Message-ID: <13535eli$9807311311@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: tooshoes@concentric.net (tooshoes) Subject: (ASSM) Root of Evil (exotic dancing) - rootofevil.txt [1/1] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6pre6i$t5e@examiner.concentric.net> This story deals with sexual issues in a realistic manner, and therefor may not be suitable for people under the age of 18, who are only looking for the hardcore stuff, of course. Please do not distribute this story without the permission of the author (tooshoes@cris.com) You can find this and other stories at: http://www.cris.com/files/Authors/tooshoes/www --------------------------------------------------- The Root of Evil Strippers don't dance to songs like "Money Can't Buy Me Love.." Their customers wouldn't like it if they did. In lieu of any alternative, it's nice to think that money can do something useful. For many people, like myself, affection and intimacy and happiness were so hard to come by, and money was so easy, that buying those things was such a tempting idea. It gave us hope, and hope springs eternally. I didn't know if that was a blessing or a curse. But hope was all I had right then. First, there was just despair. I had the usual emotional outlets to keep me sane. I had friends who would listen. I had my writing to put my thoughts in order. I had a pair of cats at home, when I felt the need for a little touch and affection. And I had more than enough erotica to scrounge up biological release. Jeez, you'd think that would be enough. Obviously not. I had that emptiness beating hollow in my chest, and nothing to fill the emptiness with. I didn't have the cure. Beer just made the emptiness stronger. Religion tried to make me pretend the pain was something else. And my friends only made the feelings more bearable. Money? Well, you never quite know what that can do. Not until you try it, anyway. Of course, I wasn't thinking so philosophically when I sat behind the stage at the Kindling Klub, ordering my beer, and ritually placing one dollar bills in view of the naked dancers. My feelings were thinking for me, just like the rest of the audience around me. We were men, watching women perform, and supposedly were having a jolly good time, but we were encouraged to fantasize. To dream. To believe in the power of money, and experience the magic of a woman. The power was a little unnerving. Flash a bill, and snare a glance. The bill pulls her in like gravity, but she never misses a step in her dance routine. She flashes a smile, as if on cue. Sometimes the smile seems forced. Sometimes friendly. And sometimes it's pure magic, heading straight for the heart. That's what it felt like, being with Sandra. Magic. And that's why I didn't return to the Kindling Klub for the next month. It felt like love at first sight -- a most dangerous feeling, especially when money was involved. But hope springs eternally. A mouse will always check out a bit of cheese, even if it sees the trap. It has no choice. I half hoped, half feared, that as soon as I met her again, the spell would be broken. That happens quite often, really. Fantasies are such fragile things. A fantasy can come crashing down at the utterance of a single word, or with the wrong look. After all, beauty is only skin deep. Right? That's how a fly is caught in a spider web -- by not appreciating the mastery and craft of the spider. My eyes were captivated by her, yet I never saw her coming. The emptiness inside disintegrated into a swarm of butterflies, when Sandra leaped onto the stage dramatically, to a bewitching song by Fleetwood Mac: Rhiannon rings like a bell thru the night and wouldn't you love to love her? Takes to the sky like a bird in flight and who will be her lover? All your life you've never seen a woman taken by the wind Would you stay if she promised you heaven? Will you ever win? I wondered if those lyrics were meant just for me, challenging me with its questions. Only the oracle dancing on the stage knew the answers -- answers she held at ransom. But I needed to know; my response was predestined. I held five dollars up where she could see, indicating that I was looking for something extra. Sandra danced my way, and she hovered over me on the stage, like an angel taking a moment from her heavenly duties to pay me a visit. "What's your name?" she asked with a smile. "Arnie," I replied, also smiling, but my heart was beating awkwardly. "Thanks Arnie," she said sweetly, snatching up the bill, and flying away back to heaven, carrying a small part of me with her. "Jeez, what was that about?" asked the man sitting next to me, wondering why I got so much attention. "I dropped her a five," I replied. He shook his head, as his awe was mixed with disapproval. "You should save some bills for the next dancer. She's really hot, too." I shrugged. "This one is something special." "Aw jeez, you really like her, huh? Hey, why not ask her out?" I laughed nervously. I knew I didn't stand a chance, but what was I afraid of? "I don't think so..." But fear was the root of all evil, I decided. It caused more trouble in my life than money ever had. Sandra danced for another few songs, and I littered her stage with several more small bills, which earned me the sexiest show I'd ever seen. Some strippers just get nude and exposed their crotch mechanically. Somehow, when Sandra laid on her back, legs spread, shaven pussy sparkling with moisture, it was an artistic moment. Every detail made the difference. The way her hands tempted down her thighs and over her breasts. The way her pussy opened oh so slightly, like a door slightly ajar, welcoming me in. The way she threw her head back, eyes nearly closed, face red, as though she was with a lover deep in her imagination, and she was sharing that with her audience. And I wanted to be with her right then. Inside her. Not just physically. Not exactly the way most relationships begin. "I have a problem with dating customers," Sandra said, rejecting my request gently, while sipping a Heineken. "I think a guy should at least have dinner with a girl before seeing her naked. You know what I mean? The order of things is all screwed up." "I know what you mean," I said, smiling, trying to accept what almost seemed like a form rejection with grace. Actually, at the time, I didn't know what she meant at all. I was too busy feeling rejected. I was feeling a little foolish, too. I couldn't believe I had asked her out in the first place. I never thought I'd get the chance to even talk with her. I just arranged for a table dance, which usually means the stripper will dance for one song, and the customer at best can earn a smile or a laugh with his sense of humor. But Sandra didn't work that way. She sat down with me and we talked for several minutes, all for the cost of me buying her a beer. I felt like I was getting VIP treatment. Like a fool, I saw her rejection as a swing and a miss. Maybe I had two strikes left. I tried to make myself seem wise by giving her foolish advice, even while already sensing that she was smarter than I was. Strike two. She told me that she already had a boyfriend; I knew nothing about the guy, but I suggested she could do better. Strike three. But this wasn't a game. It wasn't baseball, anyway. Sandra let me swing away until I got my senses about me, while she pulled me closer with everything she did. She made me smile and my heart leap in our happy conversation. Then, without warning, she slipped out of her gown and tossed it onto my lap. I could feel her body heat and smell her scent, still in the fabric, as she danced only inches away, only for me. She filled the emptiness in my soul. She held my heart and my imagination with her magic, and would still possess them long after the dance was over. If this was a game, it wasn't about possessing her, or winning her. It was about her winning me. She had won herself a steady customer. I was paying with more than my money, but I wasn't complaining about the cost. Sandra only worked two days a week (Friday and Saturday), so I had to go through five full days without seeing her and without hearing her voice. I didn't like it, but I wasn't addicted yet. Just halfway there. I wasn't sure the magic would work again this week. So much time had passed. But when I saw her again, and she remembered my name, I felt my heart fill again. Her smile looked so genuine and warm, but was it really for me or just paid for? I asked her that question in a roundabout way. "You know I sometimes wonder about the connection between a stripper and her fans. It's like being a kid and having an imaginary friend again. But instead of teddy bears and dolls, now it's fantasy women." Sandra shook her head firmly, not liking my reasoning one bit. "You think I'm just creating a fantasy? The dancing may be a fantasy, but when we're talking, that's real. Some people have a hard time understanding that. The money gets in the way, and people have a hard time knowing when I'm doing business or pleasure. But I'm not friendly with the customers because of the money. I really do like to talk and meet with new people." I felt that I had offended her, but her reply made me feel happy, anyway, and she proved her point by taking a few hours out of her free time so we could just talk and get to know each other a little better. There may have been secondary reasons for her offer. I was a good investment or a promising sales prospect. But if she didn't want to talk with me, it would have made more sense for her to target someone she liked talking with more. I wasn't the only game in town. Besides, she probably had similar questions about me; was I really interested in her, or just in her body? Did I even want anything real, or only the fantasy I was paying for? So in a way, we had something in common. I stopped worrying about motives, and I felt the seeds of a friendship beginning to grow. But not just an ordinary friendship. This kind of friendship filled the aching in my heart, and then the aching returned tenfold during those five days apart from her. She had stirred the ocean of my emotions, bringing up some treasures, but some other feelings were popping up that I wish had stayed at the bottom. I thanked God when Friday came around, with the new hope of seeing her again, rising through the depression. My soul soared when I first saw her face. She greeted me warmly when I saw her on the stage, asking me how my week went. I didn't want to think about that. Just the here and now, and right then I felt very good. I knew some other customers were wondering why I got the special attention, for just a lousy $2 tip. That made me feel even better -- that I was just a little bit special to her. But I would feel a whole lot better when I could get her alone, again. Unfortunately, that didn't happen for over two hours. I spent that time drinking beer alone at the bar, waiting for her. "I'm sorry," she said, when she finally sat down with me. "I spent so much time with you last week, that I blew off one of my other customers. I just had to spend some time with him between dance sets." I nodded forlornly. "That's OK. It's my fault for being attracted to the most popular dancer." I then showered her with compliments. "You know you are the most amazing stripper I've ever seen. You are the goddess of table dancing." Stuff like that. Anything that made her feel special when she was with me made me feel special, too. It's kind of like petting a cat or soothing a baby or giving to charity; it makes the giver feel warm inside to give. Nothing wrong with that. As long as the gift is appreciated. But I may have been giving too much. It was possible to give so much to a friend as to be unfair. Friends don't just give -- they share. She must have been asking herself: What is he trying to get out of me, anyway? Not that she wasted a minute worrying about it. She was a river of energy, not pausing for anything in her journey to the ocean. I was simply there for the ride. She left my side and returned to the dressing room, preparing for her next dance. I found an empty seat at the stage and waited anxiously for her to emerge from behind the curtain. Finally ... "Next, on center stage," the DJ spoke playfully: "The sweet, sexy Sandra!" The loudspeakers played the first few notes and drumbeats from an old song, and I felt the music resonate through my soul, surfacing memories and feelings from when I was Sandra's age. Joy welled up inside me, mixed with longing for times past, opportunities missed. The feeling was electric for the crowd of mostly thirty-somethings, who were all young and free when they heard this song for the first time. Vague, distant memories of parties and dances and romances washed over us, like a nebulous energy forming around the stage, drifting without center. We looked at the curtain, which had yet to open. Sandra waited for those feelings to take root. Then, in a running sprint, Sandra threw the curtain aside and pounced onto the stage, taking all those feelings onto herself, and celebrating them for us. Cheers exploded from the Friday night crowd. Even the normally subdued patrons and bouncers clapped their hands. With all the grace of an Olympic gymnast, Sandra leaped onto the pole at center stage and climbed it to the ceiling. Her thighs and calves embraced the pole, supporting her weight, as she spread her arms and fell backwards, like a diver towards the water, before stopping in mid-air, levitating two feet from the floor. She was hanging upside down. The laws of physics were seemingly broken. The moment was pregnant with suspense. She reached behind her back, unclasped her top, and set her breasts free. The crowd paused, as if we were knocked off our seats by a vision. Then we erupted in cheer. Our collective hearts were soaring. We opened our wallets, hoping to fly a little higher, not thinking of how far we would fall later, when our little heartbreaker returned to her private abode. But some people were more wary than others. "She reminds me of my ex-wife," said a man next to me, after Sandra smiled for him, then plucked up his one-dollar tip and returned to her dance. "Really?" I asked. I was so entranced by Sandra, I assumed he meant it as a compliment. "Yep," he replied, shaking his head. "Women just take your money and walk away." I took several seconds to respond. "That just about sums it all up for you, huh?" Desire is the root of all evil, I decided. People deal with desire in many different ways. After Sandra finished her dance, I got off my butt and headed for the men's room. I had to get the image of her out of my head, or my dick would never agree to perform its most mundane duty, so I concentrated on images of architecture or landscapes. That fooled the little prick. A moment later I was joined in the men's room by two other men, both of whom had also watched Sandra dance. "Ah man, what a body!" said one, as he faced the urinal and unzipped. "Yeah," said the other, standing beside him. "But she's an arrogant bitch. The cunt knows how hot she is. I'd like to get her out back and show her a thing or two." "Bitch," agreed the other. I couldn't believe my ears. Men aren't supposed to look at each other while they piss, but I stared at them for several seconds. I wanted to be sure I'd recognize them if they got within twenty feet of Sandra. "Men get very angry," Sandra said matter-of-factly, when I told her what I had overheard. The sad truth is that she heard such things almost every day. "This place brings out the worst in people." "You don't bring out the worst in *me*," I replied, taking mock offense that she had casually lumped me in the same category as those asswipes. "Oh, you know I didn't mean you!" She said with a blush and a sharp punch to my shoulder. "Guys like you make the shit I put up with worthwhile.. It's not all gravy, but I really do like my job." "What do you like about it?" I asked, trying to push Sandra into a more intimate conversation. "What's not to like?" She replied enthusiastically. "This job breaks all the rules. I get paid to dance, take off my clothes, and talk with people all day long. I can flirt with men, and they treat me like I'm special." "That's because you *are* special," I said quietly, with a wistful smile. She paused for a moment in thought, then she smiled brightly as the DJ started a new song over the loud speakers. She couldn't sit still any longer. "Oh, I *love* this song! Would you like a table dance?" She was a good salesperson, knowing exactly when her product was most attractive. Her product just happened to be herself. I nodded. How could I resist? Besides, I had been sampling her product for about 30 minutes, just talking with her and enjoying her company. It was an awkward strategy, mixing friendship with business, but I was getting used to it. Most relationships involved some form of negotiation; this was simply more direct. Two beers buys a half-hour of conversation, whetting my appetite for a $20 table dance. Plus tip, of course. A lot of money for a brief, touching memory, and for an expression more fleeting than a rose. But what price can be put on a moment of love? Or a feeling like love -- a feeling that approximated love, in a lonely life? I was paying for an emotion and an emotional connection. I was paying for the opportunity to feel something for someone. I had the need; Sandra had the supply; we agreed on a price. Love was never this simple. While I sat still, the music transported us, and Sandra told a tale with her body. First, she introduced herself with her eyes and her bright smile, until she caught my gaze with a graceful sweep of her hands. She cupped her breasts and pressed in tight, as though pulling me to her bosom. She licked a wet path from her cleavage to her nipples. My tongue tasted her vicariously, as she paused for effect, then fell into dance again. Her hands flourished over her belly and hips, accenting her curves, and hypnotizing me with the circular movements of her fingers and gem-like nails. Her hands finally settled on her hips, which rocked to the left and rolled to the right, in rhythm with the musical beat, moving as only she could move, clouding reality, until everything she was and everything I felt for her was captured in the image of her pussy. I felt my body tense, and I looked up quickly, afraid of my feelings for a moment. I sought the security of her eyes, but Sandra turned away and lifted one leg high, towards the ceiling, presenting her pussy like a chef presents a meal -- right in front of me, where I could experience it. I could see how tender and fresh she was. I could almost smell her, almost taste her, almost reach out and ... almost... She then dropped her leg, so that her ass opened towards my face, her pussy perfectly framed, and she looked up at me from between her legs, gazing with feelings I could not fathom. She was watching me as I longed for her. I was a fly, longing for the spider, imagining the web I was caught in as the trappings of love. I wanted to know the spider more deeply. She had shown me so much of herself, but I wanted to see the treasure hidden at the heart of her lair. "Could I see inside?" She hesitated, then smiled. She never would have obliged if she knew what this simple act meant to me. She reached around her ass from either side, pressed into her pussy lips, and opened up like a flower to the Sun. She meant this as a gift to a friend, or as a bonus to a customer, but it felt like much more. It felt like intimacy. Her leg shifted to maintain her balance, and brushed against my leg. My emotional barriers were breaking down. When the dance had ended, and she was slipping back into her dress, I was excited, but not hard. I felt a beautiful feeling that didn't feel altogether good. I felt the way a prisoner would feel, looking beyond the cell bars at freedom. I felt like I was living a beautiful dream, but the alarm clock was ringing. She sat beside me, smiling and waiting, perhaps expecting a simple thank-you. Then she saw how uncomfortable I looked. She touched my hand and asked, "What?" I told her as best I could. She didn't like the answer. Last call had come and gone, and it was time to go home again. I had the road all to myself at 1 am in the morning. The horizon was black, without a taillight in sight. My eyes fixated on the twisting yellow line in the center of the road, leading me. The vibrations of road penetrated my body and my ears with a steady monotonous drone. I felt isolated from the world, with nothing to occupy my thoughts, except ... Her. She was the last person I saw before leaving the club. The touch of her hand was the last thing I felt. I savored her smell, her body, her smile, and her laughter. I had a hard time deciding whether I was in love, or just pussy-whipped to the max. Maybe the difference was just a play on words. A lover is devoted, but a p-whipped victim is obsessed. A lover gives, but a p-whippie surrenders. Just words. But there was one big difference. A lover gets the pussy. All I was getting was a glimpse -- a tantalizing vision that stayed with me and haunted me now, as I lay in bed, my eyes closed, and my imagination running free. I had to deal with these feelings, or I would never get to sleep. Fighting these feelings would only make matters worse. And who was the pervert who thought of counting sheep? I decided the healthiest thing to do was to keep thinking about her. The way she looked. The way she smelled. I closed my eyes, grabbed my dick, and imagined how she would taste, if I could only be between her legs. I couldn't have her, but I could fantasize about her, and where was the harm in that? I imagined that a man like me and a woman like her could be totally intimate. I imagined a perfect world, where sex had no consequences. No misunderstandings or jealousy. No expectations, and no broken promises. The rules of emotions and relationships broke like a crack of thunder. The space-time continuum exploded for one moment, and I was in heaven, between her legs. A short time later, the world seemed normal again, and I had to clean up. Sandra was probably making love to her boyfriend 20 miles away. And I was alone with nothing but my pillow to hold on to. Across the room, I watched my two cats, one male, one female, huddled one on top of the other, trying to have sex. Maybe they got the idea from me. But they were both "fixed", according to society, not nature, and they were forever doomed to frustration. Even my cat couldn't get any pussy. I hugged my pillow tight, and drifted into sleep, thinking what a lonely, screwed up world I was living in. The world I dreamed in wasn't much better. The fantasy started out nice -- some out of the way place, away from society, away from the Kindling Klub, Sandra and I were dancing a slow dance, just the two of us. Very intimate. A moment in heaven. But somehow, I couldn't imagine Sandra being satisfied with my idea of heaven. I closed my eyes in the dream. Voices and the heavy beat of drums exploded the silence. Someone bumped into me from behind. I opened my eyes, and we were transported to a dance hall, with heavy rock bleeding from my ears. Suddenly, my two left feet moved like a gazelle on speed. I matched Sandra's boundless energy step for step, eagerly trying to fit into her vision of paradise. She took my hand, and we stepped into a spin. Faster and faster we turned, and we held tight to each other. We were both smiling. Until the spinning got out of control. The force pulling us apart was stronger than the force holding us together. My hand started slipping. She wasn't even trying to hold on. I awoke suddenly in a sweat, worrying about what the dream meant. The day stretched out in front of me like an eternity, until finally I returned to the Kindling Klub that night. This was my last chance to see Sandra for six days -- six long days of missing her. So I wanted to make the most of it. I came in earlier than usual and planned to stay a while. After frequenting the strip club for a few months, I graduated to "preferred customer" status when the doorkeeper waved the cover charge. It was a nice gesture. I didn't think of it as saving three dollars, since I always spent whatever money I had in my wallet. About fifteen dollars of that would go towards beers and tips to the waitresses, and whatever money I had left would go to Sandra. This almost total attachment to one dancer did not go unnoticed, of course. I stopped by one night when Sandra wasn't working, just for a couple of drinks, and people looked at me like Mulder without Scully. I didn't fit in here alone. There were two kinds of regulars at the club. Those who came for the atmosphere and the personnel, and those who came because of a single person. I was pegged as the latter. "Hey!" said a regular barfly, Dan (aka, the Wise Guy), as I sat down at the bar beside him. "I hear you're stuck on Sandra." I eyed him suspiciously, wondering what he was getting at, but there was no point denying it. "Yeah, I guess you could say that." "Aw, jeez, not another one," he said, shaking his head and waving at the waitress. "These girls are almost as addictive as beer. Hey, honey, give him another drink on me. He's gonna need it." The waitress handed me another glass of Heineken. "Give her up," Dan advised. "It will hurt for a while, but you'll get over her." He didn't realize that Sandra had walked up behind us. Or maybe he timed it that way. "Hey, what are you doing with my customer?" She said, half seriously, half playfully. "Oh, never mind me," he said, standing up, surrendering his seat to her. "I just bought him a drink, so he could spend more on you." "Yes, never mind him," Sandra said as Dan walked away. "He's always trying to stir up something." "He's already forgotten. So, how are things going?" I asked with a smile, excited to begin another night with Sandra. "Actually, I'm sick," Sandra replied with a frown, quickly dashing my enthusiasm. "I'm gonna be heading home soon." "Oh, I'm sorry, what's wrong?" I asked, anxiously concerned. "I have a slight fever and I feel tired. The last thing I feel like doing is dancing. I'm gonna call a taxi to pick me up." "I'll drive you home, if you want, and save you the money," I offered. "Doesn't look good to leave with a customer," she replied. "And it wouldn't look good to my boyfriend, either." "Well, could we at least talk until the taxi comes?" I asked desperately. "I mean, this is the last chance I'll get to see you in six days, and I'm really gonna miss you." She smiled reassuringly, thinking I was just being nice. "Don't worry, next weekend will be here before you know it." "Time flies when I'm here with you, and then feels like eternity in hell when I leave," I replied. She looked away uncomfortably. "You shouldn't say things like that." "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. Are you sure you can't talk for a few minutes?" Her face was stern. "No, I'm sorry, please understand. I really have to talk with the manager and some other customers before I go. But how about this -- I'll call you in a day or two." "You will?" I asked, surprised. She had never offered to call before. She nodded, and before I could even say goodbye or wish her a quick recovery, she stood up and walked away. She never called. The first 24 hours were tough, as I spent too much time near the phone, waiting for her call. The next 24 hours were even worse. While I watched TV, I anticipated the phone ringing. Then I'd jump when the phone did ring, but it was always some telemarketing company. She had my work number, so while I typed away at the computer, I expected her call. I checked my answering machine several times every day, but still no message from her. Days passed, but it felt like the clocks had stopped. I couldn't even enjoy lunch breaks, because eating kept me away from the phone. I felt frustrated and for the first time a little angry with her -- that she left me no way to contact her. But mostly I was worried. What if she was sicker than she had let on? What if she couldn't call me. I looked in the obituary section of the newspaper, just in case. I knew I was acting crazy, but I couldn't help myself. Sandra wasn't dead. She simply didn't call, and she didn't call for a reason. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what that reason was. Maybe she was trying to give me the brush-off. Maybe, after some thought, she decided that calling me would send the wrong message. Or maybe she simply forgot. I took a sick day from work on Friday. My stomach ached from acid, and my jaw was sore from grinding my teeth. I didn't need a doctor to diagnose that I was sick with worry. Sick with obsession. And I didn't have a cure. Maybe I should have taken Dan's advice and given up on Sandra, admit failure, and accept the heartache, but the very thought terrified me. I could only indulge my obsession, cling to a desperate hope, and make my fall all the more painful. I was sitting at the bar when Sandra arrived, and just seeing her walk through that door calmed my nerves. All of my worries and sense of loss evaporated. Whatever happened didn't matter now, because she was here. If she walked right up and told me that she hated me and never wanted to see me again, well at least I'd hear it from her lips. I took a swallow of beer, and felt an odd sense of calm. She disappeared out back to change into her work clothes -- a single piece of silken cloth draped over her naked body, and high-heeled shoes -- and five minutes later, she was sitting beside me at the bar. "So ..." she began reluctantly, sensing my delicate mood. "How was your week?" "Not bad," was the polite thing to say, but it was just too big a lie, so I merely shrugged. "You look like you are feeling better." "Oh, much better now, but I could hardly get out of bed for three days. I had a fever of 102! I hate being sick. I hate feeling so helpless," she said, fishing for a little sympathy. "I know what you mean," I replied, not quite giving the response she wanted. "I didn't feel well enough to do anything until Tuesday, and then I was like: Oh my gawd! I had so much stuff to do! I had a college paper due on Thursday, and so many chores and promises to keep. I'm sorry I never called you. Everything was just so crazy." "Yeah, I know, life doesn't stop when you are sick; it just piles up around you," I offered with a smile, but I didn't sound sincere. I felt like I was getting the runaround. "I just wish you'd left a message or something, to tell me you were OK. I was really worried." "Jeez, you sound like my mom," she laughed uncomfortably. "You really didn't have to worry about me. I just had a fever. Fevers suck, but people get them all the time." "And sometimes people die from them. You should have called." "And you need to get a grip," she rebuked. "I know, I'm sorry, I'm acting crazy," I said, nodding in agreement, and then got to the heart of the matter: "I shouldn't worry like this. But I really needed to hear your voice." "Really," she said, not asking a question. She frowned as alarm bells rang in her head. She looked at me carefully, searching me out, and then she said... "Fuck! This always seems to happen." She got up from her seat suddenly, and her voice was shaky. "There's a guy over there who looks like he wants me for a table dance." I turned my head, but I didn't see the man she was talking about. "I'm gonna have to go, unless you ask me for a table dance first." "But... I want to talk for a few minutes first." "Sorry," she said firmly, getting up to leave. "I can't sit here talking if I can earn money dancing. I'm here to make money, you know." I stared at her skeptically. She once complained how money got in the way of her relationships at the Kindling Klub, now suddenly she was throwing it in my face, reminding me that I was just like any other customer. "No, that's OK. Don't leave. I'll pay for a dance." Sandra nodded and smiled perfunctorily. She led me to the tables at the other side of the club, and before I could say a word, she slipped out of her dress and she dropped it on my lap, and danced at double speed, as though she was working out. Usually when she'd dance for me, she was open, and it felt like we were sharing a moment and a fantasy. But now she used her body and her dancing like a wall, shutting me out. She didn't consider me a friend at that moment, so she kept the treasure inside safe from me. Her eyes were hard and distant. She flashed her pussy, swatted her ass, and pinched her nipples, emphasizing the flesh, telling me that this was what I was paying for. But to me, it was like buying a diamond only to discover it was a fake. Her body looked the same, but she didn't move me the same way. I wanted something true, something genuine. I invested my money and so much more in her, and I felt as though she was slipping away. When she finished dancing, she hurried back into her dress and looked anxious. "I'm up on stage next, so I'm gonna have to go now." She was already edging away from me, but she paused when she saw me pull out my wallet. She had almost walked away without being paid. I gave her a twenty for the dance, plus ten more for a tip. It seemed more like a bribe. "Please stay and talk for a few minutes." She looked at me carefully and sighed. Against her better judgement, she sat down with me, and lowered the wall just a bit. "Just one song, but then I have to go. So what do you want to talk about?" "I don't know," I replied. "I just want to talk. I just don't want to be away from you. I don't really feel alive when you're gone." She tensed up and looked like she was about to leave again. And then I just lost it. I felt this was my last chance, and she was slipping away, and I had to go for broke. "I don't know how to say it except that I love you. I know that's a loaded word, and it probably makes everything even more confusing for me to say it, but I can't keep playing these games. We can't just chat and play this dancing game all the time. I have to break through all the bullshit at tell you how I feel." Sandra shook her head and replied angrily. "No, *this* is bullshit. Why are you doing this? We had a lot of fun chatting, and I thought you really liked it when I danced for you. Now you bring up this 'love' idea. I thought you were my friend." "I am your friend," I insisted. "I know that's what you want to be," she replied, her tone softening, "but I can't be your friend if you feel this way. You can call what you are feeling love, but whatever it is, it's not healthy. I don't want you worrying about me, and I can't be responsible for your feelings. Being close to you would be like embracing pain, and I'm sorry but I just won't do that." I closed my eyes for a few seconds, and when I opened them, I expected to see my heart laid out on the table as a bloody mess. I felt numb and a little dizzy. I was surprised that I wasn't feeling hurt. That would come later, when I had a chance to absorb everything. I choked on my words when I asked: "So what now? You never want to see me again?" Sandra looked torn, and I felt guilty for putting her in this position. "I don't know, Arnie. I don't want to play games with you. I could be your friend. I could perform for you. But, I'm sorry, I can't give you what you want. I'm not even sure you know what you want. Maybe when you find out we can talk again. But not now. I really have to go. I'm not in the mood to dance right now, but you know, it's my job." We said what seemed like our final good-byes, and off she went, dancing for a room full of men. And off I went, out of the Kindling Klub, and back into the night. Where did I go wrong? Where didn't I go wrong? I was lost. The highway stretched out endlessly. No destination. I couldn't stop seeing her face, no matter where I was. Cars surrounded me on the highway. When I got home, I walked right past my neighbors. At work, I bumped mechanically into my co-workers like some scene out of the movie Metropolis. When I looked in the mirror, I looked right through myself. The only person who existed for me was her. When I lied down in bed, the only woman who could feed my fantasies was a person who couldn't stand the sight of me anymore. I couldn't even envision her bright, beautiful smile. All I could see was the disappointment she felt at the end. I had to stop thinking of her somehow. Now I understood that fantasizing about her did have consequences. Fantasizing made the world seem all the lonelier and all the more screwed up. The ironic thing was that while I was fantasizing about her, she was enjoying life to the fullest in a world that was friendly and made sense to her. She was out with her friends, dancing at an all night rave. Or she was out roller-blading on the city street. Or she was out on the beach, while I stayed at home watching her sunbathe with my mind's eye. Funny, how I didn't imagine myself dancing or walking on the beach. It was all her. I was living my life as a dream. It seemed like the only option left to me. The only way to hold on to what I wanted. What did I want? That's what Sandra asked me. Well, wasn't it obvious? I wanted her. I wanted to be inside her. I wanted all of her. I wanted the impossible. I wanted ... To be her? Jeez, that was a crazy thought. What made me even think of that? Just because she was beautiful and free and confident, and I was ... Pathetic. My whole body quaked. The pressure had been building up for a long time now. Something needed to get out. A demon inside me had to be exorcised. I needed a primal release, to yell at the top of my lungs. Where could I go to scream? On the roof of a building? To an asylum? I jumped in my car and started driving, far away, into the country. I drove until I all I could see were mountains and farmland. The only witnesses would be cows on the side of the road. As good a place as any. I got out of my car and walked a few paces into a field. I took a deep breath and screamed at the top of my lungs, issuing forth obscenities and a fury I never knew I had in me. The demon left me like a puff of smoke disappearing into the air. The dream was over; I had found myself. Pain is the root of all evil. I finally understood that. I stood at the side of the road. The cows were watching me, wondering if I would scream again, but I had gotten that out of my system. Now I was filling the void in my system with something else. I was soaking in the countryside, smelling the wildlife and hearing the birds in the trees. I felt like I was a part of it all. I looked at wild flowers in a patch near the tree line. The plants swayed in the breeze, and flower petals opened towards the sun. A bee bobbed in and out, doing what bees do with flowers. Enjoying life. And that started me wondering. Why couldn't I do that? What made a bee's life better than mine? I was seeing everything in a new light. Strippers don't dance to the blues. They shouldn't, anyway. That was my first thought when I returned to the Kindling Klub a few weeks later, with a new attitude. I felt like I had a religious awakening -- a newfound disgust for pain. Any kind of pain. The pain of fear. The pain of regret. The pain of wanting. Sick motherfucker that I was, I had embraced this pain, as though it was my salvation. It ate away at me, and I did nothing to stop it, letting it eat away at my life. People stepped out of my way, to avoid the infection. I was a martyr for no cause, denying myself any happiness, so happiness fled from me, and all was darkness. The solution to evil was so simple. Simply turn on the light. Cast the pain off and happiness will take its place. Life again will have meaning. Build up positive emotions in yourself, and you will build them up in others as well. I don't know why it took so long for me to find the light switch.. As soon as I walked through the doors of the Kindling Klub, I noticed all the pain around me for the first time, and it got me wondering. Why the fuck did strippers dance at bars, anyway? Shouldn't they have been out at beaches or stripping in malls, where people were happy? Why wasn't exotic dancing a celebration of life? Instead, we drowned our emotions in beer, and slunk into dark corners of society to admire beauty. There was something very wrong with that. I ordered a tonic with a splash of cranberry, and tried to imagine that everyone around me was happy. It was Friday night -- they *should* be happy. I decided that today, for a change, rather than let this place bring me down, I would help bring it up. Sandra found me at the bar, and at first, I thought she would walk right on by, but instead she sat down beside me. Maybe she was curious why I had come back, or maybe she sensed that something was different about me. "Hi Arnie," she greeted with a smile. "It's been a while. How are you feeling." I smiled back at her. "Much better." "I'm glad." I told her about my new found faith in happiness, and how I found my way out of the hell I was in, and she said that she couldn't have been happier for me. Then I got a little too enthusiastic. "I just wish I could do something to make this place happier. I never noticed how sad so many of the people here looked before. Maybe if you danced to more upbeat songs, like 'Don't worry; Be happy', or something like that." Sandra face wrinkled. "Ugh. You want to ruin my business?" "What do you mean?" "You think too much. Just sit back, drink some beer, and have a good time. You've just remembered how to enjoy yourself. Don't blow it by trying to save the world," she replied. "It's my job to make people happy, not yours." "Is that so? So how much is happiness going for nowadays?" "That depends on what you have in your wallet," she said teasingly. "Happiness lies somewhere between having money and spending it all." I laughed, realizing that she could sell me on anything. "Well, maybe we could start with a table dance." Sandra agreed, and we made our way to the tables. The DJ put on a new song. I had never heard the song before, but it was loud and fast and new. Hearing it made me feel young and curious. Optimistic. Now when Sandra danced, she wore a sheer smile, which did little to cover her naked emotions. She was hot, feeling sexy and beautiful, and I saw the intimacy in her eyes. I was sure of it. But there were no hidden messages, and no ulterior motives. She was dancing to the moment. The music pulsed through her veins. She was bursting with energy, and dancing for me made her feel more alive. That's what this moment meant. We were two friends sharing a moment, and nothing more. But that moment was very special to me. I smiled and rubbed my hands awkwardly. I wanted to express myself to her, to tell her what I was thinking. I wanted to touch her, not in a sexual way, but just to show how close I felt to her at that moment. I wanted to start our relationship all over again, and not make the same mistakes. "What?" Sandra asked with an encouraging smile, sensing that I wanted to say something. "It's just ... ", I began, shaking my head, at a loss for words. "Just everything." She smiled brightly and kept on dancing. tooshoes@cris.com (e.r.gundel) (c) 1998 All Rights Reserved Please do not copy or repost this story without the permission of the author. -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----