This is an excerpt from the novel “Confessions of an Abortion Addict.” This excerpt might not be sequential and will be subject to additional editing. Thank you!
There is a certain self-assuredness that strippers possess. It’s indescribable how they move in complete fluidity to the dark music and the expectant gaze of their audience. They are aware of their bodies, and they are aware of you– the entrancing movements of firm breasts and the sublime gyrations, on stage, serenaded with red and blue flashing strobe effects. The truth is that strippers use the stage as a vantage point where they can scan the environment; while, they are upside-down twirling, bra-less on the golden poles, (which are swabbed with disinfectants as each girl performs) observing the environment to see what type of tips they’ll be expecting. I’m usually not stingy either, but I’m transfixed. I can’t stop looking at her between the sips of foamy amber— Summer, swivelling on the pole, her blonde hair sprawled on stage, young eyes seducing an invisible lover; taut legs entangling in a way that would’ve appeared to be awkward for any other woman, but this was Summer, and even in this shady establishment she found a pose that tip-toed between inner peace and absolute deviancy.
I’m bombarded with the thumping beats that were pulsating through my blood stream. Some of the other strippers approach me but I was well versed in their ways, and I was able to deny them that dance they were looking for… it was like saying no to the sweet embrace of lavender and glitter. I was saving myself for, Summer. I wanted her all to myself, and I was going to ensure that I was untainted as well. The others might’ve been offended by my dismissive manner, as they want the clients to pay for the pleasure of observing naked and glittery flesh. Most people would be intimidated by the awareness that strippers have of their bodies. It’s like finding out that a well-done steak has attained sentience. I never think of them as meat, and perhaps I respect them even more for valuing their body and quantifying what their perfumed flesh is worth.
When she completed her routine, I motioned for the surly black waitress to come to my lonely table that was tucked away in the corner. I wanted to make sure, Summer notices me, and also I wanted to refill my pint.
“$10,” She said holding her palm upward while placing her other hand on her waist.
“Here you go,” I gave her the money; normally I would give a word or two about customer service but this was a strip club and someone’s feelings are bound to get hurt.
“I’ll make sure she finds you,” She says in an apathetic tone.
I’m tapping on the table waiting for her approach, anxious to smell her velveteen body. My head is moving around. There were a decent amount of people in today. Part of me always wondered if someone would recognize me: the wrestling business does serve a low-end customer base similar to the working-class and barely legal faces that I see walking around throughout the bar, and even though I wasn’t recognized—it was always something that was in the back of my mind, and to be fair; although, we had an average of about 1,000 people in to see our shows most of the audience was based in the realm of online streaming in the UK.
“Hi, Hun!…I heard you wanted to see me?” A soft voice whispered in my ear.
“Oh! Hi,” I was caught off guard. I pulled my neck muscles craning over to my left shoulder, but the pain was worth it. She stood there easily 6 feet tall, with her pencil thin see-through stilettoes, her modesty restored in a neon yellowish-green bikini. The darkness obscured her limber curvature, but the cast-off light bestowed on to me a beautiful blonde in small strokes of revelations. Her touch melted me, but it may have also been the use of the phrase ‘Hun,’ which I typically associate with the friendly woman at the diner—it also had some motherly connotations to it, but I think it might be more of a primitive need for men to be pampered, and be nursed back to life.
© A.R. Minhas 2017