A Year Being a Regular: Part II

The lights bordering the rim lit up in a danger-red hue. The basketball slammed against the backboard and ricochetted off in a random direction following a feeble last-second shot attempt. It was half-time. Alanna had pushed away her plate of half-eaten wings and excused herself. I guessed to wash away any evidence of the less-than-ideal dietary choice she had made for the night. The bartender refilled my empty glass as I decided what to do for the next fifteen-or-so minutes. I swirled around my stool and veered off into the main floor. The calculated lighting in the building was selling an ambience of sex and desire. The bass thumped in tandem to the grinding of the dancers and the blood-pumping heart of the customers. All the patrons willingly succumbed to the calls of their chosen sirens. Reality and logic didn't exist here. The thought that this illusion could be shattered in the blink of an eye made me chuckle. The sea of fabricated mutual lust would quickly wither away once the lights were turned up to their full capacity. The fantasy would quickly scatter like roaches accosted with brilliant illumination in a dark room. The shroud that so expertly veiled the numb workers and licentious patrons would be lifted, exposing the place to be the decrepid sexual wasteland that it was. At that moment, I was a man with the camera, hunched over in the bush, cautiously observing an undiscovered species and watching their behavior. During that time, I felt like an observor rather than the particpant. But I guess that's how it starts. Alanna had returned. As I swirled back to the bar counter, the opening Euro-gothic bass-line of Lady Gaga's 'Bad Romance' shook my eardrums. I decided to lean in towards Alanna, who was adjusting the time on her wristwatch. "Can I get a dance to this song?" She looked at me with her warm smile, "Of course." In one swift motion, she hopped off the stool, pulled the string behind her back, and caught her falling top. Her first move was to wrap her arms around my shoulder as she gyrated her hips. She looked down at my legs and slowly lets her hands fall to my thighs. She looked back up at me and pushed my legs farther apart. With the newly freed up space, she slithered closer in and put her arms back around my shoulders. All this with her charming smile. She followed that up by sliding off her bottom and turning around and lightly grinding in my lap. She slyly leaned back against me and wrapped one hand behind my head as she continued to grind. The song started to enter its last repeat of the chorus. She goes back to her first move, arms wrapped around my shoulder, facing me, but this time, she rested her head against mine as the rest of her body continued to rhymnically dance to the music. The track faded to the next pop song and she tenderly kissed me on the cheek. This girl knew what she was a doing. Never once faltering, she was in total control of the situation every step of the way. A master at her craft giving an awe-inspiring performance. I handed over the fee for the experience along with a generous tip. It's girls like her that make strip clubs a dangerous place for fools with open wallets. She tucked the cash in her garter before she put on her uniform. She hopped back on stool, brimming with youthful energy and charm. "So I have to ask, do you not have a T.V. at your place?" I took a swig from my glass. "I do. Why?" "Well, do you not get cable or something?" "I do." "Are you a shy?" "Not really. Almost the exact opposite. I don't know when to shut up." Her face srunched up as she squinted at me, trying to fit me in her archetypes for what kind of strip club patron I was. "... Then I don't get it. You spend all of your time here glued to the screen, ignoring all these hot bitches behind you. You're not some shy dude who's afraid to talk. You're doing something here you could do at home. What's your deal?" I laughed. "To be honest, I'm not one hundred percent sure why I'm here. But the drinks and instant-party environment are a plus." "Guess that makes sense..." "Also, naked chicks. What guy doesn't like sports, alcohol, and naked chicks?" She nodded her head, not completely satisfied with my answer, and pulled out a carton of cigarettes. "You mind?" "Do your thing." For the next few minutes we had the typical dancer-customer banter. She covered the trifecta of Stripper Casual Conversation: school, dreams, and kids. She told me she was currently enrolled at Georgia Tech, pursuing a degree in Medical Engineering, and that she had a two year-old daughter who was the light of her life. She also admitted to her newfound love of 'The Flaming Lips.' Amidst the conversation, an image of Derrick Rose in his jersey, looking determined to turn the tide, marked the end of the half-time report. I turned to Alanna and put on my most apologetic smile to cover up the fact I felt a bit like an asshole for what I was about to say. "So listen, totally hang out here if you want. I'm not telling you to leave or anything, but the game's back on so I'm going to divert my attention back to the screen for the next hour-and-a-half or so." "Hey, do your thing." she said with a smile. "But if you're not busy when the game's over and I'm still here, totally come over." She put out her cigarette and got up to leave, but not before planting another kiss on my cheek. "Then I'll see you after the game." It was a busy night and at no point in the third and fourth quarter did I believe that she would come back. As soon as she left I knew that was the last time I'd see her for the rest of the night. She was of the calibur where customers would shell out as much money as they could to win her attention over the other suitors (something I would see in the coming months). I paid it no mind, though. So was the nature of the place. An hour-and-a-half passed by and LeBron and Wade walked towards the locker room, completely dejected. Rose, in his stoic cool, was talking to a reporter. My team had won. A satisfying close to a good night. As I paid out my tab, I felt someone lean against my shoulder. I looked up and saw Alanna. "So did your team win?" "Yup." "Nice. LeBron?" "Nope! Bulls. Rose. Fuck Lebron." She sarcastically grimaced and boo-ed me. "Are you leaving?" "No, I don't think so." Our relationship for the next few months would be defined by the events of that night. I would go in and drink my eighteen year-old scotch while watching a sports game, get one or two dances here and there, and then cap off the night with what I was about to ask next. "So how much do you charge for V.I.P.?"