Page 7 of Thirst

I smile but keep walking. “Got somewhere I need to be. I’ll come back for you, though. Wait for me, okay?”

“You already know,” he says, his smile wide and his eyebrows up like we have some sort of personal connection.

We don’t. I want that money.

I spin around and keep moving, smirking at every man I catch staring at me until I reach booth three. As T-Pain’s “Long Lap Dance” starts to play, I look inside and find Stanley Moore sitting in one of the corners, staring at me like he’s ready to eat me alive.

Stanley fits the stereotype for the typical man that frequents strip clubs because it’s his main source of connection to women. His everyday life clearly doesn't afford him the company of female companionship, because it’s like Von said earlier—he's an ugly ass. Stanley stays decked out in suits when he comes in, but it can't distort or hide the fact that he's overweight and under-confident, with a face full of unkempt stubble covering a double chin, and large glasses that can't hide the creepiness in his eyes. He's the kind of Black man that is clearly disconnected from the culture, but uses his money to get what he wants out of people. He’s high ego and low self-esteem, which means he’s a narcissist.

“Mm, mm, mm,” he says as I step into the booth and stand in front of him. “Aaliyah, you get more and more delectable every time I see you. My goodness, woman.”

I smile, fully diving into the role of affectionate siren focused on one man. “Hey, Stanley. You're looking good yourself. I like that suit.”

“Oh, good. Cost me four grand,” he brags with a raised brow, then he scoots to the edge of the seat and examines my body. “Aaliyah, you might be the most stunning woman in here. Look at you—melanin-rich skin, those rounded brown eyes, sculpted cheekbones, shoulder-length hair, and all that meat on your bones. What are you, five-six, five-seven?”

“Five-foot-seven, Stanley,” I answer as I step closer, until his nose is nearly touching my navel.

“Unbelievable,” he says, watching with wide eyes as I straddle him. “And you smell so good. How hasn't anybody taken you off the market yet?”

“I don't know. I'm too much to handle, I guess,” I reply as I grind on top of him to the rhythm of T-Pain. When I feel Stanley slip a couple bills into my panties, I grind a little harder against his growing erection.

“I bet you are,” he whispers. “I could handle you, though.”

“Yeah?” I say, working my hips and letting my ass bounce for him. He slips another two twenties into the back of my panties.

“Absolutely,” he says. “And I don't just mean sexually. I could handle all of your hopes and dreams, too. Help you become whatever you want. Tell me what you want to do with your life. I could get you there.”

“Is that right? What if I wanted to be an astronaut?”

Stanley keeps his hands on the seat because he's not allowed to touch me unless he’s putting money in my panties, but his eyes roam every inch of my skin.

“I'm serious, Aaliyah. What are your hobbies? What do you like to do?”

Sighing, I decide to give Stanley a small piece of the truth. Nothing personal, just the truth. “I like to paint. I've always wanted to be a painter and have my own exhibits and galleries.”

“Are you being serious?” he asks.

“Yeah. I don't get as much time to do it as I wish I had, but that’s always been my dream. But I don't have the connections or the money, and we all need money.”

“I could be your connection,” he says. “It must be fate or something, because that’s literally what I do for a living.”

I stop grinding and look down at him. “You do what for a living?”

“Art exhibits. I have a few spaces in Center City where I let artists showcase their work. They pay to use the space, and I get a small percentage of their earnings from the day’s sales. That’s my job. I even own a gallery in Northwest Philly where I sell art.”

“You're an art dealer? For real?” I question in disbelief.

Stanley nods. “I'm one hundred percent serious, as God is my witness. If you want to sell art, I’m your man. I do exhibits for local artists all the time.”

As my eyes start to wander in curiosity and astonishment, I catch a glimpse of Von staring at me. He gestures at me with his hands, motioning for me to keep dancing. I have to force myself to keep my hips active just to get him to look away. I place my hands on the back of the seat and dig my pelvis down, letting my ass grind against Stanley’s crotch.

“So, if I managed to paint enough pieces to fill a space, you'd let me put on an exhibit at your spot?” I ask in Stanley’s ear, shocked that this is a real conversation.

He nods enthusiastically. “Absolutely.”

“And what about buyers?”

“Well, I have a long client list. I'd have to check out your work to make sure it’s a fit, but if it’s good, I’ll make the calls. It’s beneficial to us both, because if you're talented and you sell a lot, I make more money. I only get something if you get something. So it’s a win-win. All you have to do is give me your num—wait, are those scars under your arm?”