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She leans back against the pole; hard metal cold on her skin.
Yeah, Paco Rabanne.
She poses, pirouette style, in her high high heels.
Or Armani maybe.
She isn’t sure.
Whatever it is the douche in the Tom Ford suit must have taken a bath in it.
She slides her butt down, nice and slow for him; pictures his face. Holds the squat, legs splayed, marks time with the music, one two three, and pushes upright.
Rihanna yodels to a backbeat. It’s like muzak in a shopping mall. She’s sure she heard it in Woolworth’s the other week.
She tilts her hips, eyes the guy in the chair, now with a bulge in his Tom Ford suit. She arches her back, rolls her pelvis forward, undulates her belly, lets the movement flow up her body.
The guy with the suit bulge stares. It’s a Zombie stare.
Not a talker then.
A steady bass throbs through the space, making the air swell and contract.
She sways to the beat, effortlessly, snaps off her bra and gives the slow reveal, putting on a lip-parted pout.
His hands grip the arm rests exactly where she left them. ‘No touching,’ she said.
He would obey.
His whisky glass, mobile, billfold and keys are on a small table beside him.
They are almost always boosted.
Yet he’s nervous, and guilty with it too. Wears his guilt in gold wrapped around his ring finger.
There’s gold all about him. Fingers, wrists, neck.
Probably in his teeth.
What’s his name again?
Or is it Larry?
Could be Harry.
She takes a step forward. Pings her thong, lets it fall.
He ogles her flesh.
She really doesn’t care.
She really doesn’t care about Zombie Frank, all schmicko in his Tom Ford suit.
To his heat.
To his stink.
To his gold ringed finger.
To his crotch bulge.
The song ends, the next beginning on its tail: the slow intro of Partition. She wonders what her friend in the next booth is up to.
Another forward step in her high high heels and she kneels on the chair, hooking her feet on the insides of his thighs, pressing them open.
No closure: No contact.
As she gyrates her pelvis.
As she teases.
As she strokes at the air down there between her thighs and his.
She goes in close, breathes in his ear.
And takes a peek at her watch, its huge silvery face as large as her wrist, distinct numbering to be seen in the dim.
She leans away from Frankenbulge, arches her back, grasps her breasts, rubs them against his cheeks.
She thinks she still has half a protein bar out the back.
Maybe some of last night’s stir-fry.
Or did she finish that earlier?
The song pushes on.
Beyonce pushes on.
Her pelvis grinds to the rhythm.
She leans forward, rests her arm against the cold brick wall behind him, sinks her flesh into his face, ignoring the hungry lips, the scratch of stubble.
Swanky Franky lets out a slow throaty moan.
She parts the velvet curtain and peeks into the next booth.
Her friend’s on her punter.
They exchange eye rolls and a grin.
She lets the curtain fall.
Lets her mind drift.
The song seems too long.
Her butt, locked in the slow steady groove, starts complaining. She feels a cramp in her instep.
She eases her body back and pushes off him.
He grabs her waist with his hot damp hands and pulls her down.
She swings round.
Backhands his face.
She steps forward, grabs the pole, twirls round slowly.
Twirls round slowly again.
As Beyonce cuts out and Carmada eases her way to her first ‘Maybe,’ she turns from the guy—Swanky wanky Frankenbulge—sits down in his lap, leans against him, feels the hard of him up against her butt. His breath hot on her shoulder.
She throws her head back, grabs her breasts and puts on a show of self-pleasure.
He releases a slow rumbling groan.
She thinks he sounds like a bloated frog.
Feels her laughter rise.
Isobel Blackthorn has a PhD in Western Esotericism. She is the author of two novels, Asylum (2015) and The Drago Tree (2015), and the short story collection, All Because of You (2016). Her third novel, A Perfect Square, will be released in August 2016. A Londoner originally, Isobel currently resides in Melbourne, Australia.
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