As the night club doors opened, the four girls at the head of the line bolted for their favorite seats. Surviving the pushing and shoving typical of this monthly Chippendale Show, the four laid claim to the cafe table at the foot of the stage. From there they could ogle the scantily clad dancers, savor the sweaty spray deposited on the front row viewers, and, with any luck, catch a tossed G-string or two.
The screaming bevy of girls vying for front row seats nearly upended their table, but the foursome managed to brace themselves and their table from the mad onslaught. Heavily breathing women, eager to devour the gorgeous gaggle of virile men soon to flaunt their nearly naked torsos in wild and sensual gyrations, were screaming and pulling at each other as chairs crashed and tables overturned in an orgy of female frenzy.
Scantily clad girls; secretaries, school teachers, nurses, and even a few policewomen in civilian clothes, seemed hell bent on baring as much of themselves to the dancers as the dancers were paid to display to their lusting audience. The titillating small talk heard around the room soon gave way to thunderous screams of impatience as the Master of Ceremonies came on stage to greet the aroused mob, who were mostly standing in anticipation of the beginning of the show.
“Ladies, ladies, quiet down — please. The boys are coming out in a minute — I promise. But first, I must take care of some business.”
At this point a few of the regulars screamed, “We know the damn rules, Benny; shut up and sit down; we want the boys.”
As if rehearsed and right on cue, a chant started from the back to the front of the club like rolling thunder.
“We want the boys! We want the boys! We want the boys!”
“Ladies, please be patient; I know most of you have been here before, but for the newcomers there are three rules I need to cover; first, no nudity from the audience — please keep your clothes on or we may get shut down. Second, if you must throw your bra on the stage, please retrieve it after the show — we have boxes of bras in the back and we’re running out of room. And, third, no jumping up on the stage to grope the dancers –– this is their livelihood and they can’t afford broken bones or injuries to other body parts, ok? Oh, and one last thing: the exit doors are located on either side of the club and in the back behind the stage –– in case there’s a fire.”
One chunky woman in a black leather outfit, black hobnail boots, and wielding a black riding crop, jumped up on her chair and screamed, “Screw the fire drill, Benny; either bring out the boys or we’re going to demolish the joint in 30 seconds.”
Slogging across the stage, a disgusted Benny gave the high sign to the sound man in the back booth. In seconds, the ear-splitting sounds of bump and grind music began rolling over the audience, which suddenly turned into a mass of seething human flesh, all mushed together and straining forward in anticipation of the Chippendales’ imminent appearance.
The house lights dimmed, the footlights came up, and suddenly four barefoot hunks in thongs came slithering on to the stage grinning and pointing at the front row girls as they began undulating seductively to the blaring music. Within seconds the screams of wanton depravity drowned out the music as the fever pitch of female carnality rose higher and higher with each gyration on the stage.
The four women at the front table, though watching the dancers, seemed more curious than aroused.
“Eddie seems less animated than usual tonight, Jackie. Anything wrong?”
“Just fighting a bad head cold, Nancy. But Ralph seems to be favoring that right foot a little, Linda. That broken ankle still bothering him?”
“Yeah, it’s almost healed, but we need the money, so he had to get back in the lineup a little sooner than he wanted to.”
Judy, the oldest of the four, was looking around the room in disgust.
“Would you look at all these squealing pigs. You’d think they’d never seen a naked man before.”
Linda, the baby of the group, spoke up.
“Now, now, Judy; don’t be too hard on the little darlings; after all our husbands do put on one hell of a show. And, remember, it does pay the bills.”
Foster says, “I have been writing seriously for about three years now, mostly short stories. I participate in several writing groups in the Princeton-Plainsboro area and have enjoyed the camaraderie of the other writers as we share and critique each other’s work.” He retired as an Allstate Insurance Agent in 2000, after almost 30 years, and spent most of his early retirement time traveling, horseback riding, and skiing with my wife. He also plays and teaches pool/billiards at local pool rooms and people’s homes. “Writing has proven to be a very challenging but enjoyable addition to my continuing interest in more cerebral endeavors,” he says.