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    As I move down the aisle between the theater’s seats, Angel wraps up her first number onstage and beautifully disappears behind a curtain.  “Underneath Your Clothes” finishes and the patrons surrounding me applaud.  I reach the front row and spot an empty seat almost center stage.  I ease myself past the guys in the front row, plop myself down in the empty seat, remove my ball cap and place the paper bag holding the sandwich and Snapple under my seat.

     The lights onstage go down. Santana’s “Smooth” cranks up; the sound system is quite spectacular.  Angel appears onstage in silhouette and strikes a pose.  Ultimately the spotlight captures her; save for her high heels, she’s utterly nude.  The guy next to me gasps.

     And rightly so, I’m certain when I first saw her nude, I did the same thing.  In reality she’s tiny, barely five feet, but onstage, with platform heels, in the world of illusion she’s...perfect. 

     Okay, dear reader, you have to help me out.  To describe Angel, I want you to visualize the actress/singer Jennifer Lopez (J-Lo), only shorter and without the colossal derriere, while having a face and voice that’s uncannily identical.  This kid could easily be J-Lo’s twin!     

     Angel’s chestnut hair falls freely below her shoulders, with blond highlights accentuated by the spotlight.  Roughly sixty-percent of the dancers working the club have implants; her ideal, perky breasts glisten in the spotlight from perspiration and flecks of gold dust.  She has an athlete’s body, tight, compact and symmetrically muscled.  She breaths deeply and her abdominal muscles ripple and glisten in the spotlight; Angel’s one fit, sensuous, petite lady. 

     She was a gymnast and cheerleader in high school, dear reader.  Thus the well developed body.  At present I’m attempting to mentally place a cheerleader’s uniform on that flawless, naked body...and realize that might be a tad perverted.  Even so, this visualization causes Mr. Meat Puppet to stir - I swear he has a mind of his own.  Piggy...piggy...piggy.  And the sad thing is...she hasn’t even moved yet!

     Angel started dancing here at the O’Farrell on her eighteenth birthday, and has recently turned twenty-one.  She doesn’t smoke or drink, avoids drugs, and is wholly into health foods and working out.  Despite her tender age, she has the mind of a thirty-six-year-old.  It’s one of the perks from being exposed to the sexual appetites of the O’Farrell’s clientele; it grows you up real quick - perhaps too quick.

     Angel begins her recital, Santana’s “Smooth” igniting a fire within her Mexicana blood; you have to be blind not to see it.  Her sensuality is overpowering as her body becomes one with Santana’s incredible rhythms.

     In my humble opinion, dear reader, J-Lo could use a few dance lessons from this most amazing ringer.

     About halfway through her number, while Angel is working one of the chrome poles, she spots me in the front row and lights up.

     Resembling a beacon in the gloom...it’s hard to miss my shaved “chromed dome” in the front row, dear reader.

     Instantly she drops to her hands and knees and moves in a sensual, cat-like manner across the edge of the stage.  Much to my surprise, and the rest of the audience, Angel crawls off the stage and onto me, curling up in my lap.

     Her firm, naked, bantam body feels warm and moist.  Mr. Meat Puppet attempts to rear his ugly head.  Approximately two-dozen guys, scattered among the front rows on the stage’s three sides, are now looking daggers at me. 

     What’s this old, bald fart got that I ain’t got?

     Breathing hard, Angel murmurs breathlessly in my ear above the music, “Hi, Uncle Petie, whatcha doin’?”

     “We’ve g-got to stop meeting this way,” I reply. “People are beginning to talk.”

     Angel laughs, then says, “Hey, you big, sweet lug, where’s my Thai massage?  I’ve been waitin’ all night for you.”

     I hold up my hands, and state, “It’s right here in my fat, s-stubby fingers.”

     She giggles, and says, “Okay, cutie, I’ll meet you at the usual place.”

     Angel then gives me a naked hug, and plants a generous, wet kiss on top of my bald pate – deliberately leaving a load of lipstick – and climbs in a feline manner back onto the stage.  The guy next to me audibly sighs.

     She finishes up her number.  I place five crisp one-dollar bills on the stage, hoping to encourage others to do the same.  Only the guys and gals in the front rows don’t need a lot of encouragement; already they’ve ringed the stage with money.

     Angel commences picking up her tips and thanking the patrons in that sweet, soft J-Lo voice.  When she gets to me, I place the paper bag, containing egg salad sandwich and Snapple, on the stage.  Puzzled, she opens the bag and looks inside, then squeals with delight and hops off the stage into my lap again.

     “You, sir, are the very best of the best!”  Angel exclaims; then hugs me again and plants another kiss on my road-weary bald head.

     As is her usual custom, dear reader, I knew Angel’s boyfriend had dropped her off at work late - missing dinner - and that she’d most likely work straight through without getting a chance to pick up something at the deli.  As a result by this time of the evening Angel would be getting really hungry; hence her joy.

     Of course the other patrons didn’t know this, so I get more of the “daggers treatment,” while Angel climbs back onstage, stuffs her tips in my paper bag, waves to the audience as they applaud, and slips behind the curtains. 

     No doubt the audience is by now thinking: “That bald, old fart gave her a bag-load of marijuana or coke...yeah, that’s it, cocaine!  Why else would someone as hot as that pay any attention to this old duffer?”

     I slip on my ball cap and slink down in my chair; attempting to make myself as small as possible.

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