Page 3 of Sexy

She wants me.

Maybe that man she’s gonna marry is perfect. He could be a millionaire with a huge house. His job might be something so far above me, I’d look like an insignificant ant under his shoe. He might have a Harvard education and enough investments to put ten kids through college.

But right now, in this moment, all she wants is me.

I do the dirty dance with her, my body pressing against hers. The sweat is already pouring out of me, dripping down my stomach and pooling into the band of my tattered jeans. But her fingertips relish in it. They drag up and down the hard muscles of my abs. And I let her get her feel. I let her touch me anywhere she wants, waiting to see how far she goes. When she reaches around for my ass, that’s the signal. I place my hand on her head and press. She gives in easily and falls to her knees in front of me, looking up, her mouth poised in front of the zipper of my jeans.

I bump against her face and the crowd roars.

She blushes again but doesn’t pull away.

Fuck. They never pull away.

I grab the back of her head and push her face into the soft fabric. And even though my whole body is nothing but heat, I can feel her panting breaths as the humidity seeps through the denim covering my dick.

Just as she presses into me, just before I really get turned on, I push her away. She teeters backwards for a moment before catching her balance, and then I walk around her, dancing.

She pivots with me, but I move quickly and straddle her thighs, placing her head in my hand while pushing her backwards with the other one. She falls with my push, allowing me to lay her out on the floor. Those eyes, man, they’re still trusting. Still eager.

I dance over her, bending my knees, getting lower and lower with each thump of the bass, and then I drop my knees on the floor and straddle her face. Undulating up and down just an inch or two from her mouth.

She’d suck me off right here if I let her.

But of course, I’m not gonna let her. This is a show. It’s fake. And everyone in the room knows this. Especially me.

She starts stuffing her dollar bills into my pockets, but I have to give her one more thing to dream about tonight, so I grab her hand and place it over my crotch.

I’m not hard. I never get hard for this fake shit. It’s a job. And I do it well.

She screams with delight as I rub her hand over me and then before she can enjoy it too much, I step back and pull her to her feet. I get behind her again, dancing against her ass again, and yell into her ear, “Thank you, baby. You’re a good sport!”

She turns and screams, and before I know it, she’s kissing me. Long and hard. Sloppy and demanding.

I grab her by the shoulders and laugh it off, but secretly I’m pissed I didn’t see it coming. Most of the brides-to-be don’t take it that far, which is why I push a little harder with them.

I back away and raise her hand in the air as Chandler comes out on stage to talk her back down from her stripper-induced euphoria. I take a bow and let them cheer for a few seconds before casually jogging offstage, passing Mitch in the hallway wearing the costume he just pinched from my closet.

He claps me on the back, laughing. “You’re losing your touch. She got a sloppy kiss in.”

“Fuck you,” I say, heading to my dressing room. I close the door and relish the relative silence as I collapse into a chair.

But the kiss bothers me. I’m the one in control out there. The whole show is based on the fact that we’re entertainers and in a room filled with hundreds of out-of-control women, we’re the ones in control. And she got me.

I shake my head and take a swig of water, logging Mitch’s music, picturing his act as I wait for my next appearance.

I’ve been doing this for about nine months and I’ve seen and heard pretty much everything. But tonight was the first time anyone’s ever got a kiss in.

A knock on my door pulls me out of the funk and then Bill enters. “Hey,” he says, “Chandler wants to see you backstage.”

“There in a sec,” I say, and he leaves. I know what Chandler is gonna say. Every once in a while the girls take it too far. But it never happens to me. Sure, I take it too far. That’s my job. But we are never supposed to let them take that control away. So I’m expecting a lecture from Chandler when I make my way back out after Mitch’s act is over and Sean’s act begins.

“You missed a meeting today,” he says as I walk into the main office backstage. “And you’re lucky that corporate never showed up or you’d be out on your ass, Fletcher. They’re tired of you.”

I get this lecture every month like clockwork. Lots of people would like me to go away, but the fact is, I make them money. And since the world is filled with greedy assholes whose only desire is to count that pile of money they hoard in a corner, they keep me around. “I just forgot, man. I mean, look. I work here when I work here. I get paid per show. I’m expected to show up for rehearsals and shit from nine to noon, Tuesday through Friday. Then I’m off until Saturday night’s show. I use those hours, man. I’m a busy guy and you know that. So if they want to pay me to show up when I’m off, let’s put that shit into the next contract.”

“You’re not gonna get another contract, Fletch.”

His words are not angry, just matter-of-fact. We’re friends. We both grew up on the North Shore of Lake Tahoe and we’ve been friends for a long time now. He got me this gig when I came to him nine months ago and told him what was up. He’s had my back a few times and I’ve had his. But we’ve grown apart the last few months. He’s got a steady girl now, maybe thinking about getting serious, and I’m… not. I’m too busy surviving, still finding my stride. I can’t get excited about life plans when I’m struggling to keep up and hold it together.