*     *     *     *     *

     Taking my hand, Angel and I make our move; she leads me back to the main hallway.  After threading our way between customers and dancers, we arrive at the entrance to The Kopenhagen.  Off to the right - standing akin to a half-dozen sentinels on guard duty in the darkness - are The Private Cabanas. 

     I’ll bet these “cabanas” are comparable to nothing you’ve ever experienced before, dear reader.

     They’re a series of large, vertically-connected tubes, and are richly upholstered in deep-pile carpeting both inside and out.  I’m not certain of their construction: wood, plastic or fiberglass...take your pick.

     These tubes start roughly a half-foot above the carpeted floor and climb to maybe seven feet.  They are open at the bottom and top, with a two-foot wide slit in front acting as the entrance.

     Angel selects a cabana in the middle; we slip inside and draw the heavy velvet curtain; concealing its narrow entrance.  Two people can fit comfortably in here; it’s dark and cozy, and I always undergo the feeling that I’m wrapped up in a deep-pile rug from the Arabian nights.  Yet you can clearly hear the music drifting down the hallway outside from New York Live. 

     Remember: time is money.  You get one to three songs in here - depending on how much you’ve “tipped” her - and this is how the girls keep track of time, by listening for the songs.

     I find the clothing hooks and hang up my jacket and ball cap, while Angel hangs up her bra and G-string. 

     Before we get going, she gives me a bounteous naked hug and cuddle.  My heart catapults straight to heaven.

     Physical contact with a beautiful woman always amazes me, dear reader.  I don’t plan on it...least of all do I expect it...but always it changes me.  Life suddenly becomes sweeter...easier to cope with.  This is an amazing power that women possess.  Unfortunately, most aren’t even aware they own such a wondrous thing.  Consequently, for my female readers, may I ask: “Whom have you hugged today?  Why are you wasting this astounding God-given gift?” 

     Now the therapy begins.  I slip down to my knees, which is easy to do inside this carpeted tube, and remove Angel’s Lucite platform heels.

     Shame on you, dear reader!  Once again you’ve jumped the gun and reached the wrong conclusion.  This has nothing to do with a foot fetish.  This has to do with pleasure...her pleasure.  I’ll accept your apology later.

     I realize the purpose of these high heels is to add height, while making women’s legs look great, and they do.  

     Except how in heaven they can walk, let alone dance, in these masochistic devices is beyond me.  I’ve discovered with nearly all girls that not only do these contraptions from hell destroy their feet, calf and back muscles; in reality they’re also dangerous by causing nasty spills.

     I hear Angel audibly sigh, as she stands flat-footed and wriggles her toes in the deep pile of the carpeting. 

     The poor kid’s been on her feet all night...those puppies are tired, dear reader.

     Once again I stand, turn Angel around so she’s facing away from me, and set out gently, although firmly, massaging the trapezius muscles at the top of her shoulders.  She brings her hands up and braces herself on the tube’s carpeted wall.  She commences to purr.

     Gradually I move down the muscles encasing her spine...until I locate a tight spot.

     “Oh-oh...” I murmur, “here’s that fight you had with the b-boyfriend this morning.”

     Angel giggles.

     I work the knot out of the muscle.  Afterward, moving to the lower back, I discover another knot.

     “Whoops...” I observe, “and here’s that asshole customer you had to d-deal with tonight.”

     “Sweet Jesus, Pete...” Angel chuckles, “you read me like a book.”

     “It’s a road map of c-conflict back here, baby,” I add.  “Man, chica, you’ve had a rough day.”

     “You’ve got that right, amigo,” Angel replies.

     Finishing up on her lower back, I then do something the Thai girls taught me, which Angel really enjoys.  Placing my hands together, as though I’m about to pray, I lightly perform “judo chops” across the top of her shoulders and upper back – softening up the muscles.  Doing it correctly, my hands make a strange popping noise strictly Thai.

     “Holy macaroons that’s wonderful!” Angel exclaims.  “I’ve tried that on my boyfriend, except I can’t get the popping sound.  Show me again how you do it.”

     I stop, extend both arms around her, and place my hands in front of her together in prayer with spread fingers.  She likewise raises her hands in prayer, mimicking me; only her fingers are stiff and tight.

     “Okay, I s-see what you’re doing wrong, honey,” I instruct.  “As in all things athletic, you’ve got to relax...yeah let the fingers go loose s-so they curl slightly.  Then let your hands s-snap loosely fore and aft on their wrists.  It’s similar to giving a t-terrific hand job...it’s all in the wrists.”

     Angel laughs.

     “Try it on me,” I suggest, as I drop my hands and turn my back to her.

     She starts thumping away on me with the judo chops, but she still can’t produce the popping sound.

     “R-Relax your hands more, Angel,” I suggest.

     Presently the popping sound commences and Angel squeals with delight.

     “Madre mia, Uncle Petie, it is all in the wrists!” she exclaims.

     Having at last mastered this Thai massage invention, she happily turns away, and leans against the carpeted tube once again as I resume work on her back with more Thai judo chops.

     In due course I drop to my knees and begin massaging her gluteus maximus...the most firm, beautifully-sculpted derriere I’ve ever sunk my fat, stubby fingers into. 

     It’s a dirty job...oh, hell, you’re familiar with the rest, dear reader.

     “Angel, has anyone told you you’ve got a B-Botticelli bottom?” I ask.

     “Oh, golly, I’ve got what on my butt?” Angel exclaims.

     I laugh. 

     “No, honey, it’s not a d-disease, it’s an Italian artist from the Renaissance,” I explain.  “He used to paint beautiful women.  And, chica, what I’m finding back here could have come from his most famous p-painting: The Birth of Venus.  It’s p-purely splendiferous!”  Having gotten that off my chest, I plant a big kiss on each priceless cheek.  For I’m convinced in my heart Botticelli would have killed to create a tush this extraordinary.

     My admiring kisses make Angel giggle.

     I then start moving down her left thigh – massaging both front and back – when she twists halfway round and places her left hand on the top and side of my bald head.

     “Ya wanna know something, Pete?” Angel asks.

     Still on my knees, I look up at her and nod, as I continue to work.

     “I shit you not...” she says warmly, in that J-Lo voice, “you’re the nicest guy I’ve ever met in this club.”  She caresses my head with genuine affection a couple of times, then turns facing forward again and leans against the tube’s carpeted wall.

     I’m speechless, dear reader.

     Eventually I move down to her left calf, thoroughly enjoying massaging its petite, flawless muscles.  Afterwards I repeat an identical massage on her right leg.

     Rising to my feet once more, I gently pull her back so she’s resting against my chest and lightly caress her perky, sweet breasts.

     She releases an audible sigh, raises her arms, and caresses the back of my bald head with both tiny hands; her breasts rising even higher - straining under the flesh - as her nipples swell and harden.  I tenderly kiss the top of her right shoulder.

     “I’m seeing my doctor tomorrow,” she murmurs.

     “What for...?” I ask.

     “I’m checking with him on getting a bigger boob-job,” she replies.

     “Are you nuts?” I exclaim.  “These are p-perfect!  I’ll pay you not to get larger implants!”

     “Relax, Uncle Petie...” she laughs, “I’m only teasing.  Actually, I’m finally getting the pins removed from my right elbow.”

     “Goddamn, baby!” I exclaim again.  “What in blue blazes happened?”

     “When I was twelve,” Angel replies, “I fell through the glass roof of a greenhouse and landed on a concrete floor...shattering my elbow.”  She lowers her right arm, and adds, ”You can feel one of the pins...try it.”

     I touch her right elbow.  Sure enough I ascertain a steel pin under the flesh.

     “I have a long scar that goes up the back of my arm from the elbow,” Angel elaborates.  “Whenever I stand in a line, I always put my left hand over it to hide it.”

     Now I hunt for the scar...and locate it.  It’s more or less four inches in length.

     “Well, I’ll be damned,” I remark.  “Angel you should never be s-self-conscious about this.  I’ve known you for three years and this is the first I’ve ever b-been aware of it.  Christ, honey, even under the s-spotlight on stage it’s invisible.  Besides, I’m p-partial to tough little girls with scars...I think it’s sexy.”

     Angel laughs.

     I move my hands down her rib cage to her abdomen, gently kneading the abdominal muscles as I slowly move past her navel.  Lacking any fat her abdomen is firm and flat, the abdominal muscles pronounced and defined.  As my fingers approach her pubic mound, I spread my hands apart to the insides of the hip joints.  There I easily pinpoint both major femoral arteries and proceed with another trick the Thai girls have taught me.  I depress both arteries...and detect the pumping of Angel’s heart.  I give it a five-hippopotamus count...then release pressure on the arteries abruptly.

     Angel moans as a pleasant, tingling sensation cascades down the core of both her thighs.

     I give it a ten-hippopotamus count...and then repeat this procedure.

     Angel moans with gratification again.

               *     *     *     *     *