“I think she’s sexy,” says the nutball. I do an invisible eye roll. I say what I’ve been waiting to say. There’s only one reason I’ve been sitting at his table.
“I’m going to take a shot. Starla said I could.”
He ONLY brings the stripper juice for Starla. Aka Fireball. He doesn’t like to share.
The “sexy” girl in question approaches the stage. She’s wearing leopard print. I’m wearing leopard print. I love leopard print. However, her booty shorts don’t hug her right. Her heels are an inch too big. Her french braid is falling apart. I wonder if she’s living in a seedy motel with no hairbrushes. She looks cheap. Luckily you can look cheap in a strip club. Looking cheap in a strip club can actually make you a shit ton of money. STILL, the boss bitch in me wonders why she was hired.
She approaches the pole. She’s slow. She’s smooth. I’m judging. I’m holding number cards in my head. I’m trying to understand why she was hired.
She stretches out cat-like across the stage.
I’m in a trance.
Her ass is now arched in front of us.
The nutball and I turn to each other simultaneously. Him with a question. Me with an answer. LOST & FOUND.
She has the word LOST tattooed in red block letters on her left butt cheek, and FOUND on her right. The lights from the stage create the illusion that they’re blinking.
2 minutes later I’m watching as the same light flickers off her suddenly incredible cheek bones, and I’m wondering if she cooks scrambled eggs at 3am in a thong & a cut off Blink 182 t-shirt. I’m hoping she does.
2 days later I’m practicing her cat-like arch & I’m writing this story.