ANATOMY OF A LAP DANCE (NO TOUCH)

WE SETTLE ON A PRICE. More than I'll likely earn for writing this piece. Next come the rules of the road: "No touching my tits or ass. No fingers. And don't put your mouth anywhere." Not a problem. I never kiss on the first date. The V.I.P. room isn't very V.I.P.: a dark-blue velvet sectional, table for resting my drink. A bit Spartan, but who's paying for the accoutrements? She straddles me, hands on my shoulders. Wearing a G-string fashioned from purple satin and butt-floss, she leans back just a bit, so I feel the weight of her bare, exposed buttocks resting on my knees. Her breasts are small, capped with pale, pink buds that remind me of tiny strawberries. Perfect accent to her shouder-lenght, blood-orange hair. My pupils remain fixed on them (less intimate than eye contact). Everything about this woman evokes the color red in all its hues. If pressed to conjure a nickname for her, it'd be "Pink." That's what I'll call her.

She knows why I'm here. I've agreed not to use her name (not even her stage name), or identify the club where she works. Can't quite peg her age. Somewhere between 19 and twenty-something. Somewhere between Laurie Partridge and Courtney Love. Tall. Coltish. Eyes as startlingly blue as the sky over an Iowa cornfield. If Sherwin-Williams had a shade to match, I'd paint my condo with it . . .


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