Twerk

Hot Foxies

Paco Rabanne?

She leans back against the pole, hard metal cold on her skin.

Yeah, Paco Rabanne.

She poses, pirouette style, in her high, high heels and skimpy lingerie.

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. Holding the squat, legs splayed, she marks time with the music – one, two, three – and pushes upright. Warrant’s Jani Lane whoops to a backbeat; Cherry Pie – sweet. It’s like muzak in a shopping mall, she’s sure she heard it in Wal-Mart the other week.

She tilts her hips, eyes the guy in the chair, now with a noticeable bulge in his Tom Ford suit. She arches her back, rolls her pelvis forward, undulates her belly, and lets the movement flow up her lithe 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 effortlessly to the beat, snaps off her bra and gives the slow reveal, putting on her best lip-parted pout.

His hands grip the armrests exactly where she’d left them. ‘No touching,’ she’d told him.

He would obey.

His whisky glass, cellphone, billfold and keys are on a small table beside him.

He’s boosted.

They are almost always boosted.

Yet he’s nervous, and guilty with it too. Wears his guilt in a fat band of gold wrapped around his ring finger.

There’s gold all about him; fingers, wrists, neck.

Probably in his teeth, she’d hazard a guess.

What’s his name?

Could be a Gary.

Or a Larry.

Or a Harry.

But it’s Frank.

Yeah, Frank. Good ‘ole Frank.

She takes a step forward. Slips off her G-string, lets it fall.

He ogles her flesh.

She really doesn’t care.

She really doesn’t care about Zombie Frank, all fancied up in his expensive Tom Ford suit.

She’s indifferent.

To his heat.

To his stink.

To his gold-ringed fingers.

To his vulgar and obvious crotch bulge.

The song ends, the next beginning on its tail: Bruno Mars, That’s What I Like, as if Swanky Frankie was ever gonna get it.

She wonders what Amy in the next booth is up to with her douchebag, Billy.

Another forward step in her high, high heels and she kneels on the chair, hooking her feet on the insides of Frank’s thighs, to press 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, its distinct numbering illuminated in the dim light of the booth.

Three.

She leans away from Frank-en-bulge, arches her back, grasps her sweat-dampened breasts, and 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.

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 Frankie lets out a slow, throaty moan.

She parts the velvet curtain and peeks into the next booth.

Amy’s on her guy.

They exchange eye rolls and a grin.

She lets the curtain fall.

Lets her mind drift.

The song seems far too long.

Her butt, locked in the stomping groove, starts complaining. The instep of her left foot cramps.

She eases herself off Frank.

He grabs her waist with his hot damp hands and pulls her down.

She swings round.

Backhands his face.

He’s stung.

She steps forward, grabs the pole, twirls round slowly.

Twirls round slowly again.

As Bruno Mars approaches his sudden end, she turns away from the guy – swanky Frank-en-bulge – and sits down in his lap.

She leans against him, feels his breath hot on her bare shoulder.

She throws her head back, grabs hold of her breasts and puts on a show of faked self-pleasure.

He releases a slow rumbling groan.

She thinks he sounds like a bloated frog.

Feels her laughter rise.

He’s satisfied.

She slides off him. Peeks into the other booth.

Amy’s still on hers.

She’s grinding the air above his crotch.

Her head’s thrown back in fake ecstasy.

He should be in ecstasy, too, but his body jerks in short, twitchy spasms.

That doesn’t look right.

He’s convulsing.

Does Amy even know?

Does she know there’s white foam leaking from the corners of his mouth?

His eyes stare straight ahead, bulging like they’re being squeezed out of him from the inside.

Amy tilts her head forward for effect and locks her gaze with his.

First there’s disbelief.

Then her mouth falls open.

She emits a curdling scream.

She’s off him, like the Devil himself is on her ass.