This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!
Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)
The bouncer man will tell them to step right up, have their $5 entry fee out and unfolded, and will tell them to watch their step, as this freaky dive is actually above ground, and the steps are steep. I guess the idea is that you’re climbing a stairway to Boobie Heaven? (Actually, that would be a great name for a titty bar, come to think of it. “Boobie Heaven? You can’t miss it: that’s the one with the flying jugs out front.”)
We climb the stairs all the way up, up, up and there’s another doorman. He takes our five-spots, and if you offer him another couple of bucks (or 20), he’ll seat you right on Perv Row, front and center, as the ladies go at it onstage. Want to lick the whipped cream off their 24 fabulous titties? You’ll need front-stage access. No tip? You’re back at one of the cheapskate’s mini-stages in the darkest corner, furthest away from the action. You are face-to-crotch with the oldest, skankiest looking strippers in the place; the lifers who could be 30 or 65 from the looks of things. No, my high-roller, you don’t want that! Stop being a cheap chump, and hand over that twenty, for fuck’s sake!
The doorman tips an imaginary hat to you, and motions for us to follow. We perch on Perv Row, and the strippers wink at me as we get settled.
Be a doll and order me a Cosmopolitan, won’t you darling?
You’re a darling, so you do. I wink back at Ms. Sugar Tits, who is squeezing them for all to see, pulling down her bra and layering on the whipped cream.
“Who’ll be the lucky boy this evening?” she’s yelling over the bump and grind of Aerosmith or G’N’R or some other stripping cliché.
And the men are on their feet, cheering, clapping, hooting and hollering. Some are waving their hands in a “Pick me!” gesture. Wolf whistlers are blasting in my ear. I’m the only one calmly seated, a half-smirk upon my face. I’ve seen these dogs do these tricks a million times. It’s half comedy and equal parts tragedy, so Shakespearean as they strut and fret on their own little stages, day in and day out.
Ms. Sugar Tits is licking the cream off her own bouncing bosom, to much more hooting, hollering and cheering from the crowd. She is making to-die-for O-faces, and they are sweating and stammering and yelling “Yeah, baby! Lick them titties!” and then she points at one of them, who jumps up on the stage, only to be pushed away by the fabulous Sugar Tits, who shouts “Not you, HER!”
I’m pulled up onstage again. It happens every time – a classy dame in a place like this? It’s a given. I accept my fate. I pretend to blush, hold a hand over my mouth in an expression of false modesty. Sugar Tits leans her heavenly, creamed bust down to me (she is Amazonian in her high glass heels), the cherries on top poking through the layer of foamy spray, and I slide my tongue slowly out to meet them, eyes closed but peeking, heading closer and closer as the men roar in excitement for this faux lesbian fantasy playing out before them and BAM! Contact. I’m swiping through the mountain of whipping cream with my tongue, clearing a path with my hands, sucking down those taut titties as Ms. Sugar Tits moans with fake delight and slips a hand down her panties. We writhe on the stage in this stunning facsimile of sex as the men’s howling sounds more and more like wolves braying at the moon until finally the spotlight drops and we are plunged into darkness.
Show’s over, fellas. Sugar Tits whispers “Thanks, doll!” huskily into my ear and pats me on the rump. “I’m off at 3 if you want another piece of this.” I can see her wink even in the darkness, and I just smile and wipe my mouth daintily with the back of my hand.
Another day in the life of The Fixer is just beginning.