It was when I saw Katie, the bartender, standing there with my drink waiting (a very weak rum and coke; just enough rum to blunt the sweetness of the cola) before I had finished making my way across the thick maroon carpet to the bar, that I realized I was now considered a regular at Pussy's.
And why not, I told myself. Since I'd retired - early retirement, I always reminded myself - I was here two or three afternoons a week. I mean, I had nothing else to do, had a nice pension, a decent-paying additional retirement fund, the lunches here were good, and the drinks reasonably priced. And the naked girls were a plus.
One of them, a statuesque long haired blond that looked like she stepped out of a Mickey Spillane novel, nodded to me as I passed the circular dance floor that stood in the center of the room.
"Hello, baby," she said with a mild Eastern European accent, as she stooped over to pick up the bikini she had discarded just before my entrance. Her name on stage was Vanessa. She was a lot of fun in the Champagne Room. "Missed you the other day."
"I know."
I gestured to the bar. "The usual?"
Vanessa moved her head vaguely to her left. "I have private first."
I followed her gesture to one of the couches that surrounded the stage a few feet back from the stools and found a fidgety dark-haired guy, looking like he was in his twenties and in danger of cumming if he moved. "Later, though," she said, as she collected her clothes and stepped down the stairs toward the dressing room, deliciously nude until she disappeared from view.
The kid looked like he could barely contain himself until she returned.
I made it to the bar, peeled a ten out of my pocket, and handed it to Katie. She went to the register and brought back my change in singles. Her shirt tugged up as she slid them over to me and I could see the pointed ears of her dragon tattoo poking just above her jeans.
"Where the hell were you Monday?" She pushed the bills toward me.
I sipped my drink. "I'm getting worried. Everybody knows me here now, knows my schedule, knows my drink..."
"We know about the mole on your dick, too, though. You should get that checked." She headed down to the end of the bar where two of the dancers were being bought drinks by a heavy set, perennially smiling black guy.
By the way, she was kidding. There isn't a mole on my dick. But I was kidding, too. I wasn't worried about being a known quantity here. In fact, it felt pretty cool, to be known here.
Of course, I had no illusions. If I stopped coming here in the afternoons, they'd get over it, and if I ran out of money, they'd get over me. I might be a well-regarded customer, which was good, but a customer nevertheless.
But as long as my pension held out, I was happy.
I turned and looked back at the empty stage. Vanessa stepped out of the dressing room, crossed to her waiting fan, and held out her hand. The kid nearly tripped over his feet getting up to take it and the two of them headed for the private dance area to the left of the bar.
I envied him. He was in for the wettest hand job known to man. Of course, he was likely to be one of those freaks of nature - the skinny, dorky guy with a ten inch dick attached like an anchor.
I turned back to the bar and picked up the one-page menu. I was in the middle of choosing between chicken tenders and a bacon burger when the music started up again. The DJ announced to the handful of patrons that JJJJAAAAADDDDEEEE was coming up for her first dance.
I looked across at Katie. "Jade's back?" Jade had been my first Champagne room dance here, a few months ago. A slightly older woman by stripper standards, with long, auburn hair that reached below her breasts, she was masterful at the use of saliva to lubricate your dick while stroking it. It was hard to go beyond five minutes of a half hour session without exploding into her hand and then, after cleanup - she always supplied her own tissue - just sitting and chatting on the loveseat, she naked and me with my pants still around my ankles, for the remainder of the time.
She had left after an argument with Spiro, the manager, about her tips.
Katie shook her head. "No, it's a new girl. A new Jade. Just started."
I set the menu down and turned around on the stool. A young black girl, skin the color of caramel and sable hair in a soft curl down to her shoulders stepped onto the stage in a white lacy one-piece. Her first few steps seemed a little hesitant as she tried to balance herself on the clear stilettos that embraced her feet.
It was that move, that careful, self-conscious step that attracted me to her right away, although I couldn't see her face, shadowed by the bright light behind her.
I grabbed the singles from the bar and headed for one of the seats around the stage. As I sat down and fanned out the bills on the stage in front of me I heard her footsteps, just a little heavy for her to be a seasoned dancer, as they approached me.
"Oh, my God," I heard a familiar voice that was not shocked as much as bemused, and looked up into the face of Alonda Lattimer.
Up until last June, when I retired, the only place I had normally seen Alonda had been the front row of my fifth period World Literature class, a few feet from my desk. Actually, I had been her teacher her Junior year, British Literature, as well.
She was a quiet student who got good grades but not enough to make the Valedictorian shake in fear over the prospect of losing her place. She had an affinity for longer, tiered skirts and tended to sit at her desk, legs stretched out in front, her right ankle resting over her left, her green eyes scanning her books or her notes.
Before class, she had a tendency to chat with me - "It's cold outside," "Last night's work was hard" - that type of thing, nothing earth shaking. When the bell rang, she would become immersed in whatever work I had for them, and when the class ended, she would say a quick "goodbye" and move on. When she graduated, I assumed that, like the majority of kids I had watched graduate, I would never see her again.
And now here she was, an only slightly embarrassed smile on her face, bringing the straps of her teddy down over her shoulders, pulling her arms through, and releasing her soft, full breasts with their dark, erect nipples, from their white laced prison.
"Hello, Mr. P, " she said.
"Hello, Alon- I mean Jade." I picked up a couple of singles and held them up. She leaned forward and crouched a little - her breasts, teardrop shaped, tiny nipples surrounded by firm latte-colored flesh, swayed inches from my face. I inhaled the soft lilac smell of her perfume as she parted her legs and indicated the white garter hugging her upper thigh.
After I slipped the bills into the garter, she stood up in an endearingly clumsy manner - still not used to the shoes - and let the thin white barrier between her and the air fall to the floor.
# # # # #
"Am I the first student you've ever seen naked?"
