(SF. 1999)

    In your grey striped bathroom wrapped in a monogrammed towel, you shaved. You splashed on Amber aftershave by Tom Ford. You button your favourite cornflower blue Fred Perry shirt. You look good for forty-two, you think. You listen to Aerosmith, but kind of like Marilyn Manson. You don’t tell the guys that you’ll meet later in a bar in Hayes Valley that you like Manson, or they’ll think you’re a fag.  The guys from work are twenty-five with sharp jaws and gym memberships. They travel business class and will do anything for free miles and American Express points.  

    Two duck pot-stickers and three cosmos later, you pile in a cab with the guys and roll over to O’Farrell and Larkin Street to hit the titty bar where you can get a handjob-maybe more. You wonder if Mark got a bigger check than you today, and you get a jolt of rage that settles in your gut, but you got your bonus and there’ll be more to come. Your portfolio is stellar and blowing up faster than real estate in Vegas. You’re looking early retirement in the eye. You own a couple rentals in Silicone Valley and have a sweet country home in Danville for weekends. You bought new Escalade. Thank God you hid your assets from the wife. You’re relieved that you divorced her after six years of mechanical cold sex. Now you wanted some full contact friction.

            The Century’s open until 4a.m. so sometime after 2a.m. you staggered in with the guys from what’s-his-name-from-work’s bachelor party. A girl in pink and black polka dots and bangs bounces up to you. She’s more alternative than you usually go for but she’s got dangerous curves and a sincere smile. She smells like cotton candy bubblegum and says, “Let’s go play.”  You’re flattered and shit-faced and wonder if you’ll be able to get it up. Of course you will. You wonder what this chick means by “play” and you decide to find out. The guys roar with laughter and high five you when the very tattooed girl sticks her erect nipples close to your mouth. You stagger after her towards a private area where she informs you “Nude full-contact dances are sixty bucks a song.”

You feel your head nod. She directs you like a circus monkey: “Sit here,” and presses you down until you plop onto a black vinyl couch. You’re drunker than you thought and regret the shot of Petron.

              “Put your weapons on that table,” she says.

            You laugh and empty your pockets of phones, lighters, keys and wallet and set them down next to a lamp the same colour and style as the room, which all had a theme, but you can’t remember what. There were blue walls and white fluffy clouds, maybe a King Tut lamp. Or a Buddha. You hand her three twenties and watch her slide out of her pink bikini. It’s so shiny- it looks wet. She probably spends a lot of time on the elliptical machine at the gym, like your ex-wife. She should try spinning instead. Her thighs are thick but her tits are perfection.

            She holds both of your wrists and slides your palms over the surface of her boobs, belly and smooth inner thighs. You recognize cheap peach and vanilla perfume on her neck. She props herself onto your lap so her knees and boobs eclipse your vision. Her arms reach behind you, rub your back and swipe the wallet from the table.  While undulated on your crotch, she counts your money behind your back. She wants to take the whole wad of crisp twenties, but after determining her level of misery a seven on a scale from one to ten, she takes eighty bucks and puts back the rest. She keeps the bills in a crumpled wad in her right palm and keeps dancing.

MIss Jackson by Romy Suskin

You get hard, but you don’t stay hard. She unzips your pants anyway and reaches inside. She moves slowly, her hands up and down your cock and moved hips in circles. You remember the belly dancer your ex-wife hired for your 35^th birthday. Her pink glossy lips touch your ear and her hot breath makes you jump.

That’s enough, you think. You’re soft. You’re too shy to let this woman get you off. You’re embarrassed. You start talking:

            “How long have you worked here?”

            “Too long,” she says. She doesn’t want to be numb anymore, but she is. Sometimes her defenses melt. Sometimes she loses control. She wants to stop stealing, but not tonight.

            “It’s my friend’s bachelor party. I should buy him a dance from you,” you say.

            “How do you know he’ll like me?”  She’s slightly disgusted with herself for stealing the money because he’s not awful. He didn’t try to stick his fingers in her G-string or tell her she’s too smart to work here. Her feelings are a hideous inconvenience to her, like sludge underneath her toenails. She guides your chubby fingers to her nipples and squeezes them.           

            “He will.” You zip up your pants, embarrassed that you’ve disappointed her, even though you know that’s ridiculous. Suddenly you feel angry and out of place and you think maybe this girl is also angry and out of place. The angle of her chin reminds you of your ex-wife. You wonder if she has a boyfriend. What he must think of her job. You wipe your wrinkled shirt. You worry the guys are scheming to fuck you out of your latest deal, so you hurry back out onto the floor and convince what’s-his-name to get a dance with her, but she’s gone.            

Later, you’re in a cab, reaching for your wallet to pay the driver, who dropped you off where you parked your Escalade. You think you’re missing a hundred bucks. Maybe you spent more on drinks than you’d planned. You remember the girl with the tattoos. She smiled big and acted horny but there was something sad about her. You dismiss the image of her smooth thighs from your mind. What was her name? Rosie? Violet? Stevie?

Cougar Town by Sheila Hiber