*     *     *     *     *

     As the next act comes onstage I quietly excuse myself. Retiring to the men’s room, to give up the remnants of my beer and bourbon, I also remove Angel’s lipstick from my scalp.

     As you reach my age, dear reader, you’ll determine that, more and more, life is all about loss.

     Stepping out of the men’s room I enter a narrow hallway.  To my right is the open entrance to The Ultra Room; since it’s between “shows” the room is dark and quiet.  So I turn left and re-enter the prominent, main hallway and head for New York Live again, stopping at the snack bar to pick up a Calistoga Mineral Water.  I head for the stage again, but I move to its right side and sit in an aisle seat two rows back from the stage.  This is my favorite location; from here I’m on a slight incline and can watch all the action both inside and outside New York Live: the customers coming and going, the dancers floating among the customers for lap dances or private dances and, of course, the current act onstage.  It’s also close to the dressing room.

     “Dusty” is on stage.  I’ve seen her on many occasions during the past four years, except I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting her. She’s an old pro, her routine is smooth, practiced and exceedingly pleasant to observe.  She’s nearly five-foot-nine in high heels, with a lean, attractive body, and platinum-blond hair reaching below her shoulder blades.  I’d estimate Dusty’s in her early to mid-thirties, and strikes me as the type of classy lady I’d love to take to dinner. 

     So many women...so little time, dear reader. 

     I open my Calistoga, take a sip, and enjoy Dusty’s act as the carbonated bubbles explode in my mouth with their raspberry aftertaste.

     A large, old-fashion mirror ball rotates above the stage, reflecting points of colored lights moving throughout the theater. 

      It’s the type of globe you’d find in all the old ballrooms before and after the Second World War, you know dear reader, with a zillion tiny mirrors all over it.      

     Dusty wraps up her second number, takes her bows, picks up her tips and disappears offstage.

     The announcer – hidden in an elevated booth at the rear of the theater – introduces the next act; a new girl by the name of “Vienna Hall.”  He also runs the music, stage lights and spotlight.

     A tall silhouette in a full-length cape takes the stage.  Naturally, from the name, I expect a bountiful European. Imagine my surprise when the spotlight reveals a voluptuous Black lady decked out in scarlet boots, ballroom gown and cape. 

     The music should have tipped me off: Montell Jordan’s “Get It On Tonight.”

     In time the cape and gown are shed; baring an awesome, polished-ebony body barely contained in a G-string and skimpy bra.

       Vienna also got jobs posing for men’s magazines, such as the one above. 

     Her boobs have to be implants; breasts can’t possibly be that bountiful and perfect...once again, who the hell cares!  She’s gorgeous!  Am I repeating myself?

     Shortly after starting her second number Miss Vienna chucks everything, and proceeds to perform an ancient African fertility dance in her birthday suit, leaning forward and grinding her hips most provocatively to Ricky Martin’s “Shake Your Bon-Bon.” 

     Mr. Meat Puppet becomes unruly again.

      Later that night, Vienna would track me down for a Thai massage. Happily I complied.

     Halfway through Vienna’s sexually exciting number, I suddenly go blind! 

     Is my brain tumor acting up?  Has God abruptly decreed that I’ve had enough birthday cake?

     I’m happy to report the above suppositions prove to be groundless.  My sight has been hampered by two extremely small hands.

     “Maybe we should give your eyes a rest,” J-Lo’s voice murmurs in my ear, “and let the blood rush back into your brain before you pass out.”

     I laugh. 

     The petite hands are removed...and I discover Angel standing behind me; wearing a sparkly bra and G-string. 

     She picks up a wad of bills off an empty seat, then slides onto my lap as a child would do, removes my ball cap and strokes my bald head.

     “I think it’s very brave of you to shave your head,” she declares.  “It really suits you, Pete...I feel it’s kinda sexy.”  She continues caressing my head, her miniature hand generating a pleasurable sensation.  Then she shudders, looks at me in mock surprise, and says, “Oh my God...it’s actually making me horny!”

     What a little actress!

     We both laugh. 

     She takes a sip of my Calistoga.  Her semi-nude body is cool, fresh and soft as tight silk.  She’s used some type of oil or lotion on her skin that hasn’t quite been absorbed.  I’m told there are a couple of showers in the dressing room, which Angel has obviously made use of; her recently perfumed body intoxicates me. 

     Giving me back the mineral water, Angel carries on stroking my head with her left hand while her right holds a wad of tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds that could choke a hippo.  She refuses to carry her “tips” in a purse as Gia does; I’m not positive why.  Perhaps it’s easier to keep track of and make change for a customer. 

     “May I use the bank?” Angel asks in my ear above the music.

     “S-Sure...” I reply.  “Only make certain it’s empty.”

     Leaving the cash in her lap, Angel slips a hand into my silk-like windbreaker, and checks out the deep, inside, right-breast pocket.  I had this jacket made special for me in Thailand, with extra deep inside pockets.  Satisfied the pocket is empty, she picks up her wad of cash, but before Angel can insert it into the pocket, I stop her.

     “Hold it!” I blurt out.  “Add this to y-your stash.”

     I remove a Benjamin from the cash I keep in a smaller, top-left, inside breast pocket. 

     Angel adds the bill to her wad, nods her thanks, and stuffs her cash into my right-inside pocket.  I’m the sole customer that’s ever been allowed to hold her hard-earned money.  I do it so she can relax.

     Okay, for you penny-pinching readers, let’s punch the “hold” button.  Time is money.  It’s all based on the number of minutes you want to spend with the dancer and how far you want her to go.  A semi-nude lap dance normally runs twenty bucks for one song.  A full-body, nude-contact dance in a cabana can run sixty to eighty dollars for three songs.  The same thing in a private booth or room, ending in a hand job or blowjob - with latex glove or condom - can run three hundred to five hundred dollars depending on the dancer.  That’s it in a nutshell.

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