Banana Hammocks - Chapter 2

"Firm and Smooth"

Her dance was as exotic as her appearance. She had great stage presence and when it was her set, everyone in the club stopped all side conversations to watch. She was Latin, with dark brown hair-almost black-that shimmered auburn when the revolving stage lights passed over her. The nice curvature of an ass, hips wide enough to be considered child bearing, and D cups shimmered even in bar lighting. Man, were those breasts nice. They looked fresh; not sure if they were saline or silicon, though. They almost looked natural. She began winding her body to the hypnotic beat of the music slithering from the stage speakers, catching eye contact from all the johns with those deep brown pupils. We were all entranced and in unison began showering the stage with dollar bills of all denominations. She had no obvious physical flaws. She must be psycho or needy or damaged. She wore clear platform heels making her stand nearly five-nine and wore white fishnets and G-string that glowed under the backlights. She was the most beautiful creation of a woman I’d ever seen. Where was she from and do they manufacture more?

“Everyone, give it up for La Reyna,” the DJ encouraged as she collected her earnings, exiting stage left. She retreated to the backstage through the door at the other corner of the stage. “Man, she was great,” I turned to Reggie who was also captivated but less impressed. “Yeah man, she was ‘great’.”

I ignored his sarcasm. “I’m gonna get a dance from her.” I eagerly got up and headed toward the back of the club where the private dance rooms were located barricaded by sheer satin curtains. I told the obese door man I wanted to request Reyna for three dances. “$225 up front. Tipping is optional, but expected,” he advised. “Ok, let me go to the ATM.”

Without blinking, I headed for the entrance where the ATM machine greeted all the johns as they barged into Club Neon in the unincorporated community of Brandon. I couldn’t punch in my PIN fast enough before finally withdrawing $300, the max my bank would allow me for one day. Thankfully, I already had $200 in my pocket but I was waiting to burn that on drinks and tips. Little did I know that topless gentlemen clubs down here didn’t serve alcohol. The drunken bachelor party that had come in before us when we arrived threw me off. They must have pre-gamed at another bar, because when I approached the bar earlier to order a Long Island Ice Tea, the bartender suggested the tea, hold the Long Island.

Returning to the ogre door man, I repeated my request like a kid who had just chased down the ice cream truck. “$225 up front,” he reminded me. “Yeah, you said that a few minutes ago,” I replied not realizing that he cared more about the faces on the bills rather than the pathetic looks of us johns. “Stay close, she’ll be available in 15.”

Damn, she was definitely one of the more sought after girls here. I looked over at Reggie who had begun a conversation with the skinny blonde rocker stripper who was on stage now, but no one else cared much for. He was chatting it up, making her giggle. That must be the interest trick to get sympathy dollars out of customers, giggling. He tossed her a few. The bachelor party had four other girls tending to them. One girl had the groom-to-be take off his shirt and whipped his flabby stomach with his belt. The other guys cheered her on. He too had a natural set of man-titties. A bouncer walked over and scolded the group, informing Klinefelter (Google it, it's actually a funny disease to have) that he had to put his shirt back on and they needed to take it down a notch or he’d have to ask them to leave.

“Hey, you ready?” A soft but commanding Spanish accent asked me. I turned towards the sweet smell of cherry blossoms floating from behind me. Reyna was waiting impatiently, as she knew she had many more guys waiting for her services that would cash out real nice. Especially the confident man sitting on the plush sofa next to the curtains in a pinstriped tailored suit. He was the only one she batted an eyelash at. That must be her sugar daddy. “Yeah,” I squealed. Man, what the hell is wrong with me? I was acting like a bitch. I’d already been 30 plus strong on my roster . I’d seduced girls before, and being a jock in high school plus a promising student had given me the best of both worlds. Had I left my balls in the desert?

She led me to the last booth on the right. She shut the curtain behind her and I was now cocooned by her pheromones. “What are you wearing? It smells good,” I asked. “I think it’s called Pheromones.” Hmm, clever.

“I’ll wait ‘til the next song starts. This one is almost done. I wouldn’t want to cheat you.” Quite a business lady, I was impressed. I felt respected and insured that my money was going to be well spent on her services. While the song finished, she took of her white see-through sheer cloak.

“Are you wearing a belt?”

“Huh?”

“Are you wearing a belt? I don’t want the buckle to scratch me.”

“Oh! Yeah.” I started for my buckle but she had already lifted the bottom of my shirt for inspection. In two motions, she unfastened the lock and pulled the belt out with a swipe. A she-Pootie Tang.

As the next song faded in, she turned around and rocked her hips left to right, right to left. She began her trance again. She bent her knees and leaned back to sit on my lap. “What are the rules?” I whispered in a more relaxed and slightly deeper voice. “You can touch only what’s not covered,” she replied. Perfect, she was only wearing a G-string and heels, and I didn’t have a foot fetish, so I wasn’t disappointed.

She slowly slid up and down my body. Her hair engulfed my nostrils with scents of raspberry and vanilla. Her skin was pleasantly soft, and covered in body glitter. I didn’t mind her leaving her sex dust on one of my nicer-expensive shirts. I cupped her Ds and massaged them in circular patterns. I rubbed her stomach and spread my hands across her hips. She turned around to straddle me and I naturally clasped her butt. Firm and smooth. She must do squats. She probably owns her own elliptical machine. Hovering over me, she dipped her head slightly and draped her hair over my face. That raspberry-vanilla essence entered my nose again; seeping out of the corners of my mouth. And I melted like a bitch, again. This is what girls must feel like during that scene in The Notebook… or so I’ve heard.

The song ended. I could have sworn that track played longer on the radio. As the next song started I decided to explore her personality… or character. “Where are you from? Puerto Rico, Mexico, the Dominican Republic?”

“You think they got asses like this in Mexico?”

“I know they have burros.” She stopped grinding me for a second, looked back and smirked. Note to self: STOP BEING A FUCKING CORNBALL.

“No, sweetie, I’m Cuban.”

“What?! Stop, get up.”

“You got something against Cubans?” She protested, looking confused.

“No no no. I want to talk to you. I’m Cuban, too. But where I’m from, I never meet other Cubans. This is awesome.” Note to self: See previous note.

“You got a song and a half left.”

“That’s fine. I’ll pay for more time.”

“I got a line, honey, I don’t think you’ll be able to request me again for another two hours. Plus, I still have more sets tonight. How about I finish up this session and I’ll find you before I go back on stage?”

“Word!” I was again impressed by her business ethics. For the remainder of my dances, I was in bliss. Not only was she the sexiest dancer here, but she was of my maternal land, and quite possibly ancestral blood. Wait, that sounded sick. DELETE. What I meant to say is that more than my attraction and infatuation connected for her connected us.

As my session came to a close, I remembered I had wads of 10s in my pocket. I gladly handed them over. “I’ll be to the right of the stage,” I informed her so that she could find me easily. She probably wouldn’t remember. Did I weird her out? No way, I’m sure there have been worse johns. “Okay,” she replied. “You want a drink or something?” I asked. That sounded cool, but of course I’d only be able to get her soda or water. “Water is fine, thanks.”

I started walking by the booths towards the curtains. I glanced as I passed each one being able to see blurred figures of skin maneuvering around clientele as Reyna had done with me just a few minutes ago. Each man fulfilling his five minute fantasy, finding his own connection.

I headed towards Reggie to tell him the news. “How was it?” He smirked. “She’s Cuban, too,” I informed him. I told him how she was going to meet me before her next set to talk a little, flirt, liquefy me of my savings. I casted doubt, though.

“Yeah, she probably won’t come. You ready? I’m starving,” he moaned.

“Hold on, let’s stay for another 15 minutes and if she doesn’t come by, we’ll leave.” I stood up and remembered to buy her bottled water. I ordered a Pepsi. "We only serve Coke products,” the bartender informed me.

“Whatever. Hey, do you know much about that Reyna girl?” I asked.

“There are so many girls here and most of the girls that dance here work at other clubs, too. Do you know how many assess and titties I see a week?”

Good point. Note to self: Achieve the ass to titty to face ratio like the bartender. I brought the bottle water and Coke back to the table.

“Alex, I’m really hungry man. Let’s go, “ Reggie complained.

“Hold on, man, let me finish my drink.”

“You got me water?”

“No, it’s for Reyna.”

“You bought the stripper water? What a fag. She probably has a cooler full of bottled water in the back. We need to go. She probably already forgot about you.”

“The bartender basically told me that the club doesn’t usually house dancers. She might be somewhere else tomorrow night.”

“The bartender? No, the soda and water guy. Who cares? This is the sixth club we’ve been to in four days. We’ll probably run into her again if that’s the case.”

“You forgot your belt.” I had stopped listening to Reggie when she approached the table. He got up to let her sit and moved towards the stage past the bachelor party that was still entertaining a couple of the dancers.

“Thank you. But I didn’t forget it. I wanted you to have an excuse to come see me.” Yeah, keep up the smoothness, Mac Daddy.

“I told you I would. What? You didn’t think I’d remember?”

“I just knew you were busy.”

“Yeah, I go on in five minutes.”

“I’m probably leaving soon. Here’s your water.”

“Thanks. So you’re not from Hillsborough, huh?”

“No, North Carolina. I’m just down here for vacation. I just returned from deployment.”

“You a Marine?” She perked up for a moment, hoping I’d confirm her guess.

“No, Army. National Guard.” I sensed a hint of disappointment. Poughs never get any love.

“That’s cool. I bet you seen a lot of shit. What else do you do?”

I could have told her that I was a student at a prestige college and that I had a part-time job as a butcher’s bitch boy that re-stocked the meat racks when the lunchmeat was low and spent my days checking expiration dates and marking down prices. “I’m in the exotic entertainment, too.”

“Really? You a dancer, too?”

“No, I’m an escort. But it’s not like the escort service you here about in the movies or the kind they have in Vegas or New York.” I had looked up escort services on Wikipedia after I had ordered an escort before going to Iraq and all she did was give me a three-minute lap dance when I was expecting a BJ. In Texas, apparently, the profession escort is loosely defined. I should have just crossed the border for a toothless, worm guzzling hooker.

“So you don’t…like sleep with women for money?”

“No, I’m not a gigolo. I usually just show up and dance in small little underwear. Banana hammocks if you will.” She laughed. I laughed. We laughed. My balls vibrated in my sack.

“I’ll have to come up there one day and order you,” she teased. We talked for a couple of more minutes. “I take it Reyna isn’t your real name?” I ask. “No, it’s my stage name. Oh shit, I’m on stage next,” she remembered. “Listen, I gotta go.” She snatched the moist napkin from under my drink. “Here, I’m off tomorrow. Maybe we can hook up and continue this conversation. You can show me your moves,” she teased. She reached in her small pocket book that was only big enough to contain her earnings, lip-gloss, and a pen. Maybe a condom for Mr. Big Shot Sugar Daddy. She pulled out her pen and quickly scribbled on the napkin, avoiding the ring made by the condensation of the cup.

She trotted off and the DJ introduced her, “Fellas, here she comes again. She’s five foot nine and oh, so divine. Give it up for the Latina Heat, Rrrrrreyna!”

How the hell did I just pull that off? I know I’m a good looking guy but God damn she’s a goddess. For the next few seconds I imagined that my God looked like Reyna. I couldn’t wait to die and spoon with God. I snapped back from my daze and realized I had just spent $350 on her in under two hours. Hell, in under two minutes. I continued to gawk at her as she swayed on stage in front of her pinstriped sugar daddy, who was making it rain Franklins. Meanwhile, he bachelor was making it rain vomit on the table next to me before Shrek came and jerked him out of the club.

“You got the number?” asked Reggie.

“Yeah.”

“Good let’s go now, my stomach is gurgling. The last stripper probably thought I was muffling farts.”

Before putting the napkin in my pocket, I examined it for legitimacy, to see if she stepped out of her costume for just a second to let me into her world.

I’d give Hailey a call tomorrow.