Exotic Dancer
I fell for her the first time I saw her dance. She says she isn't a stripper, that she's an exotic dancer, but she gets down to about as close to being naked as a person can get and still say they have clothes on. Maybe a small triangle, a couple of nipple covers, and a small cloth over her ass crack. However, I was smitten from the first sight, stripper or not, she is beautiful and I am undeniably in love.
They call her Chamise, and she is so sensuous that I am sure men watching have orgasms on the spot. She is about five three, with auburn hair, a Michelle Williams face, and with a smile that can turn men to jelly. Her body is sleek and sculptured, and she can move it deliciously as if it was a cherry tart, and her breasts are just suckable size with nipples round and hard like raspberries, begging to be tasted.
She is only a stripper, you say. Why fall for a nightclub dancer? Good question. I have no idea. Sure, it is stupid to fall for a pro who has other men panting after her everyday, but all of that said, I still find I am crazy about her. I found out her real name is Paula, Paula Stewart, and she lives over a smoke shop in Culver City. She has two sisters and a brother. Her brother is a doctor and her sisters are both teachers.
So how did she fall so far and become a nightclub dancer. Years of lessons and a dream of dancing on Broadway, that's how. Okay, Culver City is a long way from Broadway. Not even on the same coast, but she is saving her money. She dances four nights a week, works at the smoke shop two nights, and sleeps one.
Totally by accident, I discovered she gets a Lotte every night before her shift at the Kitty Cat Club. I made sure I was there every night for a week, until totally by a stroke of luck for me, she tripped and spilled her Latte all down the front of my sport coat and shirt. She was mortified, but I assured her it was fine, although she insisted I hurry to her apartment above the smoke shop to let her clean and dry it, even though it would make her late for work.
Knowing that being late to a dancing job would not go well for her, I convinced her she could pay for a cleaning charge and she could get to her job. She had no idea I knew where she worked and had watched her, even put money in her garter belt many times. She made me promise to let her also pay for a Lotte at the Starbucks so she could apologize in person.
Actually see her socially? What a chore. What a prize. When we met there, I made her promise to let me return the favor by taking her to dinner, to show my appreciation and convince her I forgave her for almost ruining the sport coat. Actually, I would have shredded the coat to get a hello from her. Finally, after apologizing numerous times, she agreed to accept my invitation.
I got reservations at the French Chef, a top of the line restaurant in Manhattan Beach. I asked her, as our meals were being served, chicken for her, steak for me, what she did for a living. "I am a dancer," she said. "I just work at a local club for the time being, but I plan to go to New York to dance on Broadway," she added.
"I have been trained at UCLA as a dancer, but I had to take a job at a nightclub for awhile. Just temporary," she said.
"I have a cousin," I said, "who works in New York as a talent scout for a theater on Broadway." It just so happened to be true. My cousin Marvin worked for the Ambassador Theater. One time having relatives actually was positive. Luckily for him I had helped him when he lived in LA and was trying to move to New York. Luckily for me, he owed me.
Allowing for time difference and his theater schedule, I called him one morning and by the gravely sound of his voice I had just woken him up. "Marvin," I said. "Going to have to call in a chit. You're still in charge of talent at the Ambassador, right."
"Because you loaned me the money to get here. Yes," he said. "So, I'll pay you back, like we agreed, at the end of each year."
"You don't have to pay me back," I said.
"Who am I talking to?" he said. "What did you do with my cousin Dave?"
"All you have to do is look at a dancer from LA. If she is not as good as you need, just tell me, no more debt. Agreed?"
"All I have to do is look at her? So who is this Anna Pavlova?" he said.
"Just a friend, but I'd like to see her get a chance. Trained under Camilla Carte at UCLA and works locally," I said. I didn't say she was a stripper, or an exotic dancer (whatever that is), but the name of her mentor was accurate.
"So she comes all the way out here to audition, doesn't make it, she just goes back? Who is paying her way?" he asked.
"Let's just say she gets there. All you have to do to square the account is look," I said.
"So you're paying, huh?" he said. "She must be something."
"She is something, all right," I said. "Just look. No pressure."
"That'll be the day," he said, sounding more awake now. "So who is she? You together?" I told him she was just a friend and not to pry. "Better than just an acquaintance if you're paying possibly round trip to New York."
"Hopefully not round trip," I said. "She's good." Actually, I didn't know how good. She was a great stripper, or exotic dancer, but I wasn't sophisticated enough to know just how good she really was or what the difference was.
"She makes it, she won't be around you anymore," he said. "You want to risk that?"
He was right. The worst thing for me was for her to make it on Broadway. Better for me for her to keep wiggling her naked ass in Culver City. But if she got the chance from me, maybe there would be hope later. Maybe.
