Banana Hammocks - Chapter 3

"On the Prowl"

For some reason, I thought it was sexy to crawl onto the stage like some sort of sex-crazed panther. Hidden behind the speaker, none of the ladies saw me until I stood up. After an awkward pause, I smiled. They cheered. I didn’t think it would be sexy to prowl down the three steps that led to the dance floor so I just shimmed my hips and made my dong jiggle a bit.

The second tip set of the night was already a song in and other guys had already been out for a few minutes by the time I made my debut that Saturday night at Center Lights. One by one, the girls noticed that the new guy, Rico, was now stripped down to a sky blue banana hammock and black construction boots. I felt rather naked (figuratively); I hadn’t bothered working on my tan and felt extra pale under the lights. I hadn’t shaved my chest in two weeks and had unsightly stubbles. To top it off, my razor burn had just started going away. I felt cold as the air blasting from the vents up above gave me goose bumps and caused more stubble to painfully push through my pores.

The music was blaring, the guys were making their rounds about the roped of dance floor, collecting dollars. The women were hollering, and the DJ was fumbling through his CD book looking for the next guys act CD. The DJ, Tommy Ray, was an aging alcoholic. He looked like the love child of Wolfman Jack and Rosie O’ Donnell. His voice was made of gold, if gold rusted under whiskey and cigars. He had the sharpest tongue on the club circuit, and despite his looks, the women loved him.

My awkward feelings wore off when I made eye contact with a girl shaking a five in her hand, waving me over. I walked with a stride over to her, bobbing my head to the rhythm, trying to hide my discomfort of not only feeling nervous but the cramping in my foot from wearing boots three sizes too small.

An hour earlier I had helped set up the props readily available beside the DJ booth, which was a giant jukebox on the stage, standing tall above the black and white checkered dance floor. I made sure to grab the waters and ice from the kitchen, made sure we had bar towels for when Lance would spray whipped cream all over himself… and the dance floor at the end of his act, and I checked with Leon if there was anything else I could help with before the show started.

“So you ready, Rookie?” He asked.

“For what?” I acted confused. I was still reluctant to shake what my daddy gave me.

“To get out there and dance. You can dance right?” He continued.

I had only been to four shows at this point and hadn’t purchased my bottoms yet—I was able to get away with mankinis at The HotBox. I didn’t even have dance boots or my knee pads like the other guys did.

“Yeah, I guess. But do I just go out there with my shirt off? I didn’t order my bottoms yet. I figured I’d be ready in like two or three weeks.” I confessed.

“I got some clean ones you can buy off of me for 10 bucks,” Bryan chimed in.

“You sure they’re clean?” I asked.

“Trust me,” he assured me as he dug his Sicilian schnoze deep into the crumpled bottoms in his fist.

“I don’t have money on me right now.” I was avoiding going out to dance in between acts when I hadn’t planned on it. Besides, I found it rather odd for a man to offer another man a piece of cloth that he had previously drained his dick sweat in, for God knows how many times…months, maybe. And Bryan was rather sickly looking. I didn’t want to contract Hepatitis or whatever else had lurked in his crotch.

On the other side of the doors, Tommy Ray’s voice boomed over the speakers with the hot seat rules: “Ladies, what you see before you is what we call the hot seat. Throughout the night, you’ll have a chance to put yourself or one of your girlfriends right here in this seat. Who’s celebrating a birthday or bachelorette party?” I heard a few sections cheer. Tommy Ray continued on with his fast talk, “This is a perfect time to give that special girl a memory of a lifetime. We’ll start the bidding at $20 and go on until there’s one lady left standing… or sitting… or lying in my bed, whichever’s more clever for you, darling. But there are some rules. First rule, ladies, there is no touching of the dancers. Somebody say ‘Boo.’”

The women obeyed his command. “When you’re in this seat you have to keep your hands and feet inside the ride.” The ladies giggled, some cheered. “Throughout the night, the guys will be dancing up to you on these ropes you see here along the dance floor. This is for tipping. If you are not tipping, we ask you stand back so the lady behind you can have a chance to enjoy some dick swinging, too. But tips must go from your hand to the dancer’s hand. Don’t try to stuff it down their pants or make them fish it out your bra. ‘Cause they won’t go get it… I will, but they won’t. Also, ladies, there is no flash or video photography allowed AT ALL. If we catch you, we will confiscate your camera and you’ll be escorted out.”

I don’t think the women were listening after he said, “Say ‘Boo.’” From what I learned about women, they love talking. They hate being talked to. Tommy Ray finished up his spiel, “Last and final rule, ladies; the more noise you make the more they take off. So somebody make some noise in here!”

As the walls in the bathroom rumbled, Bryan and I finished up our dick-sheath transaction. “You can pay me at the end of the night. I’m sure you’ll make a few bucks.” He tossed me the bottoms from across the bathroom that dubbed as our dressing room.

Guys that came to the club during ladies night had to come in from the side door of the club because half of the dance floor would be sectioned off with an aluminum garage door that came down from the ceiling. Often, if they hadn’t been to the club on Saturday between 7 and 10, they would open the door and usually bumped into one of the dancers with a look of shock. It’s not every day you walk into a nightclub bathroom and see about six half naked men in Speedos and wonder if you hadn’t walked into the Blue Oyster from Police Academy. They either asked if this was the staff bathroom or tip toed around all the clothes sprawled out on the floor to go about pissing uncomfortably in a urinal—that would also dub as a coat rack. I’m sure they all squeezed their ass cheeks from shear homophobia.

The bathroom was no longer than a Buick and just as wide. It was suppose to be big enough to allow seven guys to change and get ready for acts and tip sets. Five headliners and two trailers; trailers are the newer guys earning their spots for an act. Tonight it was Alvin and Angel. Alvin was Leon’s cousin, a short Hawaiian cat, who only trail danced when he was short on paying his bills. Angel had just started a few months ago and had yet to have an act idea. His hobbies were long walks on the beach, looking at himself, going to the gym, and juicing up on ‘roids. There was no room in there when the guys’ bags and suitcases full of props and costumes flooded the pissy floor. You had to be careful not to put your head in the urinal when bending down to get something out of your bag or bump your bare ass against another guy’s during costume changes.

“I don’t have boots, though.” I mentioned, still trying to find my escape route. All I had were my all white Nike Air Force Ones and calf high socks. I’d look ridiculous.

“I got an extra pair of boots,” Ricky commented. “What size are you? I’m 9 ½.” He glared down at my feet. I was a size 13. The last time I tried a pair of shoes smaller than that was an 11 ½ and my toes smashed against each other the minute I stood up. “Do you think you’ll be able to fit these?” Ricky persisted.

“I can try.” Although I was eager to show these clowns some rhythm, the idea that I would sacrifice myself to be judged by a bunch of women; short, tall, fat, skinny, sexy, trashy, classy, hard-to-look-at, flawless, toothless, you name it. I had already had enough rejection with the XX chromosome gender growing up. I was doing this to one-up the ghosts of bitches past, not to revisit them and create new ghosts. But I didn’t want to punk down from what I took as a challenge from Leon. I’d have to psych myself up real fast.

“Good. You can go out on sets whenever you feel you’re ready. But I still need you to be the runner after acts to help clean up the mess,” Leon continued. Translation: “Blah, blah, blah. I am punk bitch who dances for gorillas to earn dollar in G-string. Hear me roar, bitch boy… and I have a tiny penis.” That’s basically what I took out of conversations between Leon and me.

The guys went out for the opening act, each catching a final look before strutting towards the stage. I started to undress and focused on not focusing on being focused. I figured I’d lose the nerves after just getting up on the stage and getting it over with. Kinda like my first time doing sex. I was shaking like a leaf in a tornado while I put my condom on. Three minutes into being rode by the neighborhood slut, I fell asleep. After that, I figured sex wasn’t so scary and looked for more sluts to fuck me to sleep. I like naps.

“Did he go over the rules with you?” Brett asked.

“No. what rules?”

He smirked and shook his head. “That sorry fucker is always setting people up to fall.”

“He just asked if I was ready to go out there tonight. So just dance and collect money, right?”

“No, no. There’s more. A lot more.”

I listened attentively as the almighty Brett Lee schooled me on the stripper checks and balances, “No touching the girls. Keep an arm’s distance in case the girls get wild. No touching of your nipples or grabbing your crotch. Actually, don’t touch yourself anywhere at all. Don’t pull your bottoms down or jack ‘em up your ass; they have to cover three-quarters of your ass. Take the money and slide it in your hammock or just hold it in your hand. Don’t be pulling your waistline so that the girl can look down and see your dick. If you get down on the floor, only two humps and transition into another move. You can’t simulate sexual acts. Don’t stand too long in front of a girl. We all gotta make money; she’s not here just to see you. Move clockwise at the ropes. If a guy is taking too long when you’re ready to move on to the next girl, pass him at least two girls to his right. If you see the guys bunched up in one place, find another empty spot.”

“Damn. That’s a lot rules.”

“It’s the State’s rules and regulations. There used to be a time when we had to wear Band-aids over our nipples and before that we could only wear biker shorts and cut off T-shirts. We were only allowed to show our mid-section. So if you think you look gay now, imagine having to go out there looking like a WAM! groupie.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Too many years, kid. Since I was 16.”

Brett was taking his time getting ready for his act. He had put on his business pants, button up dress shirt, and was now working on his tie. He was up first and usually the first guy sat out on opening acts since there was no tip set in between to allow for preparation. But Brett hardly ever had to do opening acts. He was Randy’s prized dancer. Brandon had told me he had made $1,000 hot seat the Thursday before I first went into the MIH office. He had been dancing for 15 years with various groups in the area. Whenever one folded, he joined another. Like Randy, he too was a journeyman. Unlike Randy, Brett got with the times and spent more time in tanning beds, hair salons, and the gym rather than getting coked up. He had also done a few guest stints for La’Bare down in Houston and Thunder From Down Under out in Vegas. Next to Chippendales and Thunder, La’Bare was next on the stripper echelon. You had to have an incredible body and soap opera face to even be considered. Brett’s narrow physique didn’t quite match the profile and aside from his linear jaw, he had an average looking face. But with the notorious act he had, he didn’t need bronze. He had creativity.

Two acts and one set had gone by and I had only gone out to clean up customs and whip cream. Brandon was now getting ready for his act. Ricky was after him and then Bryan. Last would be Leon. Leon reasoned that since he was the manager he had to make sure the show ran smoothly throughout the night, so he had to go last. The last spot was usually the best. All the guys knew the real deal. Some complained, but Brett played it cool. He didn’t care if he “Did a show in the parking lot.” He knew he’d make a mint.

The gimmick of having the last hot seat of the night was that any girls coming to see the show for the first time would have been relaxed by then, the regulars and groupies would have been well liquored up and encouraging high bids for the hot seat, and the sugar mamas wouldn’t come in until the last hour to start the auction at $200 through silent bids via the DJ. They knew that the best dancers danced towards the end, so they had until 8:30 or so to get ready and make an entrance. Unfortunately, Leon wanted to try something new and draw names for hot seats tonight. Brett drew the first hot seat spot. Leon was exempt from the drawing.

I still wasn’t ready. “Think long, think wrong, brotha’,” Brett encouraged me as he prepared for the next set.

“I’m going. I just feel stupid next to you guys. I mean, I don’t have knee pads or chaps or a bandana like everyone else,” I confessed.

“Dude, we’re all dancing in our underwear. How much more stupid can we look?” Brett added. “Besides, I the bandana thing is kinda gay, don’t you think? I mean, are we strippers or gangsters?”

“These girls don’t give a fuck what you’re wearing, they’re just horny as hell,” Lance, AKA Sharky, butted in as he strode in late. “Hey, what’s this bullshit I hear about drawing names?” Brett just shrugged.

Lance shook his head and mumbled to himself as he rushed to get ready, sniffing each article of stripper clothing he pulled out of his dance bag. He would follow Brett in the line-up and eventually, his seat would only sell for $50. Brett went for $200. Lance felt he was one of the better dancers and should have gone next to last. Brett was a hard act to follow, so it was no wonder he made far less than the master. I decided I’d go out the next tip set. “You nervous man?” Leon questioned.

“A little. I’m just not sure I can dance the way you guys do. At least not yet,” I said. It wasn’t that I couldn’t dance. My parents use to put me in Salsa competitions when I was a kid. And growing up in an urban-suburbia, I use to go to a lot of house parties where dancing only consisted of grinding on a girl’s booty and copping a feel. I was good at that.

“Look, Rook. Half of these guys don’t have rhythm. I’m one of them. All you got to do is a little two step and you’re good,” Leon said. “Besides, all you need in this business is two or three things out of four: A good body, a pretty face, charisma, and rhythm. I already know you got half down already.” What I took from this conversation: “Blah, blah, blah. Even though I think I’m better than you, I wouldn’t mind going out back one night and comparing flesh swords. How ‘bout it, kiddo?”

I hadn’t talked to the girls in the crowd or the other guys much during the previous shows. So he wouldn’t know if I had charisma or not. I turned my gaydar on and watched myself around Leon the rest of the night. His last comment made my fear resurface. Let me make it clear right now; I’ve never been a homophobe.

I’m very liberal in my ways, but this new culture shock was too much to swallow all at once without wondering which gender was hitting on you the most.

“It’s up to you. But there’s money out there tonight,” Leon concluded. There was indeed money to be collected. After Brett’s hot seat, the girls flooded the dance floor with dollars. It was hard to figure out which dancer it was intended for, so they just grabbed what they could and selfishly stuffed it down the front of their bottoms.

Tommy Ray started the music for the next tip set. “Ladies, get those dollar bills ready because here they come again…and again, if you know what I’m sayin’!”

I just have to go out there, I realized. Just remember the rules, be cool, and make that money. I started to think about having to go back to work for the first time since I returned from the desert. I thought about the bitch who broke my heart in middle school and the slore who ripped it out of my ribcage while I dodged bullets. It was time to take back my nutsack. Fuck it, I’m going out there.

Tommy Ray saw me creeping up to the DJ booth. “Ladies, I want you to make some noise for the new meat…” He covered the microphone with his hands and asked me, “What’s your stage name, jack?”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and exhaled slowly. I opened my eyes and looked over at Leon. He watched me curiously to see what my next move would be. I think I saw him smirk. I’m sure he thought I would chicken out. From the crouching position, I looked up at Tommy Ray and said, “Rico.”

“Ooooh. Daddy likes,” Tommy Ray giggled in his gruffy voice. He removed his hand from the microphone before he bellowed, “Ladies, he’s six-foot two with a 13-inch shoe. Coming to the stage for the very first time, give it up for Rrrrrrrrrrrrrricooooooo!”

Awkward Broments - Dap Me Up, Bro!

Here is a link to a second funny skit Nick and I did last week. We shot 3 skits in 2 hours. These are a couple starters to determine what direction we want to go in. Hope you enjoy! We will be shooting both short ones like these, as well as in depth 2-5 minute skits every few weeks so subscribe and keep an eye out! They will only get better! www.youtube.com/user/Mrmondayn1ght

Awkward Broments

Along with my writing for blogs, feature film, shorts, books, and everything in between, I've also been writing comedy sketch skits. Check out our recent sketch...

The Latchkey Kid

While Dad was off at one of his three odd jobs and Mom was busy securing the family’s wealth, Carlos was at home playing with bullets. It was the summer of ’93, three summers away from puberty and discovering the pleasures of tongue kissing and fingering eager hormonal-equivalent girls. Carlos’s neighborhood cronies, Justin and Matthew, often came over to explore Carlos’s dusty garage and cobwebbed attic to find antique trinkets of his father’s forgotten past. An old rotary phone, a rusty typewriter, some smut form the 70s stained with rains of yesteryear, anything worth investigating and destroying.
It was the hottest week of that mid-summer when Carlos discovered a moldy cardboard box the size of his father’s abounding leather wallet in the attic.

“Hey, guys! Look what I found,” Carlos whinnied as he climbed down the ladder leading into the attic. When he landed his feet on the concrete garage floor, he opened the lid already falling off the box. The smell of old water and dust filled the boys’ nostrils. There in his hands were 24 shinning 9X919mm Parabellum bullets.

“Awesome,” said Justin.

“Where’s the gun?” quizzed Matthew.

“I don’t know. Go up there and see yourself. It’s too hot to go back,” Carlos complained, sweating through his Los Angeles Raiders grey t-shirt.

“You know if you hit a bullet on the head, it’ll explode?” Matthew informed.

There were only three things that caught boys’ attention back in those days: trading cards, wrestling, and explosions. The boys experimented with the latter in many ways. After watching one episode of Mr. Wizard, Matthew dared Justin to mix Alka-Seltzer in his mother’s birdbath. Justin refused, fearing his stay-at-home mom would see him through the kitchen window and ground him for a weekend.

"Cool!” chimed Matthew and Carlos.

“Too bad we don’t have the gun to shoot it with,” Matthew continued, trying to persuade Carlos to venture back into the 105-degree attic.

“My dad’s got a hammer around here somewhere,” Carlos answered, handing the box to Justin and climbing over the piles of boxes and gardening tools strewn all over the back of the garage.

Justin was a couple years older than Carlos and Matthew, but his portly figure made him an easy target for the kids his age to bully. So, he spent most of his weekends and summers hanging out with Matthew and Carlos. That is when he wasn’t on a Boy Scout camping trip. His father tried to convince Carlos’s dad to enroll him. “He’d be in good hands,” Justin’s dad assured. Justin’s dad was a bear of a man, towering 6-feet 5-inches, enjoying his recent retirement from the Army by growing a thick handlebar mustache. He’d spend mornings on waxing to look like Grover Cleveland. Carlos’s dad always appreciated the suggestion, but Carlos’s family was too broke to afford an inessential organization like Boy Scouts. Carlos’s sister had once joined Girl Scouts, but after Carlos’s parents bought their new two-story home, money was tight and Carlos’s sister lost interest anyway. She now spent her summer skipping her summer job to hang out with her dope-smoking boyfriend her father disapproved of… because he was black.

“Here’s a mallet. Will that work?” Carlos asked, coming back from the rubble.

“Let’s find out,” Matthew replied, running to the back concrete patio.

Carlos took out one of the bullets and stood it upright on the patio as he squatted. Justin and Matthew stood back a few feet back, waiting curiously. “What are you guys doing?” Carlos asked, holding the mallet above his shoulder with his fist choked beneath the mallet’s head.

“Are you a stupid shit or what?” Matthew laughed. “I said it’ll explode.”

Matthew was the slim, blonde hair blue-eyed boy-next-door that parents loved as your buddy. He always said “Please” and “Thank you,” “Ma’am” and “sir,” exhibiting his good upbringings. But when out of authoritative hearing and vision, Matthew was a cursing kid, always coaxing Carlos and Justin into daring feats.

Carlos held the mallet a few more seconds before yelling back, “Well, then you do it! It was your bright idea.” From the back patio, Matthew’s mother called him in for “supper.” In Justin’s house, they ate dinner, in Carlos’s house they also ate dinner. In Matthew’s Southern Baptist home, they ate supper.

“You coming back later?” Carlos asked.

“Fuck no. It’ll be too dark and the bugs’ll be biting by then. See ya’!” Matthew replied as he scampered through the two backyards that separated his house from Carlos’s.

“I better go home, too. I gotta help my dad roll sleeping bags tonight,” Justin complained as he walked in the opposite direction to the house next door.

A few minutes after the boys were gone, Carlos could see their dining room lights come on anf families gathering. He looked back to the windows in his house, which were still dark. His parents wouldn’t be home for another hour and dinner wasn’t usually until 8 at night. As the sky quickly grayed overhead, still squatting, Carlos could see the flashing bulbs of the lightening bugs all around. He looked back at the bullet. He lifted the mallet and gave it a smack.

“So whadya do with the bullets, Chico,” Matthew questioned the next afternoon. Matthew always called Carlos Chico because he was the only Latin kid he knew. He figured giving Carlos a stereotypical pet name was cool, and Carlos didn’t mind.

“I hid them in the hallway closet,” Carlos answered.

The boys had just finished playing kickball after three hours; one hour of actual play and two hours of arguing whose “ghostman” was safe, and whose was out. Carlos ran inside his house and came back with the same corroded box with all 24 bullets incased. “You wanna know what else I found in my dad’s closet yesterday?” Carlos asked the boys. “A shotgun! You think it’ll fire these bullets?”

“You’re a fucking moron. These bullets are for a pistol, a small gun. Why’s your dad got a shotgun anyway? Does he hunt?” Matthew inquired.

“I don’t think so. He did go kill a deer with his friend a few months ago, behind the landfill, but I never knew he had it,” Carlos said.

“My dad goes hunting and bowhunting all the time. That’s why we got all them stuffed birds and raccoons in our den, “Justin confessed.

“Birds and raccoons? That’s not hunting, that’s stupid. Is your dad some kinda faggot?” Matthew teased. Matthew’s dad was an avid hunter, taking trips into the mountains of West Virginia one week a month. He’d bring home deer and bore heads often. Once he even brought back a stuffed brown bear, strapped to the top of his jeep. Carlos thought about the reason his dad had the shotgun. He figured it was for protection considering he had grown up in the rough neighborhoods of Miami; or so he claimed. It would be three years later that Carlos would place that same shotgun’s barrel in his mouth, a few months after his dad’s death, only to find out the lock and bolt were taken out.

“Hey, I asked my dad to leave out his hammer so I can nail some wood to the holes on our doghouse,” Carlos chimed in. He ran back into the house to fetch the hammer. When he came out, Matthew had set up a row of eight bullets standing upright on the patio waiting for Carlos.
“You can try it this time, Justin,” Carlos offered.

“No way, man!” Justin stammered.

“You guys are faggots,” Matthew harassed. “If you don’t want to do it ‘cause your scared, we can always leave them sitting in the sun. I heard that’ll make the bullets explode, too.”

“Let’s put it in the street. The sun is attracted to black asphalt,” suggested Carlos.

“It’s gotta get real hot though,” replied Matthew.

“You can put them in a tin can,” Justin suggested. “That’s how we warm up our beans at camp so that we don’t have to wait for a fire when we come back from our compass exercises.”

Carlos ran back inside the house.

Matthew stared blankly at Justin. “You’re such a fag, man,” Matthew giggled, punching Justin in the stomach. Justin fell to the ground, winded.

Carlos came back with an apple juice can and slid right next to where Justin rolled around on the grass. “How about this?” Carlos asked Justin. Justin nodded, smiling now, feeling pride over his valid suggestion. Carlos ran into the garage and the boys could hear clanging as he looked for a screwdriver. He came back with holes mutilating the top of the tin can. “Oh, wait,” Carlos scurried back into the garage.

Justin stood up and raised his arms over his head, trying to catch his breath. Matthew shook his head at Justin, feeling almost ashamed to call him his friend.

“I got some black spray paint to make it hotter,” Carlos panted, running back from the rubble. After Carlos spray-painted the can, he dropped three bullets into the holes. CLANG. KLINK. CLANG. The boys took the can and ran to the street, quickly placing it in the middle of the road.
It was almost one in the afternoon and the boys figured it was the hottest point of the day.

“C’mon, let’s go play some football or something while we wait. We’ll know when they go off,” Matthew suggested.

The boys returned to the street an hour later only to see the can flattened in the street. Four houses down, the garbage truck was shaking a trash bin overhead, causing papers and other bits of debris to float aimlessly around the cab like tickertape. “Awh, fuck,” Matthew moaned.

“I’ll get the hammer,” Carlos uttered. The boys ran back to the patio where Carlos pulled out five bullets.

“You gonna bust them all?” Justin asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Carlos said matter-of-factly.

He stood one bullet up and made sure it was stable before raising the hammer high over his head, choking it right under the head and bringing it down with all his force without a second to think, without a second for Justin and Matthew to move for cover. The hammer skidded across the concrete patio, making bright yellowish-orange sparks, jolting Carlos’s arm to the elbow. Justin and Matthew dove to the ground.

No loud pop or bang like in the movies. Only a knick, thud, and clinking sound and the boys were looking around for the bullet.

“Here it is,” Justin said, picking up the shiny copper bullet from the grass between his Doc Martins. “At least you bent it. Must be old.”

“Bullets don’t get old, you idiot,” Matthew replied.

“I hit it on the head, Matt, why didn’t it work?” Carlos questioned.

“You had your eyes closed,” Matthew answered back. “Why don’t you try it again without being such a pussy? Pussy.”

“Here, you try it,” Carlos said, pushing the hammer in Matthew’s gut.

“Fuck right I am. I’m not blowing my arm off!” Matthew shot back.

“Who’s the fag now?” heckled Justin.

Matthew put Justin in a headlock and wrestled him to the ground. Justin was giggling at first, until Matthew’s face gnarled. His teeth clenched and his brow wrinkled to the center of the top of his nose. His face turned red and Justin’s giggles turned into whining, begging Matthew to stop. After rubbing Justin’s face into the grass a few seconds, Matthew let go, pushed Justin over, and stood up. Carlos ignored them and was in deep concentration, trying to figure out how to make the bullets explode.

“Guns don’t fire backwards, right? Maybe I should lay the bullets down and squeeze them out from the side like toothpaste,” he muttered under his breath.

He laid the other four bullets on their side, pointing each one in a different direction; north, east, south, and west.

Matthew dusted his shorts off and started towards Carlos, “What now, Chico?”

Justin rolled in agony for a few seconds before popping up and lunging towards Matthew. He let out a vicious growl and tackled Matthew to the ground. Pinning his shoulders, Justin threw wild open-fisted punches at Matthew’s face.

“Get the fuck off before I really break your face,” Matthew threatened, blocking every other punch.

“Shut…the…fuck…up,” Justin belted out in between sobs.

Meanwhile, Carlos hit the first bullet that pointed west, towards the house. A heavy THUD on the patio, and the same jolting ring up his arm. The bullet only dented.

“Don’t…ever…touch…me…again,” Justin cried out.

Carlos smacked the second bullet pointing south, towards himself. Another THUD, jolt, and dented bullet.

“Stop, faggot, before I really kick your ass. I’m not playing around anymore,” Matthew warned.

Carlos brought down the hammer on the third bullet pointing north, towards the house in between his and Matthew’s. THUD, jolt, dent.

By now, Justin grew weak, continuing to sob, and looking up towards Carlos. Matthew held Justin’s arms, taking advantage of his fatigue as he now stopped swinging. He also looked up towards Carlos.

“Hey, Chico!” Matthew yelled. “What are you doing, man?”

Carlos, frustrated, raised the hammer high over his head. All his thoughts of impressing his friends, his absent family (unlike Justin’s), his lack to be a leader like Matthew, his boredom filled summers and weekends, his inability to gain his parents’ pride and affection, his thrive to be a god of power… all of these thoughts ran through his cerebral cortex down to his heart and jolted energy up and through the hammer. A tear ran down the base of his nose. He held the hammer at its base, aiming for the base of the bullet, the bullet facing east. Towards Justin and Matthew.

A THUD. A jolt. A loud POP!

Missing

Hey Readers,

Sorry for not mentioning there wouldn't be a new chapter of "Banana Hammocks" this week, but there won't be a chapter of "Banana Hammocks" this week. Ergo, there won't be a new "Cocktale" either. Sometimes life happens and you can't keep up with your obligations and responsibilities. Don't worry, I'll continue Alex's journey and mishaps next week.

In the meantime, enjoy a darker commentary inspired by my youth, "The Latchkey Kid". This story was published in Full Sail University's October '10 issue of "The Aviator", the student literary journal. Enjoy...

-O.R.




P.S. - See you next Wednesday when things "heat" up with Alex, Brett Lee, and Men In Heat. And Thursday, come see what other runt of the litter Alex can find, wine, and dine.

COCKTALES II

Mandy was the new waitress at The HotBox when I caught her eye. This was perfect; after three weeks with Men In Heat, it was my first night with a hotseat. I’d be able to seduce her through fantasy. Though, with a cupid act requiring me to wear nothing but a red banana hammock in the end, I wouldn’t leave much to the imagination.

I had thrown a bunch of fantasy clichés together with a few R&B video ideas and things I’ve done in my past when I used to make love to girls. I had white silk sheets spread across an inflatable bed on stage with lotions and handcuffs hidden underneath that I would put on the girl in the hotseat chair as I shimmied around her to intoxicating bass rhythms. I would start out dressed in a white silk shirt and white linen pants. I had six lit purple candles planned to create a runway from the bed to the hotseat.

I didn’t have the best props, only because Leon told me to be ready for a hotseat at the last second. The stipulation being if Ricky had to work overtime for the AC/heating company he moonlighted with. These dudes took this dancing thing way too serious. You’d think dancing would be the moonlighting side gig. Oh, Leon also only promised a spot if enough girls showed up. So hoping for the best, I stopped at the nearest K-Mart and dollar store and collected whatever I could that looked sexy… and cheap.

I had been the bitch boy for the company since the day I signed up for the job. Good thing about it was that I observed; studying all the right moves and getting ideas for my own act. Yeah, and I was stuck picking up the dancers props and cleaning up the stage after they were done with their acts like some modern day Cinderfella. Luckily, I had been in the crowd enough to earn a few fans.

The wildest nights were Thursday nights. Those nights were strictly for the veterans. But tonight wasn’t Thursday. Tonight was Tuesday. Tuesday nights might have well been amateur night. The guys that barely showed up or were here one week and not seen again for another three months while they were on their benders would get a chance to dance… if there were enough girls. In my experience these last few Tuesdays, there was never a show. But Leon kept booking Tuesdays and the guys still showed up for nothing.

I didn’t care, though; this night was my debut as a headliner. I was sure that the stripping gods would have mercy on my schlong swinging soul to allow me to show Leon and the rest of the misfits that I belonged here. I was sure I’d outshine these chodes. It should have been the past week, but Leon had to cancel the show because only three girls showed up. “I’m telling you, Leon will cut a show in a heartbeat if it doesn’t benefit him,” Dexter warned me during our brief introduction that first day I showed up to “apply” for the position.

HotBox obviously wasn’t the cash cow of MIH, but I couldn’t care less. I wanted the world of male dancing to know I was women’s gift from God. A God named Hailey who in one night transformed me into a money hungry attention whore, eager to live out my lie… kinda. And with the advice she gave me when I inquired about her sugar daddy, I was slowly building my clientele and bank account.

“So, Alex, do we finally get to see that ass tonight or what?” One of the ten women in attendance asked between puffs of her cigarette. “Yeah, it’s my first one,” I answered eagerly. “Uh, obviously. And I hope I get it,” she spouted as she began to straighten out her money on the table.

The sight of money and the fact that I’d be up first made me nervous. But I tried to center my energy. I looked around at the other dudes who seemed far to relax to even care. They were used to coming to this dump of a bar for nothing. None of the headliners like Brett Lee ever worked The HotBox. This is where you made your bones as a male dancer. It was really a test to test your dedication. If you couldn’t deal with $10 nights and possible cancellations, than you definitely wouldn’t make it to The Ten Gallon. That was the country rock club down the street. Yet, that was too far into the near future of my success. I had to focus right now, though.

So I did what I always had done when I thought I might be a little scared; I put my confidence in a girl. What I was focused on was Mandy and getting her home tonight. She had the usual club waitress uniform on: tight black shirt and tight black pants. She was a thick girl and her pants were extra tight. She definitely had kids from the looks of her hips and she had an ass you could see from the front. Her breast; DD, 38 I think. And that might be off a cup, I wasn’t sure with the poorly lit club and all. She was mixed Puerto Rican and Dominican with dark brown hair slicked back into a high ponytail that hung to the top of her ass. Her skin was dark olive and had she a fresh set of manicured hot pink and yellow nails with tiny rhinestones glued on. She was the epitome of a Latin girl. She was from the block. And she would be my first piece of Latin ass. (No, I never got it in with Hailey. After the topic of money came up, it was all M.O.P.)

Mandy came into the kitchen, which also served as our dressing room and asked us if we wanted anything to drink. “Just some water will be fine,” Leon replied.

“I’ll have a Coors,” said Lance.

“You’re not suppose to be drinking during the shows,” Leon reminded him.

“Dude, the show hasn’t even started. Besides, this is HotBox.” Lance took any opportunity to disregard Leon’s authority. He’s been taking every shot he could ever since the situation with Dexter. Those two were inseparable. Their friendship was a little beyond bromance, but just short of homoerotic. More like left nut, right nut.

“What about you?” Mandy turned to me and asked. I took a minute to catch my breath. Not because she was that hot; she was about a 7.8. I was winded from blowing up the cumbersome bed. “Water is fine,” I told her.

As she walked away, all the guys stopped rummaging through their dance bags and silenced their side conversations to watch her leave, as she swished her hips. SHWISH, SHWISH, SHWISH, SHWISH. When she was out of sight, Lance rang out, “Bitch got a faaaaaaaaaaaat ass!” Lance gave meathead Brandon a high five as if he just told the best joke ever. This guy must have just lost his virginity when he became a dancer. That or just got released from prison… nah, Lance was to pretty to have survived ass rape. Actually, as I got to know a lot of the guys, many of them reminisced about high school and how most of them had steady girlfriends, half of which had to wait until prom to get some. It was a collection of losers turned gods, according to the way they tell it. Brandon wasn’t impressed but empathetically returned the high-five. Brandon was more laid back. He had a daughter with a stripper, who had left them both a year ago when he worked as a mechanic. He was a good guy in the wrong place… always.

“Come on, man. You telling me you wouldn’t hit that?” Lance nudged my shoulder expecting an answer. Winded again, I looked up after finally blowing up the bed and replied, “I intend to. Tonight,” I answered confidently.

“Oh, so you got game like that, dude? Okay, okay…we’re gonna see.” I didn’t know if that was a challenge, a threat, or a random thought. I was too focused on his teeth when he spoke. He had a mouth full of them…make that two mouths full of teeth. Pointy, too. A bear trap of a mouth. I think I’ll call him Sharky.

Mandy turned the corner of the stainless steal sink where the door led into the smoking session and brought us a 12 case of water for the evening. “Where’s my beer?” Lance cried.

“Leon said you couldn’t drink.”

Lance…Sharky walked up to her until he stood half a foot away, because her breasts wouldn’t let him get any closer. Yeah, DDD, now I remember. Staring down at her he spoke low, “Listen sweetheart. I’m a grown ass man. I would like to enjoy a beer before the show, amongst other things.”

He smirked a mischievous smile at her, careful not to smile too wide, as he rubbed her arm with his hand and caressed her ass with his other hand. “I am not about to get fired tonight,” she confessed.

“By who? Leon? He’s our manager, not your boss,” Sharky reasoned.

She surrendered a smile and slyly moved out of his reach, discreetly shoving his hands off. I’m convinced there was a shortage of dentists in this city because when Mandy smiled, I noticed her front right tooth was chipped at a right angle in the middle. Everyone seemed to have jacked up teeth, actually. I returned my eyes to her mounds and then to her hips. I looked up at her face again. She was smiling down at me now.

“Rookie, get ready. We’re having a show,” Leon informed me as he came rushing from the kitchen door.

As the show progressed, I constantly made eye contact with her when she came to serve tables, carefully maneuvering around them to not shake them with her 48-inch ass. Each set I scoped the room through the stage lights to keep the heat of my gaze on her. Every time she saw me looking at her, she smiled. My act came and went. It was decent. All ten of the ladies were cheering throughout my dance. It was auctioned off and sold for $5. Not bad. I had heard storied of guys performing their first acts here and the DJ having to bribe a lady into the hotseat with free shots. I earned $67 that night, $55 after tipping out the DJ and buying a Corona.

After we had finished the show and mingled with the groupies long enough, I found my way towards Mandy. “What time do you get off?” I asked.

“At 11, why?” She responded.

“Good that’s in 17 minutes. Maybe we can go get a drink,” I continued. GO get a drink? It sounded cool, but the only place I’d be able to buy her a drink would be if I bought it from her. Maybe I should have asked her out to coffee and a cosmetic dental appointment instead.

“I don’t drink.” Good, I was off the hook.

“Then we can just hang out and talk,” I persisted.

“I’d have to make sure my babies’ father can watch them the whole night.” Baby’s? Or babies’, I wondered. We talked while she finished busting tables. She told me she had two kids, as I suspected.

“Babies’ father or boyfriend?”

“No, just babies’ father.” To me that just meant that her pussy was out on loan. Oh, well. I don’t mind a loaner snatch. I told her I’d wait for her in my car and went outside.

I exited the club and instantly could smell the cigarette smoke oozing from my clothes. I was starting to hate that about working in bars. You always left smelling like an ashtray. So I reached in my pocket and pulled out my menthols. I lit my cigarette and inhaled. I felt the warm cloud filling my jowls. I sat in the driver’s seat with the door open. I looked around the gravel parking lot. I didn’t see any of the guys’ cars around. They must have left quickly, not scouting anything worth chalking up inside.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Mandy surprised me.

“I know. Just a bad habit I picked up at my last job.”

“You ready?”

“Did you already call your man…babies’ father I mean?” I joked.

“Yeah, I told you it was cool.”

“You gonna leave your car here, or we riding together?”

“He dropped me off, I don’t have a car.”

“Let’s go then.”

On the ride home, both of our clothes flooded the car with the stench of nicotine. I drove on the highway the windows cracked. It was humid for a late spring night and I didn’t want to turn off the AC. I hoped her nipples would get hard. We talked a little about where we grew up; where our parents were from, spoke in Spanglish showing off our bilingual skills, getting formalities out of the way. I really can’t remember a whole lot of what was said. The whole ride to my house, I kept thinking about a porno I’d seen that had won a Porny award for best script:

Woman: “Blah, blah, blah. You wanna fuck?”

Man: “Blah, blah, blah. Why yes I do.”

(Cue the funky 70s guitar rift and cheesy sex faces.)

When we got to my apartment I turned the TV on and handed her the remote. I wasn’t planning on watching, I just had to keep her occupied while I changed and went to the bathroom to rinse my taint. I hope she sucks balls.

I returned to the room wearing only my mesh basketball shorts. I didn’t want to make it too difficult for her. “It’s hot in here. Don’t you got AC?” She questioned.

“Yeah, but I don’t like running it when I’m not home. I’m always out and about so that’s why it’s hotter than Hades in here.” Not even 10 minutes in and she was a whiny little bitch. Why? She knew what time it was, but she kept talking about something. I can’t remember. It sounded something like:

Mandy: “Womp, Womp, Womp. Blah, blah, blah.”

Me: “Blah, blah, blah. Just take off your clothes if you’re so hot.”

Mandy: “Blah, blah, blah. *giggle, giggle.* Womp. Ok. Blah, blah.”

(Cue snaggle tooth smile and Romper Room chimes.)

It took her a while to peel her shirt over her voluptuous breasts. One covered boob popped out after another the way you’d imagine fish eggs coming out of a fish twat. I licked my lips. She was wearing two bras, a black bra underneath with lint balls on the straps and a powder blue sports bra on top. Okay, make that E or EE or F; I don’t know. She definitely had more than a mouth full. Bless her children’s hearts.

Yanking her pants off around her hips and rounded ass was even more of a task. I couldn’t wait too much longer so I started helping her. I thought about getting the PAM from the kitchen to speed up the process. She had gray boy-cut Champion underwear on. I didn’t know whether to take the remaining items off or take her jogging. I turned the lamp off because while she wrestled with her one-size-fits-most apparel, I noted she had dimples on the side and back of her thighs as if she’d been hit with a sack of nickels. She also had stretch marks webbing on the sides of her torso that made her look like Google Maps. This didn’t bother me much. I wasn’t planning on caressing her, anyways.

(Cue panty dropping here. Proceed to her taking of my basketball shorts. Lower bodies to the carpet, and… ACTION!)

She straddled me. She was a little heavy and her thighs smothered my hips. I helped her out of her bras and felt her breasts flop warmly onto my chest. I caught a glimpse of them through the moonlight that sleeked in through the venetian blinds in my living room. She had some big, dark areolas.

(Cue funky 70s guitar rift.)

Fast Forward 15 minutes later. Missionary position--

Mandy: “Blah, blah, blah. You feel so good”

Me: “I know… I know.”

I woke up early the next morning, sweating. Not because of the night of passionate sex, but because she produced a lot of body heat. We had pulled the throw blanket off of the couch and were spooning underneath. My right arm was stretch out underneath her head. My bicep was now asleep and tingling. I lifted my arm and her head plopped onto the carpet. I had drool on my forearm. Nice. Her hair still reeked of bar smoke. I’m sure I smelled of roses, myself. I hopped up and put my shorts on. The ass part stuck to my ass. I forgot I blew my load into them. She wasn’t a swallower. Bitch. And to think, there are children starving in Cambodia. I started for the kitchen.

“Oh shit!”

Javi was at the kitchen counter eating a Pop-Tart. “What the hell are you doing here? You scared the shit outta me,” I whispered out.

“I still have the key.” Javier had crashed at my apartment for a few months towards the end of my deployment when he wasn’t getting along with his girlfriend. I had given him a key before I left so he could check my mail and drop in on my place every now and then. He also used it for his own personal sexcapades. I know because he had left my camcorder hidden in the plastic fichus tree by the window. I should’ve turned it on last night after I washed my sack.

“Who’s that?”

“Some girl that works at the club I worked from last night.”

“Oh yeah, how’d you do?”

“Made about 50 bucks.”

“That’s cool. What’s her name?”

“Mandy I think. Or Amanda. Maybe Amy.”

“Mandy… Amy… baby! Baby is her name. That’s what I call them when I can’t remember their names.”

“So, what the hell?”

“I didn’t go home last night. I just came back from some girl’s house.”

“Word!”

I walked past him and opened the refrigerator. I gulped down the last third of orange juice in the carton. Javi was staring at Mandy who had managed to yank the blanket it off. She had rolled over onto her stomach and was spread eagle with her feet facing us. Did I mention she was stark naked still.

He continued to chew with pastry. “You’re gonna have to go to the room until she wakes up,” I told him. He turned around with a disappointed look. He grabbed his keys off the counter, jingling them loudly on purpose, and headed to the door.

All of sudden, the earth shook. FRAAAAMP, FRAAAAAAAP!

It sounded like a Mack truck hitting the Jake break. Javi pasted himself against the wall and I ducked, still suffering from PTSD and thinking we were being shelled. Mandy had started to stir. After our pulse returning to manageable beats, Javi began to suppress a laugh. He covered his mouth, but he couldn’t help but to burst out into a monkey of a laugh before he ran for the door, slamming it behind him.

I was flabbergasted; my jaw hung low. Mandy stirred harder before waking up, squinting her eyes and scrunching her nose. She took two quick sniffs. She turned around and looked at me with blood-shot eyes. I looked back at her, still shocked and still squatting.

*Fweep!* A tiny fart bubble escaped my sphincter. She looked at me with pure, honest disgust.

“You’s a nasty dude, yo. Take me home.”

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.