Rift by Richard Cox Page B

ripe with a pleasant cinnamon fragrance. We find a table several feet away from the main stage and order a pitcher. I sip on my beer for ten minutes, watching the slow procession of women as they take turns dancing for the small audience. There are fifteen or so customers besides Tom and myself. Two are women at a table together. Several men are here alone.
    Tom quickly guns down half the pitcher. He wants to go sit at “pervert row,” where the women will dance especially for you and put their barely concealed privates within inches of your eyes. I can stall him for only so long. Finally, when a stunning blonde takes the stage, he takes my arm and pushes me toward her.
    The music is louder beside the stage. A layered orchestra of guitars and screaming, multitracked vocals melts my ears, imploring me to pour some sugar on someone. I place my beer on the table in front of me and reach for my wallet.
    The present dancer is perhaps the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are bright blue and her tanned skin is velvety perfect. Contoured muscles and breasts the size of large melons are unmarked by discernible tan lines. She is probably twenty-five years old.
    Tom pulls out a dollar bill, and the girl smiles as she dances, moving toward him, striking poses along the way that would make most women blush. He returns the smile and leans forward to improve his view. I watch as she throws herself toward him, then onto the stage, where she lies on her back and begins to thrust her pelvis up and down in a rhythmic motion that follows the music’s simple beat. A few seconds later she scoots forward and pulls the G-string out a little, high on the hip, so Tom can insert his dollar. He clearly wishes she would dance for him a little longer, but the song has reached its closing chorus, and if she doesn’t move on to me it means one less dollar this time around.
    So now it’s my turn. Unlike Tom, I don’t just stare between her legs the entire time. A live dancer is not a two-dimensional picture, after all, but a human being with feelings and emotions who will observe my arousal. And I don’t flash my money right away. I look into her eyes first, as if to establish personal contact, and then gradually gaze over her entire body, drinking in that flawless figure. She lies on the stage, never taking her eyes off me, and slides her hand over her skin, moving as my eyes move. I arrive at the G-string, red and tiny, and she glides her hand there, not touching herself but creating an effective illusion. Next she turns over, showing me her smooth backside, and then the song comes to its conclusion. The dance is over. My muscles relax.
    She turns around, scoots toward me, and pushes her breasts together. I grab a five from my pocket and place it between them. Her teeth are gleaming white, perfectly capped.
    â€œThank you,” I say.
    â€œYou’re welcome,” she says. “You’re cute.”
    â€œI bet you say that to all the men.”
    â€œNot on your life,” she returns. “We get a lot of creeps in here.”
    â€œHow much for a table dance?”
    â€œIt’s normally twenty dollars, but for you,” she pretends to think, “ten.”
    â€œI’ll tip you more than that.”
    â€œI know.”
    For each new song another woman comes out, and it’s time for our dancer to leave. She gets to her feet and winks at me, then waves at Tom. We head back to our table.
    â€œLook at the stud,” Tom says as we take our seats. “I think she likes you.”
    â€œIt helps if you’re nice. And loose with the cash.”
    â€œSay what you want, but I think she’d come back to the apartment with us if you asked her.”
    I shake my head at that and gulp down the remaining beer in my glass. I may have seemed confident when she was dancing for me, but that was spontaneous, something I didn’t have time to think about. Now that I know she’s