We dress—if you can call it that—and follow the guy through a maze
of hallways and down a flight of stairs. I hold the handrail to steady the
wobbling of my ankles in my six-inch heels. I'm wearing the shortest of short shorts, purple with yellow trim,
a matching baseball cap with a yellow W on the front, my black feather choker,
and my face paint.
I'm the last in
the line again. A door opens. Old rock music and sports announcer nonsense
blare out. I watch Holly and Skyla stride into the light cast by a room full of
giant screens.
At the threshold
of the piano bar I was intimidated. This place is lower rent. I tell myself I'm
not scared. I pull my shoulders back, thrust my hips out, and try to imitate
Skyla's entrance.
I can't tell her
and Skyla from the other naked women curled in the laps of the men on the
couches. Hands wander over skin, but the eyes of the men are on the screens.
Something happens in the game they're watching. The room fills with cheers.
Beer bottles sway in the air.
The screens cut
to commercials. The men play with the women.
Tits go into mouths. Fingers find cunts. Heads dip to crotches.
No one is
grabbing me. How did Holly and Skyla get themselves taken so fast?
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