*     *     *     *

     Later, while coming out of the men’s room after escorting Gia back to the dressing room entrance, then washing up, I stumble into Angel.  Who’s arm-in-arm with Danielle – the beautiful “nun” that reminds me of Anne Heche - cruising among the customers in the main hallway.  They’re obviously working the room as a twosome.

     Angel lights up, flashes me a warm grin, and steers Danielle into me.  After making the introductions, Angel explains Danielle has never had a Thai massage, but has heard about my “physical therapy” in The Private Cabanas, and is dying to try me out. 

     It appears my stubby fingers are becoming legendary scuttlebutt in the dressing room, dear reader.

    Humbly I accept the request for a “command performance,” kiss Angel on the forehead, and then take Danielle by the arm as Angel departs for the dressing room.

     Escorting Danielle to a cabana, we enter the carpeted tube and close the heavy velvet curtain; sealing us off from the rest of the world outside.  In the distance Mariah Carey’s “Thank God I Found You,” drifts in from New York Live, and I note Danielle is carrying a sizable roll of cash, exactly as Angel does. 

    I hand her a Benjamin, which she wraps around the roll, then looks up at me, and asks, “Mon cheri...may I use zee bank?”

     Her request takes me by surprise; obviously Angel has given her a complete rundown on me.  After a moment’s hesitation, I open up the right side of my jacket to her and, without saying another word, she quickly checks out the right inside pocket, making sure it’s empty, then inserts her bankroll.  Next I hang up my jacket and ball cap, while she slips off her gold bra, thong and platform heels – hanging them up also.  I’d estimate her height without the heels at five-foot-two.

     Getting down to business, I perform a modest ritual, which I exclusively execute with a “new” girl.

     As Danielle - entirely nude – turns to face me, I sink to my knees in front of her and place both her hands on my shoulders.  I’m on my knees to give her the impression that she’s safe and in control.  Then I slide my hands down her rib cage and waist, ultimately resting them on her hips.  Due to the dramatic lighting inside the cabana my mind is momentarily distracted by her amazingly fit body - the beauty of which is stunning.  

     Getting over my initial impression, reason sets in and I become aware of other factors regarding her rock-hard body.  Danielle’s breasts are implants, which have been done tastefully, and beautifully augment her torso.  Though she is pint-sized, I detect solid, wiry muscle – lacking little fat whatsoever - under her flawless skin.  This compact lady works out.  Only it’s more than that.  I’ve felt other bodies similar to hers...female Thai kick boxers.  And at this point I get the strange notion that Danielle has had martial arts training, and knows how to take care of herself. 

     I wonder how she came by such training, dear reader.

     I at last raise my eyes to hers, saying, “D-Danielle...I want you to enjoy this as much as I do.  If at anytime I do s-something that makes you uncomfortable, or causes pain, you must say, ‘Stop.’  D-Do you understand?”

     Danielle smiles strangely...almost in awe.  Then she nods “Yes.”

     “You are absolutely in c-control,” I continue, “I’ll do what ever you tell me...okay?”

     Again she nods in agreement.

     “Have you had any n-neck or back injuries?” I ask.

     Now she shakes her head “No.”

     “Do you have any pulled m-muscles or tendons?”

     Again she shakes her head in the negative.

     “Have you ever broken any bones?”

     She hesitates for a moment...then takes my right hand and slides it down the outside of her left thigh.  The skin covering her solid, well muscled thigh conveys the sensation of warm, tight silk.

     Delicious...dear reader.

     Virtually midway down the outside of her thigh she stops, and my fingers come to rest on the small circular-nub of a scar.  Then Danielle guides my hand to the inside of her thigh, and a bit lower.  There she stops my fingers on top of another scar that’s larger.

     “Ziss break my leg,” she explains, “when I am zee teenager.”

     At first I’m stymied.  Then - equivalent to a heat-seeking missile locating me out of the night - it all abruptly slams together.

     Holy shit!  This child has been shot, dear reader!    

     By the feel of the scar tissue it’s an old, through and through, gunshot wound - maybe a 9 mm.

     She hears me gasp in surprise and, as I look up at her, Danielle sees that I’m suddenly full of questions.  Only before I can speak she places the tips of two perfectly-manicured fingers over my lips...silencing me.

     “Hush, cheri...” she whispers.  ”Tomorrow, when I know you better, perhaps you shall hear my story, entre nous. Tonight we must enjoy each other, oui?  No questions.  Ziss is all I ask.”

     I nod uncomfortably, as a minuscule red warning light pulses to life in the back of my brain.  Her fighter’s body - coupled with the old gunshot wound - dictates I’d better not make any sudden moves on her.

     What, in the name of Bill Clinton’s flaming prostate, is this kid’s story, dear reader?

     Slowly I begin to massage her left thigh, the one with the previously broken femur from the bullet, and ask, “Does this cause you any p-pain?”

     She smiles down at me, caresses my bald head, and replies, “I find you honnête homme.”

     “Is that good, b-bad or ugly?” I quip.

     Danielle laughs, and says, “Ziss means you are zee decent man.”

     Okay...so I’ll take that as a green light to proceed with the Thai therapy, dear reader.

     “Well thank you, Buckaroo,” I remark. “Can you help me up?”

     She grasps both my hands and pulls me to my feet.  In so doing, I note two things: Firstly, Danielle is definitely strong and fit.  Secondly, as I pass her face, she exhales a lung-full of cannabis my way.  “Our girl” has recently smoked a joint in the dressing room. 

     Perchance that’s why she’s so relaxed, dear reader...or is it because she could easily take me out...and knows it.  Damn...if I couldn’t use a stiff belt of bourbon about now...to also relax.

     Some of the girls at the O’Farrell administer a little weed, blow or ice, merely to get them through the shift, and put up with the occasional assholes that come through this club.  It’s a tough business and I don’t fault them for that.

     Ever so gently, I turn Danielle round, and start to carefully knead the trapezius muscles at the top of her shoulders.  She places her hands out in front of her, bracing herself on the cabana’s carpeted, circular wall, and I instantly determine that she’s all mine. 

     Now I commence to relax, dear reader.

     As I move down to her lower back she moans and murmurs, “Oui...oui...”  Those platform heels must have really been doing a number on these particular muscles.

     Eventually I sense the timing is suitable, place my hands together in prayer, and embark on pounding the trapezius muscles across the top of her back with Thai judo chops. 

     “Mon Dieu...mon Dieu...” Danielle begins to moan.

     At Length I drop to my knees and knead her gluts, thighs and ultimately the backs of her legs and calves.  Consequently she becomes putty in my hands.

     This kid is genuinely getting with the program, dear reader.

     After giving her a thorough workout in the lower extremities, I rise to my feet and gently pull her back.  Willingly she rests her petite body against my ample wrestler’s frame.  She raises her arms, reaching up behind her, and caresses – then kneads - the back of my bald head with both hands.  Most of the girls prefer that portion of my head, as I imagine it feels so smooth and sensuous, and possibly because their boyfriends are always bitching at them for messing up their hair.

     The vain pricks don’t know what they’re missing, dear reader!

     Being a full foot taller than Danielle, I have an unrestricted view of her incredible breasts, and note both moving up and down in unison with each breath – which is presently becoming rather rapid.

     This is one especially beautiful child, dear reader!

     As cautiously as I can, I set out caressing and massaging those perfect orbs with their fully-erect nipples; the texture of which is amazing. 

     I wonder if she got them done in Paris, dear reader.  Perhaps I could apply to the U.S. Federal Government for a research grant – comparing Parisian implants with Beverly Hills’ implants - as part of a trade relations deal.  Naturally this would require “hands-on” research.  Piggy...piggy...piggy.

     I linger here quite a while gently massaging her astonishing breasts – totally enjoying each exquisite second – as Danielle’s breathing grows heavier.

     Reluctantly, I slide my hands down her rib cage, abdomen, then to her hips, and move inward to the joints above her thighs.  Finding her femoral arteries I depress them – shutting off the blood supply – do a five-count and then quickly release pressure on them.  Danielle moans as that tingling sensation runs down the center of her thighs.  After hesitating another few seconds, I repeat the exercise, achieving more moans of gratification.

     Afterward, it’s back up to those wonderful breasts for additional gentle massaging.  Lingering there as long as I dare – maximizing the enjoyment this brings me – I then slide my hands down to her femoral arteries again.

     Except this time - as I initiate pressure – Danielle grabs the middle finger of my right hand, deftly slides it over her smooth, hairless, freshly-waxed pubic mound, and places it on top of her swollen clitoral hood.

     Wow...what’s this all about, dear reader?

     Instantaneously I discover two things, which greatly excites me! 

     First: Danielle is one of those rare women possessing a clitoral hood that – when sexually aroused and engorged with blood – swells two to three times larger than the average tissue covering the clitoris.  

     Personally, I find this beautiful, dear reader! 

     Second: She moves my middle finger deeper...towards the entrance of her vagina...allowing me to detect she’s extremely wet!

     Okay...I think the program has changed, dear reader.  Clearly she wants me to expand the syllabus!

     Now she releases my middle finger - sliding her hand up my forearm.

     I then lubricate my middle finger with her vaginal fluid, and gradually, tenderly, move it back to her very swollen clitoral hood.  Lightly, teasingly, I begin to explore the length and width of her out sized hood.  Danielle’s back arches as she leans her head backward against my chest and whispers, “Oui...oui...”

     My finger explores every centimeter of the engorged hood, pulling it back, locating the swollen pink nub of the clitoris peeking out from behind and below it; reminding me of a miniature penis. 

     God...it’s extraordinary, dear reader!

     I’ve read somewhere that, generally, the average male penis contains some four thousand nerve endings, whereas the female clitoris is packed with roughly 8,000 nerve endings.

     This is one sensitive, magic organ, dear reader.

     Steadily, applying slightly more pressure, I gently rotate my right middle finger on top this engorged organ, while I continue massaging her awe-inspiring breasts with my left hand.  Danielle groans and starts to dig her fingernails into the back of my smooth head and neck.

     At which point Danielle moans, “Oui...oui...vogue la galère!”

     It’s an old French expression I haven’t heard in quite a long while: “vogue la galère.”  Generally I think it means: “Keep the galley rowing.”  Or “Keep on at all costs.”

     In due course I pick up the pace...massaging her clitoris faster...and faster.  This takes patience and fortitude, and I give her no indication that I plan to stop; occasionally her moans turn into growls.

     After a while I’m actually working up a sweat, except it’s worth it, Danielle at last crowns - emitting a solitary, sharp cry - followed by her petite body shuddering in waves.

     Ah yes, dear reader...’Houston the eagle has landed’!

     As she comes, for some reason, it reminds me of my Lionel electric train...the way it used to shudder in an equivalent manner coming around a sharp curve...puffing white smoke from those miniature tablets I’d drop down its smokestack.  When last I saw it...I must have been ten.

     Gee, dear reader, I loved that toy train.  I wonder whatever happened to it.  I also wonder why the strangest things pop into my head whenever I engage in sex.  This can’t possibly be normal.

     I maintain a constant, light pressure on her clit, as I caress her body with my other hand, and she relaxes into my arms like a collapsed soufflé.  We drift together in her afterglow as she occasionally caresses the back of my sweaty bald head.

     Let me tell ya, boys and girls, this is a lot of work for an old ragged-assed pilot.

     Danielle now reaches for a shelf above her head to the right.  This shelf holds handy wipes, condoms and even latex gloves.  She takes something from the shelf; nevertheless it’s too dark for me to see what it is.  On the floor, also to her right, is a small wastebasket with plastic liner ready to receive these items after they’re used.

     Honest to God, dear reader, the folks at the O’Farrell think of everything.

     The next thing I know, Danielle turns to face me, drops to her knees, unbuttons my Levi’s, slides them and my shorts to my knees, strokes Mr. Meat Puppet a couple of times – who’s developed a terrible case of “wood-ritis” and stands rigidly at attention – and then she slips him into a condom.  Without any further hesitation, Danielle proceeds to give me one of the most miraculous blowjobs I’ve ever experienced!

     I mean, friends and neighbors, I’m having a religious experience!  I’m seeing Jesus Christ, floating above me, holding hands with Elvis Presley!  This child is that talented!

     Getting over my “shock and awe,” I gently take her by the shoulders, interrupting her marvelous labors, and bring her back up to her feet.  Innocently wide-eyed, Danielle looks up at me with a puzzled frown.

     “D-Danielle I truly appreciate that...” I set out to explain, with a mouth akin to cotton, “but, baby, I’m tapped out.  I g-gave you my last Benjamin.  I wish I had more...”

      She places two beautiful fingertips on my mouth, shutting me up, and says, “Hush, Cheri, n’importe.  Zee money...she does not matter.”

     Only the French could come up with the proper word for this particular moment: “Coup de foudre.”  It means: thunderclap - sudden and surprising event - love at first sight.  I was experiencing all three!

     I kid you not, dear reader, right then and there I wanted to make this young lady the third Mrs. Chisholm!

     Before I could utter another word, Danielle was back on her knees pleasuring Mr. Meat Puppet.

     After several heart-arresting minutes pass, Danielle senses Mr. Meat Puppet is getting close to blowing his stack.  Abruptly she stops her labors and stands up.  Placing her hands on my shoulders, Danielle nimbly pulls herself up and wraps her legs round my hips.  I instinctively grab both cheeks of her fabulous booty, helping to support her weight, and move towards the cabana’s carpeted, circular wall, resting her back against it.  Danielle then grabs Mr. Meat Puppet and guides him into the liquid warmth of her vagina - impaling herself.

     Wow, dear reader!  This can’t be happening!

     Before I’m fully aware of it...I’m plunging into this little, errant “nun” like the wild man from Borneo!  However, Danielle’s wiry, compact body clamps itself about me...receiving my probing more than willingly.

     From New York Live, down the hall outside, I hear Whitney Houston begin to sing “I Learned From The Best.”

     My God, dear reader...how did Whitney know?

     In short order Danielle’s muscular, petite body tenses, arching her back similar to a coiled steel spring, then she groans and cries, “Vogue la galère...VOGUE LA GALÈRE!”

     Okay, dear reader...so I got to keep ‘rowing’ that damned galley again!

     Breathing hard, I shift into a whole new gear at her encouragement, and pick up the pace.

     She can’t possibly be coming again - can she, dear reader?

     Except immediately after this thought crosses my mind, Danielle shudders violently...again...and again...followed by Mr. Meat Puppet exploding in one walloping-rushing orgasm!  I start shuddering with her.

     At that precise instant I’m blinded by white light, and the fabulous Ms. Houston is strangled in mid note; falling silent.

     Christ rolling snake eyes, dear reader!  Has my brain tumor caused me to go blind and deaf?  Should people with brain tumors have sex?

     Gasping to catch my breath, reason in the end prevails.  The club’s lights have been turned on for the cleaners and the music has been shut down; it’s 2:A.M. - the O’Farrell Theater is closing.

              *     *     *     *     *

     It’s strange seeing the club all lit up as Danielle and I stand in the main hallway.  There isn’t a soul in sight; the O’Farrell is suddenly devoid of all life: no customers, dancers or club minions, such as bouncers, cashiers and cleaners.

     Danielle hasn’t bothered to dress; heading for the dressing room to take a shower, and call it a night, why should she?  She stands barefoot well-nigh twelve inches shorter than me, totally naked, holding her high heels by their straps - plus bra and thong – along with her wad of cash all in her left hand, while her right holds my hand as we say our good-byes.  At length she gives me a naked cuddle and kisses my cheek.

     “Don’t be sad, cheri,” Danielle whispers in my ear.  “Remember ziss...life she is merely zee illusion.”

     After which she turns her back on me and walks casually away. 

     And as I watch her beautifully-nude, petite body move gracefully down the hallway – bare feet padding silently on the carpet - I can’t help thinking:

     “If only I was twenty years younger...if only I had money...if only I didn’t have this goddamned brain tumor.”

     The word “if” has got to be the worst word in the English language, dear reader; for it dangles enticing possibilities that are seldom achieved.

     Then I recalled a very old French proverb: “Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait!” – “If only youth knew, if only age could!” – Henri Estienne.

     Upon reaching the end of the hallway and, before disappearing around its corner, Danielle now looks back at me, and says, “Adieu, cheri, bonne chance.”  After blowing me a kiss...she’s gone.

     At that point, dear reader, I finally realize what true love and Bigfoot have in common: They’re both illusions.

     That’s what Danielle was trying to tell me.

                   *     *     *     *