We dress—if
you can call it that—and follow the guy through a maze of hallways and down a
flight of stairs. No brass and glass spiral this time, only a dim unpainted
service staircase. I'm wearing the
shortest possible short shorts, purple with yellow trim, a matching cap with a yellow
W on the front, my black feather choker, and my face paint. Nothing else.
Holly and Skyla are better than me at
managing the steps in super-high heels. I hold the handrail to keep from
teetering. Though I try to hurry, I can't keep up.
When I finish struggling down the
stairs, I'm in front of open double doors. The guy who escorted us here serves
me a grimace of impatience. I sashay past him with my nose high, hoping my
body language puts him is his dickwad place.
A pinch on the seat of my shorts makes
me flinch, which is all it takes too lose my balance. I stumble into a tall bar
chair. The back of the chair falls against the shoulder of a man at the next
table. He's too busy running his hands all over Skyla to give me more than any
annoyed glance.
Mr. Dickwad gives me a wink as he
walks away to tend bar. I regain my balance and look around. Old rock music and
sports announcer nonsense blare out of huge speakers. In the light cast by a room full of giant screens, naked women
come on heavily to men who seem nearly as interested in the televised football game. Beer
bottles are everywhere. So is sex. Evidently there aren't any private rooms
connected to the sports bar. Fondling, kissing, sucking, and fucking are
happening at the bar, around and on top of the tall tables, in the booths, and
on the couches.
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