you.”

 

Security patted Carpe down. We walked into a room filled with either topless or naked women in glittery thongs, trashy pleather lingerie, and six-inch stilettos. We were dressed in blacks, him in a leather jacket, and me in a new leather skirt. So many different types of perfumes mixed with the smell of so many different brands of alcohol. Weaves were all over the place, some looked good, some atrocious. The women were mostly black, but quite a few were white, Asian, or Hispanic, doubt if many were over thirty, and the ones who were over thirty, doubt if they got as much attention as the girls who were barely legal. Some of them were slim with the bodies of aerobics instructors. One had fresh stretch marks. Another had more tattoos than I could count. Some had on the wrong makeup. Hair in every primary color. Fake boobs. Hot pants. Thigh-high boots. I watched men watch the women. The dancers with the junk in the trunk and the women with the real curves got the most attention.

Carpe asked, “Where you wanna sit?”

“I'm with you.”

We moved past the pool tables, by men transfixed with their lap dancers. A few looked at me, eyes lingering on an ass they'd never get to feel, taste, touch, or smell.

I made a face. “I can dance better than that.”

“There's an empty spot.”

I felt uneasy, but the place had a big neon sign:
WOMEN FRIENDLY
.
There were groups of women here, sitting on the front row, getting lap dances, that look of lust in their eyes. Some
were here with their dates, men who were getting off on letting their woman get a lap dance, or their woman was getting off by watching another woman arouse her dick for the night.

The dancers performed for men, made their asses shake one cheek at a time, rubbed their breasts on the men's faces, touched themselves without shame.

After twenty minutes of looking at naked women, I had adjusted. I was about ready to leave and go back to my nest in Manhattan Beach, make love, shower, then head back to Frankie's so we could finish wrapping presents and start making pies.

Then this dancer named Panther took the stage.

Panther was dark, sensuous, exotic eyes, and full lips. She had perfect mocha skin and was very curvaceous. Nipples like ripe raspberries. Hair was like spun silk, a top-shelf weave. She danced like the ocean, movements that hardened men and softened women.

He asked, “What do you think about her?”

“She's beautiful.” She was thicker than most of the other women, didn't have that L.A.-ness about her. “Want her to dance for you?”

We watched her dance her way out of her silver boy shorts and bra. She danced like she was born in stilettos. She was nice up top, a B-cup at the most, full and curvy on the bottom.

Carpe rubbed his finger across my palm. “What do you think?”

I nodded and smiled. “She's hot.”

“She's sexy. Classy. Not a hood-rat ghetto stripper.”

“She's like a . . . goddess.”

We held hands and watched her for a while. I reached over and touched Carpe between his legs. He was swelling. I traced the outline of his penis.

I said, “I'll be back.”

I took a few dollars and went over to the edge of the stage. Panther saw me and came toward me. She was naked, a woman sculpted from the sweetest mound of chocolate. The closer she
came, the prettier she looked. Beautiful skin moistened by some sort of cream blended with sparkle dust. She had an ethereal, luminescent appearance.

I put three dollars down. “My . . . the guy I'm with . . .”

“Over there?”

“Yeah, him. He thinks you're hot.”

She smiled. “Wow. Thanks.”

Her voice was soft, made her sound so innocent, as if she had never heard that before, as if she had no idea how beautiful she was, as if she had no idea how the men and women in this room were eye-sexing her the moment she walked out on the stage.

I said, “He . . . We . . . The guy I'm with . . . he . . . wants you to dance for him.”

She reached down and took my hand, but she never stopped dancing. “Sure.”

My heart was about to burst from my breasts.

Palms became a river; throat a desert. I managed to say, “Okay.”

“I'll come see you as soon as I finish.”

She let my hand go and I felt lost, had the same expression a lot of the men in the room had while women sold them fantasies at ten dollars a dance. The expression of seduction.

When I turned around to go back to my table, I felt wobbly, like the whole room was watching my clumsy, uneven steps. Carpe didn't say anything when I sat down, just put his hand on my thigh, traced his fingers up and down my leg. I sipped half of my wine, cleared my throat, and wondered if my desire was raining from my pores.

Panther did a pole dance that had dollars raining at her feet.

He nudged me and asked, “Can you do that?”

“If I could move like that,” I laughed, “I'd be a millionaire ten times over.”

Song after song, Panther moved with seduction and invitation. She had great showmanship, shimmying up and down that pole, twisting and writhing, so damn limber, doing isolations like she'd had a lot of African dance classes, maybe even a
class or two in public relations because she knew how to make everyone she touched feel special.

She kept looking at me, smiling in a way that told me she'd be coming to visit our table soon. She stood on the edge of the stage, made her butt bounce to the beat, then made it go round and round. While she did that she took her breasts in her hands, ran her tongue across her nipples, sucked on her black pearls. Her eyes came back to me.

The stares she gave me made me think she wanted me too.

I imagined my hands cupping her breasts.

Then I put my drink to my lips and swallowed, tried to wash that image out of my brain.

 

Panther came to our table wearing a different outfit, a goddess in a yellow thong and bra.

She asked me, “Have you been here before?”

“No.”

Her voice was music. “You look familiar.”

She rubbed my hair in a way that made me feel exotic. Electricity ran through me and just like that I was giddy. It scared me that a woman could touch me and excite me that way.

I struggled to maintain my coolness, said, “First time here.”

“Nice to meet you.” She smiled at Carpe, then looked back and forth between both of us. “Who am I dancing for?”

I told her, “Him.”

She pulled her thong off, stood in front of me, naked and beautiful, and told me, “Pull your chair up so people can get by.”

“Okay.”

I moved and Panther was sandwiched between us. She faced my lover, but her ass was touching my legs, moving up against me.

They were laughing, saying things I couldn't hear, openly flirting. He whispered something in her ear and her smile broadened. Then she whispered something back. And she moved. God, I'd never be able to move like that, so liquid and sexy and vulgar all at once.

Carpe, the look on his face, the glaze in his eyes, I didn't exist anymore.

Panther was a goddess, and goddesses turn men into slaves.

She looked back and touched my legs, put her hands inside my thighs, had me open my legs so she could have more room to work her body up against mine at the same time.

The record was over and I gave her the ten dollars. My hand was shaky.

He said, “Dance for Bird.”

I shook my head. “No.”

He said, “Fine. Dance for me again.”

She winked at me and laughed, danced facing him. Then she turned around and faced me, touched my hair again, put her hand on my legs when she leaned over and started rubbing her backside against him. Her eyes stayed on mine. Her eyes; she had lover's eyes, the kind that hypnotized and made me drift to a place where there was no pain or thought.

She asked me, “Are you a virgin?”

“A virgin?”

She licked her lips. I did the same. Her eyes stayed with me. Panther's beauty filled my vision, and I inhaled her scent. Her hands touched me, a very light pressure that went so deep. I wanted to pull back, but I didn't. She had me anchored.

She asked, “Ever had a lap dance?”

“No.”

“You're a virgin.”

“Oh.”

“Sure you don't want to give me your cherry?”

I asked, “Would that be my Christmas present to you?”

“Could be my present to you.”

Her smile remained sweet and confident. Mine became nervous.

She asked, “Where you from?”

“Here. You?”

“Atlanta.”

“Never been there.”

Her fingers traced my clothes. “I love your outfit.”

“Thanks.”

Heat and tingles made me shift. She leaned forward, gave Carpe her backside, her breasts grazing me, our position looking like were having a ménage à trois.

She said, “Your shoes are off the chains.”

“Thanks.”

“Manolo?”

“Manolo.” I beamed. “How do you like L. A?”

“Love the beaches. But I might move back to Atlanta.”

She came closer to me; spread my legs, stood closer, her perfume a wonderful sweetness, her hair moving against my face, her breasts pressing up on me. She raised one breast, rubbed it across my face. One touch and I was floating. Everything around me disappeared. She bent over again, her backside rubbing against Carpe's crotch, her face and breath between my thighs. She touched me, but I wasn't supposed to touch her. That didn't seem fair. Not at all.

“Goddamn.”

“Dey get'n dey freak on up in here tonight.”

That came from a group of guys at the next table. Voyeurs wearing Lugz boots, baggy FUBU jeans, and Raiders baseball caps. Whenever the record ended, we told Panther to keep dancing. We lost count. My hips moved with her. My body came to life and danced with her. We were setting the room on fire, becoming the show. Most of the room watching us, so many men with one hand on their beers, the other on their crotches, so many women with rock-hard nipples the size of raisins, mouths wide open, looks of desire painted on all of their faces.

Carpe paid her, gave her a nice tip. Panther put her money in her garter, held my hand, smiled like we were the best of friends. Or maybe we had been lovers in another lifetime.

I told her, “Thanks . . . thanks. Nice meeting you.”

“Come back and see me.”

Call me foolish, but I felt like we had bonded, wanted to ask
Panther what her real name was. But I knew this was her gig, that her sweet voice and excellent presentation, her looks of adoration, the attention she gave, was all false, bought and paid for by the record, by the dance.

Then she was gone. Within minutes she was across the room, naked, dancing for another man, offering him her breasts and ass and smiles and laughs.

Carpe asked, “How did Panther make you feel?”

“She made me really want her.”

“Would you?”

“I wouldn't want to do anything that I might regret afterward.”