J. T. dashed the short block and a half from the subway to
Club DanceFire
, his heart thumping its strenuous objection to too many professional dinners, too few rounds of golf and the resultant pounds of flab. He zigzagged clumsily through the Friday night revelers like a man possessed, ignoring the pelting rain that blurred his vision and stung the generous bald spot that crowned his hatless head. Over-exertion had begun to burn its way across his chest and down the length of his aching legs. It scared him, but not enough to make him slow down.
What in God’s name am I doing here? What am I trying to prove?
Mid-stride he checked his watch. It was almost midnight and closing time was one. He quickened his pace and despite feeling out of control, out of place and out of breath, soon found himself in front of the club.
He stepped through the doorway and nodded at the heavyweight bouncer who stood, arms folded across his chest, smirking down at him.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” he boomed.
How fucking embarrassing. I should go home. Now!
But he didn’t. Instead, he watched himself with wary suspicion as he would a fifty year old furtive stranger, slinking toward that table on the aisle. He wasn’t interested in the two girls onstage sharing the silver pole and each other; and he couldn’t have cared less about the whispered seductions, hot breaths into lonely ears, purring all across the floor. None of them had her face, so he concentrated on the flow of traffic moving back and forth along the aisle to
The Lapdance Lounge
, the place where dancers danced, offering much more than they intended to give; the place where men paid for promises.
He slouched deeper in his seat, as if that posture and the moody darkness would conspire to cloak him in invisibility, and settled into his watch, scanning the joint like a pimp looking for his favorite mama. The scene was a moving blur. He blinked calibrating his binocular eyes to focus on one object only, no matter the distance. He blinked again, scanning the room slowly with meticulous care, but tonight the target was nowhere to be found.
“Maybe she changed her mind about working tonight,” he reasoned miserably.
She was Desiree, an exotic dancer, and
he
was Judge William Thompson. He couldn’t believe that it was only a week ago that an associate’s drunken stag had ended up here and he’d first seen her. It seemed like a lifetime ago because since that first visit, his life hadn’t been his own. This vixen had invaded his psyche, erased and reprogrammed the database of his very soul. Gone was the conservative, ambitious political judge and in his place was this needy, obsessed and vulnerable man who lived only to see and be seen by Desiree.
“Back again,” chirped the all-too-cheery waitress. “That’s six days in a row!”
“Seven,” J.T. snapped. “And what business is it of yours?”
“Sorry, didn’t mean anything by it,” the waitress apologized. “The usual?”
“Fine,” J.T. said sheepishly.
“Desiree’s in back with a regular,” she blurted gratuitously, before scurrying off toward the bar.
J.T. was appreciating a moment’s silence from the music that had been bursting his eardrums ever since he arrived, when the D.J’s voice announced over the speaker:
Grab yourselves a drink and get ready for Angel Eyes . . .
“Your drink, sir,” said the waitress, setting his Chivas carefully in front of him. “Desiree should be out soon.” Her voice was kind, soothing.
“Thanks,” J.T. said, reaching for his drink with one hand and fumbling for his wallet with the other. He dropped a twenty on her tray. “Thanks,” he repeated. “Keep the chan…,” his voice trailed off.
Desiree was gliding toward him, a flushed and smiling businessman in tow. J.T. jumped up and in one second flat was standing in her path, gawking. Red high-heeled leather boots covered her shapely legs to mid thigh and black fishnet stockings teased to the edge of a matching red-leather, long sleeved turtle necked number that tapered her waist and exaggerated the ripe fleshiness of her firmly contained breasts. A sturdy brass zipper emerged brazenly from between her legs to reach all the way to her neck. Noticing him, she slowed her pace, teasing him with the sway of her shoulders, the deliberate outlining of her lips with her pink tongue. She kidnapped his eyes and sent erotic currents coursing along his nerve ends and his cock puffed and lurched with desire.
She was close, so close. She invaded his space. He could feel her breath, feel her body’s heat and it took more than all the willpower he had not to grab her. It took the knowledge that she could have him thrown out on his ear, that he could lose her, his reputation and his career. It took that to keep his hands from grabbing his crotch and rubbing, stroking and massaging pleasure onto his dripping cock and heavy balls, until he came and came.
“Can I have the next dance?” he gushed.
