Girl # 3

Friday, June 22, 2018. Caligula. Austin, Texas.

The first one approaches from my right, Coors Light on the small table in front of me, leans over and asks if I want company, seeping into my atmosphere, decent rack. Oh, I just walked in.  Maybe later. She floats away.  Nothing interesting on the stage, just the dimly-lit bump and grind. 

Time passes.  Yes, I’ll have another one.

Girl # 2 dramatically sits on my lap, one side of her blonde  hair falling over her left eye, the other side of her hair tucked behind her right ear. Could I use some company, playing faux innocent. Young, if I want. I'm okay for now. Just a couple of beers and I'm out. Going to a concert in a bit, thanks, though. Fine. She extricates her ass from my leg.  An hour has passed. Another Coors. More boobs, ass and lasers.

And then Parker. Goddam Parker.

She walks toward me, stepping off stage right, approaches me, toned calves, runner's calves.  Tanned.  Her upper legs, tight, fit.  Squats, I assume, leg lifts.  Black bikini bottoms. No hint of hair, from what I could see between her swinging hips. She is sauntering toward a spot just beyond me. My eyes move up her body to her small, muscular stomach and I prepare to turn my head as she walks past me so I can catch a side boob glimpse and  she stops and turns to face me, her full breasts now full in front of  my eyes. They are clasped together by a gold colored bra, little buckle in the middle.

She asked me something as I continued the visual journey up her body to her neck, soft and supple, brown, like the rest of her body, and, before I made my way to her chin and face, I instinctively opened my hand to the empty chair to my right, answering her, saying, "Sure,” the answer to a question I did not hear.

Nice chin, angular, almost like a man's, full lips, thin nose, wide brown eyes, full brown hair almost to her shoulders. Exotic. Maybe Mexican, maybe Indian.  Peculiarly beautiful. Kind of unbelievable.

She was frowning.  It looked like a new frown.  "Your name is 'sure," she asked me, the music thumping away whatever it was she was saying.

I didn't understand the question or why she was still standing so I opened my hand again toward the still-empty chair and said, "Sure.  What's your name?"

She took my outstretched hand and lowered herself into the spot next to me. "My name is Parker," she said.  Well hot damn.  Parker is sitting next to me.  God damn the pusher man.

She laughed when I said "I'm Steve" and I smiled back at her but I didn't quite know why she had laughed at me.

She asked what I was doing here and I didn't know if she meant here the club or here the city but I told her all about the Blue Oyster Cult concert I was going to attend at the Empire, just off Sixth Street, my room at the Hilton downtown and my reservation at Wu Chow and she said that Wu Chow was one of her favorite places in Austin, had never heard of Blue Oyster Cult and ignored my sleeping arrangements.  I'm certain I was not the only man to walk into Caligula and casually (or not so casually) mention a hotel room.  I asked her where she worked out and she glanced off the question, answering instead with her work out routine, which suited me just fine.  Not a runner but lots of cross fit and ab work.  I complimented her body.  She asked me if was an ass man or a boob man, which seemed kind of like an old man question but I told her I was a sucker for a nice ass, although my true passion, which I did not share, is a perfectly shaped foot. But I didn't think she would stick her bare toes in my face at Caligula. I don't know, maybe she would have. But I knew I could get a close up of her back thong for the going  dance rate.  PG-13 prostitution.

She moved her chair around to the other side of the tiny table so we were facing each other. She leaned forward and pushed her boobs in with the side of her arms and asked, "Not a puppy fan?"  I smiled and told her she had a great front view.  She stood up, turned around, leaned her backside over ever so slightly, looked over her shoulder, her hair leaning toward her breasts and asked me, "But you like this more," and then she shimmied a bit and sat back down.

I asked her what she liked to do for fun.  Dancing, it turned out.  Not this dancing.  Real dancing.  At a real nightclub.

The waitress came by.  Parker wasn't drinking when I offered but I got another Coors, grateful I didn't have to spend $12 on pineapple juice for her.  More cash in my pocket for the inevitable question, which was going to be yes as soon as she asked.

She asked what else I was doing in Austin and I told her that I was going to Barnes and Noble the next day, Saturday, to get a new book, maybe something from Bob Woodward, and then catch a movie—if there was anything interesting playing—before heading back to San Antonio.

The hip hop music changed to rock, Dr. Feelgood by Motley Crue. I started moving my left leg up and down to the beat and she asked if I liked this music more. I said oh yea. She asked if I wanted a dance. I said yes. She got up and extended her hand, a smirk on her face. A lovely smirk. I stood. She was, in her heels, taller than I was and she guided me, hand in hand, toward the back of the club, traversing the same path she had walked to greet me moments before, right side of the stage, this time moving me beyond, toward the back. She held my hand the whole way. We reached the back, off-off stage right, where there were three couches lined up side by side, each one bedecked in dark red material, almost crimson. She picked the couch to the far right, pivoting me in that direction, walking to the scene of the forthcoming crime. She shoved me down on the couch and claimed the space across from me in a velvet chair, her chair. Now she is sitting in front of me, scooting the chair up in between us, leaving no separation between our legs, our knees touching. She leaned back, opened her legs as wide as the chair would let her, our knees now spread out together, mine on the outside, hers on the inside. She is grinning at me, asking me how many I want, running her fingers down the space between her navel and the top of her panties.

I looked at her eyes and glanced at her black bikini bottoms, feeling the pressure of her knees against mine.

I don't ever want to leave. God damn the pusher man.

"I. Uhmm. Four or five, I suppose."

"Oh that's beautiful," she said, but her playfulness, the dance in her eyes, the teasing smile of her lips, disappeared. She got the job. Motley Crue stopped playing and was replaced by Whitesnake's Here I Go Again. She suddenly dropped to her knees in front of me, put her hands on my legs just above my knees, slowly moving her petite hands up toward my hips, looking at me, not breaking eye contact. Then she stood and turned around. She bent over and slithered her body back toward me, between my legs. Her back, at its most narrow, was not much further across than the breadth of my outstretched hand. Moving my eyes up her back, she had a tattoo, maybe it was a dragon, spread between her shoulder blades. Her body was compressed. When she turned back around to face me, her stomach area was small and tone, muscled. She took off her bra, deftly manipulating the buckle in the middle, letting it slip to the  floor, looking down at me, all brown eyes and brown hair, full and clean. Then she took off her black panties, revealing a thin black thong. She put her face on the side of my face and whispered something. I brushed her hair back so I could take in her smell, her smooth brown neck, imagined kissing it, biting it, hearing her moan, losing myself in the sensation.

She danced for me to one more long haired '80's tune, then Nickleback and then it was time to change strippers on the main stage. The short intermission gave each of us a break. I was breathing heavier than she was. My watch buzzed on my wrist.

She moved a small table behind us, balanced herself on the edge, kissed me, pristine, light on the lips and said, "You asked me what I like to do. What do you like to do?"

I choked. I mean literally. The Coors worked its way up my nose. Cough. Cough. Fuck, she was beautiful. It was not a dumb question. It was not "Oh, so, ummmmm, what do you do, baby," sniffing for cash. What do I like? Well, hell, I like this.

Waitress comes by, asks if we want anything, talking  to both of us but staring at Parker, who is essentially naked at this point, except for that tiny black thong. Parker demurs. Me, I'll take another Coors.

Here Comes the Rain Again. New stage girl starts dancing. Break is over. Parker, off the table, making an “S” with her body to Annie Lenox's voice, turns her face and torso away from me, bends over at a perfect ninety degree angle. I grin. It’s a good moment. The Eurhythmics continue. Across Austin, the warm up band is done and the voices of the Empire crowd grow louder in anticipation. “B-O-C! B-O-C!” Parker twists and turns for me, occasionally making eye contact but mostly dancing for herself. Damn her.

Turning around, she gives me a frontal. I am looking  at her denuded breasts, conveniently placed inches from my nose when a song (by The Heavy she tells me) blends in and she turns around, bends over, her short hair almost reaching the floor. Her ass  is a thing to witness. She gyrates, then drops her torso, lowering her rear haunches onto my erection and she moves her backside up and down and side to side, slowing down and lifting away only when she feels my legs starting to tense, my hands gripping the cushions beside me, then relaxing.  She changes gears, intensifying and slowing down, at least three times until the song abruptly ends and, like that, she's off of me, seated in the chair across from me, smiling, moving the table back between us.

I'm halfway staring at the ceiling, halfway thinking about Blue Oyster Cult. Dizzy. Lights dim; the evening softens. She grasps my hand from across the table, moves it toward her heart and, focusing me, asks, “You okay?"

Her face clarifies and I nod yes, take out six twenty dollar bills and hand them to her. She looks  at the money, considers the transaction. "It's just a hundred hun," she says after a few beats. Slight frown.

"I can't tip the hottest dancer in Austin,” I ask. She waits.

"You may," she replies, that sexy smirk returning. She takes my phone and tries to do something with it. She asks for my passcode, gets it from me, types, and hands it back to me. The DJ says, “Parker. Stage one.”

"I'm next," she says, "call me after your show."

Goddam, Parker. I'm late for Wu Chow.

Across town, I rush through my tangerine peel beef, a few more beers and head to Empire, where BÔC has already torn through their first three numbers. Found a parking lot, over-paid the attendant and walked to the venue. The outdoor crowd was roughly divided between UT kids and older people like me who were in high school when Reaper hit. 

It was not difficult to snake my way through the loosely assembled fandom to just in front of center stage. Close enough to see the guitarist’s exaggerated grimaces through multiple guitar solos. Then, just after ten, the simple terrifying elegance of Godzilla begins. After Go Go Godzilla, amid applause, the unmistakable strains of Don’t Fear the Reaper begin. It is a cathartic, satisfying five minutes. As the song ends, I yell YEA after an evening of polite clapping. I walk to the bathroom. As I’m in, I hear the fandom chanting for an encore. Idiots. Don’t Fear the Reaper always ends the set. Always. 

I start walking toward the merc area. Suddenly, Cities on Flame starts up. What? I creep back to my old spot. Cities on flame with rock and roll. I am beyond satiated. I decide to skip the tee shirt area and am shuffled through the bar, a local band warming up, and walk to my vehicle.

Across the street, ears ringing, I sit in my car. Phone needs to be  charged. I plug the android into my USB in the center console. It lights up.

Wait.

Wait a sec. Parker. Did she?

I look at my texts, missed calls. Nothing. What did she do with my phone? Fuck. Nothing.

I source through my options on my vehicle’s infotainment system until I get to Disc. Stevie Ray Vaughan. Dirty Pool. I put my transmission in reverse. Look at my back-up cam. Back, Back. Brake. Good to go.  I stick it in drive. Phone is at 2%. At the exit, I am still examining my phone.

Contacts maybe? Scrolling contacts and ...

Son.

Of. 

A.

Bitch.

Goddam Parker is on my contacts list. “512 Parker.” Numerals so she would be at the top of the list.

I  pull my Equinox back into the spot, turn the engine off. I cannot believe this. I drop the phone. My hands are shaking. I retrieve the phone from the floor board and keep looking at it in my left hand. She said, “Call me after the show.” The show is over. Why are you staring at your phone? My mouth is dry. I hit dial. Fuck. Fuck me. Stop gasping. Bluetooth connects and her voice fills the cabin. “Parker. Don’t leave a message. Fucking text me.” I leave a voicemail of me essentially hyperventilating. Hang up. I’m stupid. “Fucking text me.” Got it. I text a Hail Mary message, giving her my hotel address, room number, would love to see you. I drop the phone on the seat. Not accidentally this time. More like a mic drop. I feel like Cam Newton. Panthers Cam Newton, not Patriots Cam Newton. Spike.

I get to my room. Change into lounge pants, no shirt, turn off the AC. Lay down. She hasn’t responded. I doze off. It’s midnight. 

Two and a half hours pass. With no air conditioning, the room warms just to my liking. I am on top of the covers beginning to hug a pillow when there is a knock on the door.

I sit up on the edge of the bed. Cold chills run down the back of my arms. Look at my phone. A missed call. Two texts. My eyes start to focus and I start to read the text. An insistent knock. It’s two thirty. My Parker. Damn her.

I walk to the door, open it.

Parker is five four, one hundred and ten pounds. She has put her brown hair into a single ponytail. She looks to be a 34D, thin waist. She has glasses on with no prescription. She has dark brown eyes. Her jeans are fitted, not tight, lightly acid washed blue and she has a large black tee shirt on, covering her body. In the middle of the chest area is a Longhorns logo. She has switched from stripper heels to sneakers, grey with white bottoms, untied shoe laces. She is carrying a light blue Kate Spade purse. I’m staring.

“You gonna let me in,” she asks.

“Of, of course,” I answer—dizzy again—and gesture my arm to guide her in. She walks in, I let go and the door automatically slams behind her.

“Kinda small,” she says, looking around my room.

“Are we expecting company,” I counter.

She laughs, puts her arms around my neck, kisses me lightly on the lips, tiptoeing gratuitously.

“I’ve been up since noon and I’m probably pulling an all nighter so I’m going to bump,” she says, reaching into her purse, “you wanna join?”

I blank stare her. She pulls out a small, thin bottle. It reminds me of the container that my father used to carry his nitro pills in, in case of a heart attack. I continue to look at Parker.

Finally she says, “You’re a mensch. It’s coke. Cocaine. Yes or no, babe.”

“No,” I say. “Oh no, no.” I sound like Ringo Starr.

The place is hers. She sits on the edge of the bed, while I remain standing and she places  the small brown nitro bottle on the night stand. “You got a problem,” she asks, exhaling out in a long sigh, rolling her eyes up to judge me.

“Oh no,” I answered. She’s upset with me just staring at her, waiting to see how this drug thing works.  “God no. No no. I just. I’ve just never done it.” She half grins at me. “It’s not a deal,” I say, “go ahead.”

She looks at me like I’m a dead museum exhibit.

“Why’s it so hot in here,” she asks,  looking up at me.

“I can turn the AC on.”

I turned around to the controller on the wall to my side and turned the unit back on and then went to my Nike bag and, anticipating the cool fake air, pulled out a tee shirt and put it on. I sat on the floor in front of her, my back against the wall, just beneath the thermostat, looking up at her.

Parker unscrewed the cap from the small brown bottle and put a pinch of white powder between knuckle one and two of her right hand and then another pinch between knuckle two and three and slightly extended her fist toward me. “You sure,” she asked.

“I’m good.”

She brought her fist to her left nostril, sniffed, adjusted to her right nostril, moving between the knuckles, sniffed again. Then she struck her fist out to me. “Lick it,” she said.

I leaned forward and, on all fours, licked between the knuckles of her hand, then leaned back against the wall.

“You’re cute,” she said.

“Thank you for coming. I was really hoping but not expecting ...” I choked on the word “it.” She was silent. “You know,” I continued. She was looking in my general direction. “Thank you for trusting me,” I concluded.

We passed a minute in silence. 

“You want a dance,” she asked.

“Are you spending the night?” I answered a question with a question with a directness I did not know I had.

“Steve,” she said.

 We sit in silence for another minute. 

“If I don’t get a call out, I’ll stay with you but I can’t promise anything. I like you. I do trust you. You’re a rube. The dances, that’s a job. I’m not here to shake you down, Steve. I live in Georgetown but my job is here. You’re here so it works out for me for now but you’re gone in a few hours. I don’t need any more groupies. You’re convenient, honey, that’s all.” She pauses, examining my reaction, slowing her words down. “I’m not trying to hurt you. Let me dance for you. Kill some time. If I don’t get the call out, I’d love to stay here. It would be better than having to drive home 40 miles in this fucking rain.” She is looking at me, waiting for a decision, as if I’m in charge.

“How,” I start, “how much would it take to k-keep you here?”

She laughed. “You don’t have it, lawyer man.” Then her eyes went cold. “Don’t ruin this,” she says. I consider my options.

“Dance for me,” I tell her after another silent minute.

She takes her shoes, jeans and big tee shirt off and dances energetically for five songs I pick from my Amazon music account, fast and slow, just like at the club. I pay her. She tells me she’s tired. Instructs me to lay down, which I do, in the middle of our made bed.  She lies next to me and within a few seconds she is breathing heavy, asleep by my side.

An hour later she stirs, murmurs and says, “Take your shirt off,” which I do. She then lays her head on my bare chest. “Mmmm,” she says, laying her leg across my knees, and falls asleep again.

I want to touch the top of her head but I do not. I just look, drifting in and out of a shallow sleep every few moments, the sensation of her naked breasts next to my torso.

Twenty minutes pass.

Her phone lights up. I am uncertain how Parker, snoring, knows, but she extracts her head from my chest, picks the phone up from the nightstand and accepts the call, saying nothing. She groggily sits up on the side of our bed, momentarily separating from me. There is distance between us. I look at her bare back, shadows flashing across her shoulder blades in our room, smoldering in the air between us. She breathes out—I can almost see the mist of her breath—tosses her hair back, listening to a voice as she pins the phone against her ear. “Sure,” she says at last and hangs up.

To the air in front of her, resigned, she bows her head and says, “I gotta go, babe,” but I am not her babe. It’s just a word.

To the air in front of me, I nod in assent. I will never have this again.

She gets up, begins putting  her tee shirt and jeans back on.  It’s my turn to sit on the edge of the bed. She collects her purse, her keys, then turns around, looking down at me in the dim light.  In spite of my best instincts, my eyes are filling with tears. I will never have this again. I do not look up. She rubs the top of my head as if I am her kid brother. I start to get up and she, hands on my shoulders, keeps me in my place. “Don’t walk me to the door,” she says, her voice suddenly husky, and walks off, leaving me in the shadows, belonging to her, belonging to the room, her room.  I hear the door open and I wait for the automatic slam before I let the tears flow, hoping I won’t make any noise. I wait. What is she doing? I start to get up, no hands on my shoulders this time.

“Steve,” she says from across the room, purse in one hand, door handle in the other. I sit back down and wait. The room darkens even more, no shadows, and time slows. “You’re a good guy,” she says. Even from here, her body smells so good.

“Take care.”

The hotel room door involuntarily slams. I lie back down and sleep.

Thursday, October 4, 2018.

The last few months have been hellacious busy. Parker changed her cell phone number. Caligula, by policy, does not give out information about dancers’ schedules or status of employment but I’m free to drop in at any time, they say.

Friday, October 5, 2018.

I’m in Austin, sitting at the bar at Wu Chow. I’ll be at Caligula in less than an hour. My watch buzzes. Elevated heart rate. I close my eyes, order a Bulliet to sip on, relax, work on a story for an online writing contest, wait for dinner.

After dinner, as I’m driving across town, it begins to rain.

I park, grab my grey trench coat from the trunk, tying the belt around my torso as I put it on, cross the parking lot, and slip in. I walk through the doors and into the darkened area of the strip club, all velvet seats, tiny tables, couches against the wall, thump-thumping music, colored spotlights and strobes. Hot girls. I stop, waiting for my eyes to adjust, reach for the belt holding my trench coat, when I hear a female voice yell SIR and a big dude in a suit steps in front of me. I look at him and he points to the girl at the front door. COVER, she yells. I don’t move. The guy, in a voice higher than I would have expected, again points at her and patiently explains, “There’s a ten dollar cover charge, buddy.”

I walk out of the strip area and back to the foyer. I give the girl a twenty, keep the change, sorry about that. Bruno has disappeared. 

I walk back into the darkened area of the strip club, all velvet seats, tiny tables, couches against the wall, thump-thumping music, colored spotlights and strobes. Hot girls. I stop, waiting for my eyes to adjust.