melissa

Naked Dancer

By Robert Rhys

Warning! This story contains explicit language and sexual situations.

I met a nice chunky muscle girl in a nude dance club sometime in April, 1997; not a real bodybuilder, but a little powerhouse in a cranky and willful mood. This story is true, every bit. The events related are perhaps a little tame compared to fiction because it's a true story; nobody gets laid and nobody gets the shit kicked out of them, but it has the added dimension of truth and gives an insight into those infamous dance clubs which feature those private sessions we've all heard so much about. And an insight into the pain of reckless romantic feelings, the gulf of age and intellect, and the cold light of reality.

Yet a little rocky from the experience of turning fifty the week before, I had agreed to go out and celebrate, or memorialize, or whatever, the pivotal event of reaching a half a century. My friend, Bill, would do it the following month - for him, this was a mere practice run. The business of turning fifty was not easy or pleasant. One goes through these experiences like a man on his way to the gallows, except that after you drop through the trap door, your still alive, suffering.

It was shortly after dark that we pulled into the parking lot of the dingy dance club, a nudie joint, actually - let's not gild the lily. Even "Strip joint" would be too elegant a name to apply, and really not accurate; the girls don't strip, they just come out nearly naked (panties or thongs), climb up on the big low table and start dancing and shake their boobs. It was a little place along Route 1 in a town along the Connecticut shore. My friend saw my eyes expand as we drove up. I had frequented nice places like this in the past, but this looked a little down at the heel. "Aw, Bill! For Christ's sake, this place is a dump. Look - motorcycles, crummy vans. These guys carry knives." (In the US you really don't worry about guns, you worry about knives.) He tried to calm me and said that the place, while not large or lavish, could have some nice girls at times, and interesting things could happen. I was pondering "happen" as he yanked on the emergency brake and opened the door. "Come on, lets go," he said. I hung back for an instant, that instinctive self-preservation device operating, but, overriding the system, I gathered my strength, gripped the door handle and went for it.

The parking lot wasn't very full, not a good sign. As I entered the interior of the dimly lit and sparsely furnished building, I could see two dance platforms at the far end to my left and a girl on one, the other was empty, not a good sign either. The bar was right in front so we each bellied-up for a beer to take back to the dance platforms. The fortyish, bulky, black-haired barmaid-owner looked at me with only vaguely concealed impatience as I desperately scanned the disturbingly limited beer list. My friend had already uttered the galvanic "Bud". He always knew how to play the game, I've never learned. I foolishly hesitated and broke my stride. I like beer and really wanted a good beer. I knew I didn't look like the usual clods who patronized the place and she no doubt thought I considered her beer list a little "low end"; she was right - we both knew it. After nervously passing over three types of Bud, a Miller and a Mic (the classy beer), she said with tired sarcasm," I got some Bass in back," and left off the implied, "asshole." I relaxed and said, "I'll have a Bass;" trying to appear as unperturbed as possible. Of course, I got the "look" as she turned away to get a bottle. You know, the "look", the "Oh, ain't he a smarty pants professional type" look. Some greasy heads actually half-turned when I said "Bass". My friend looked at me. I read his face, "It's not the Polo Club, Bob, do as the Romans do." Plebes, I thought, but I only waited and looked straight ahead as if everything were perfectly normal. At 5-8 and a stocky and solid 190, I'm not too worried about dealing with aggressors, but I didn't want a fight tonight and some of those guys were REALLY big. We slipped away unscathed.

We drifted back to the far wall and sat before the table with the girl on it, a slim and pretty blond with an intelligent face who actually had a naturally pleasant smile. She moved around the perimeter squatting in front of leering men who had left dollar bills folded lengthwise at the edge of the table for her to take. There weren't many guys there that night, perhaps only about six or seven sitting around table. The game is this; they dance in front of you, if you leave a dollar they briefly pull aside the small bit of cloth which covers their pussy, showing you the wonder of their shaved vulval labia and its delicate vaginal folds. It leaves me cold; always has and always (I hope) will. It's really more like an anatomy lesson than anything else and has very little to do with the wonder of a woman and her charms; but I'm a hopeless and outdated romantic, I know that and try and live with it as best I can, treating it more or less like a disability. As I sit, I'm actually more interested in studying the various types who frequent these places, and their reactions. On the surface their reactions are much like mine, no reaction. People have the incorrect impression that guys at these places yell and scream and howl at the girls non-stop, they don't, they just sit and look; and not at them but through them. And, in inspired moments, when the girl is up close, perhaps make a polite or witty comment. Such comments are not overlong speeches but rather quips, drawn from the vast depths of their literary experience, such as, "Nice ass," or "Cute bush," - what's left of it. I fail completely. I say things like, "Your lovely," and they just look at me like I'm nuts or dangerous. I smile and sit back relaxed and easy and raise a bottle in their direction and try to make them feel appreciated. After all, they're prancing around naked in front of men and I'd like to make them feel good and have them think that I think they're beautiful - don't waste your energy, they don't care, well, sometimes they do. Despite my best efforts, I frequently tend to make these girls feel uncomfortable. Probably it's because I treat them with respect and kindness, and use reasonably correct grammar; it's a real turn off. I just can't help myself.

The girl we had seen upon entering was still dancing her set. Like I said, she was slim and pretty, a fairly typical item. The girls in these places divide themselves in a variety of groups, but one peculiar classification is the college student earning extra money. This one was from Massachusetts. Some come from Brown University in Rhode Island; I've checked this out, it's true. They love to just strip down and show it off. This girl seemed really intelligent as well as attractive. Once her set was over, she walked up to us and started talking. Normally, girls are relatively difficult to meet and the initial interchange fraught with a lot of cultural rubbish. One has to hand out a line, something clever, usually a lie. But here they just walk up and start talking. Of course, they're looking for something, a private session. That's where, for $20, or so, you can take a girl into a small room or isolated spot where you sit down and she gives you a going over, feels you all over, and says complementary things. It's very pleasant. She is nearly naked, you are clothed, and she can touch you but you can't touch her - at least that's the way it's supposed to work but the reality can be different.

This young lady was named Something Drake, I don't remember her prae nomen and could not say anyhow, but her last name was Drake. I said, "Oh, like Sir Francis." And she beamed and said she was descended from Sir Francis Drake, "We checked it out, really." I think she actually believed it. I had my doubts. My friend trotted off with Lady Drake for a private session, but I decided to husband by resources. When he came back we were ready for another beer when a new girl appeared walking across the room toward the table. And she was utterly unlike the last girl in every possible way. Where the last one was thin, light-skinned, somewhat refined and polite and even cultured (and bantered with us in rocky German!), this one was sullen, olive-skinned and cranky-looking, she actually stamped her opera-booted feet on the floor with deliberation as she approached and had a sour look on her face. Her long, black, ringletted tresses hung loose from her head and fell over her bare breasts, she had on the briefest of panties made of the thinnest material, and, at about five feet two or three, had the build of a small refrigerator. I was getting excited.

She mounted the stage, threw her disordered tresses over her shoulders, and looking at no one in particular and flexing her arm muscles, yelled, "I'm fuckin' pissed guys, so LOOK OUT!" Leering and childish smiles passed around the table, they knew her and we were obviously in for a some fun. She was apparently at least semi-intoxicated, and we, shooting knowing glances at each other, knew what to do. Bill ran off to the bar for two beers and a shot of good whisky - for the lady, of course. Being the gentleman that we are, we knew she would become thirsty at some point in her act and would want liquid refreshment, and we would willingly provide.

While Bill was gone she put on quite a show of acting like a cranky three year old. She walked around and stamped her feet and swore and cursed some more. Mostly she wanted to take all of her clothes off and dance naked; she felt her art was such that it could only be expressed in total nudity. We fellows heartily agreed and urged her to flout the law and strip. You see, in Connecticut one can not appear on stage with their pubic area exposed. What this means is constantly open to interpretation, and is constantly being challenged, but the bottom line is you are not supposed to show the vulva - period. Well, this girl was determined. After a lot of stamping and swearing she yelled, "I'm takin' my fuckin' pants off. I don't fuckin' care. BULLSHIT, they're comin' off. Fuck it! Fuck ‘em all!" She was working up her courage, and we helped her make up her mind as best we could. "Yeah! Go ahead! We're with you. If you wanna be naked, then be naked. You gotta right. It's America." And stuff like that. Just as Bill returned, his face wreathed in smiles and delicately balancing a full shot glass of whisky amid the bottles of beer, she yanked down her panties, pulled them over her shoes and tossed them aside; they floated down, a little white pile in the corner of the table. She now stood proud and defiant before us, silent for once, in all her naked glory; even had her hands on her hips, striking a pose worthy of Joan of Arc or even the great Boudicca. Her stance and demeanor just screamed, "Fuck ‘em all. I'm naked, I love it and I'm goin' to get to work." We cheered her with a will, America always loves a brave and good heart.

She had a little extra weight on her but you could see she was a muscle girl. Her legs were big and solid, as were her arms, and her chest was naturally broad and full. Her boobs were of good size, though not large and her waist, though not small, was a waist none-the-less. She had a nice dark olive complexion, and dark eyes and full lips, a Neapolitan Italian for sure; Connecticut's full of them, I'm one-half myself.

Turning her head slowly about, she kept her body quite still, then she began to move her body, actually rather artfully. Pretty soon she was moving like a snake, twisting and undulating herself and doing a surprisingly good job of dancing solo to the rock music, no Isadora Duncan dancing to Beethoven's Seventh, but damn good. Her eyes would follow the room around and occasionally land on mine and Bill's, she seemed to like Bill, they all do. He's got a pleasant smile and a cheery face and they love him. I'm a little more foreboding, pensive, they tend to stay away from me; but she would still gaze at me and cast lingering looks. She was becoming a little possessed-looking and her eyes would roll up into her head. My Italian grandfather was a witch doctor of sorts and I know the Neapolitans can be very magical. She seemed to have that spirit within her. I was becoming entranced with this boxy little tiger. Soon she became impatient of her shoes and broke the spell entirely by artlessly stopping dead and screaming, "Shit! These Goddamn shoes hurt. I'm takin' ‘em off." Standing on one foot, she had some difficulty untying them and pulling them off and finally fell on her ass with a big bump. We all laughed. She got angry at us and dressed us down good. "You fuckin' assholes," she grunted, as she yanked off the boots, "shut the fuck up. Jerks! Ugh, uggh! Shit! - You have no appreciation of ART!!"

Now in her bare feet she actually glided around the table. It was amazing. Her feet were like the rest of her, boxy and compact, but cute in there own way, teddy bear feet. She entertained us in this way for about fifteen minutes and really did some very athletic things; spins on one foot, leg extensions, flying like a bird, not the uninspired half-step cha cha of the usual "dancer". But all good things must come to an end and her set concluded. She stood motionless, her head hung over, her raven tresses hanging low. Not the usual fare at the nudie club. Emerging from our trance-like state, we all suddenly noticed the disgruntled figure of the barmaid-owner standing at the edge of the table, arms akimbo, face set in displeasure. "Melissa!" Ah, her name was Melissa, "Get your panties on." "FUCK YOU!" was the well aimed and succinct reply as she stood erect and spun around toward the woman, her back up, head low and arms out, fingers claw-like. The woman, evidently exasperated, but used to Melissa's ways, repeated calmly, "I said, get your panties on!" "NO!! I don't fuckin' WANT TO! I'm naked and I'm stayin' that way." "Melissa, if you don't put your panties on, I'm going to have to make you leave." That did it, she hit her in the pocketbook, Melissa had to comply or lose an evening's work. "Oh, Goddammit…, shit, fuck, Jesus fucking H. Christ." Defeated, she could only swear and rant, but reluctantly she went over and got her panties and angrily put them on; the barmaid-owner left, the mood broken.

She now had about fifteen minutes to kill between sets and she came over and began to talk with us. Bill offered her the whisky; she absentmindedly took it, downed it in a single gulp, and handed him back the glass, all in a single motion. "Thanks, whew! You guys are alright. I saw you watching me."

"You were very beautiful," I said. "Not the average fare." She looked at me. I had spoken funny, I knew it. I was pissed at myself. But she just kept looking. She effortlessly lifted herself up and sat up on the two and a half foot high dance table between our chairs, her big powerful legs dangling in front of me, her naked body sweaty and lovely. I could see the muscles in her arms, nice biceps, as she flexed them unconsciously. I started getting hard. Bill went to get some more whiskey. Alone now, I said to her.

"You're Italian, aren't you?"

"Yeah, one hundred fuckin' percent," she beamed. "How'd you know?" Amazing. This was going to be fun. And she was drunk, more than a little. But she looked at me fully and smiled away with her watery eyes.

"Well, lets see," I had her hooked, I could tell, "we can start with the beautiful black hair," which was now a sweaty and tangled mess, "I bet it's natural isn't it?"

"Yep, I'm all natural. What you see is what you get, right down to the feet..., hic!" I picked up her leg and held it in my arm and over my leg and began to stroke her left foot. She looked at me a little funny, but I kept stroking.

"And," I continued, "you have beautiful olive skin, and that face."

"What face?" This always works with Italian women, especially if they're a little loaded.

"The face I've seen painted on the walls of Pompeii. Faces two thousand years old, beautiful Italian women of Rome with big eyes. That face." She began to melt a little. She looked at me with great curiosity. She'd heard about guys like me but likely never met one; educated and sensitive. Feeling the energy I continued.

"The big eyes. You have those eyes." She just looked. I was beginning to feel a little ashamed of myself. This wasn't fair. She was drunk and vulnerable and would have been intellectually outclassed even if sober, but I loved watching her drink in the complements. I continued, "And the hair," she was proud of her natural hair, "you have their hair; and your body, that muscled body, like a beautiful naked slavegirl - you must work out." I saw her eyes widen, "Slavegirl? - naked?" she thought, "Wow!" Even she knew about slavegirls.

"Yeah. I work out when I can," she said, expanding her bare chest and making a mock bodybuilder pose. Bill swooped in with two shots. She drank both down, one after another in a twinkling and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She downed shots like most people popped after dinner mints. "Oh! Shit. (burp) Thanks, I needed that. Doin' that shit makes you thirsty." I was still holding her foot and gently stoking it.

"You have nice feet. Do you like having them rubbed?" I love women's feet.

"Ehh. It don't matter. I can't feel a thing" And then she said the most amazing thing, "I have elephant feet ."

"Elephant feet?"

"Yeah. Can't feel a thing." I don't know what elephant feet are, and I didn't ask, but I let the foot go.

And then she started blubbering to Bill. "You know what I do for a living?"

"No, what."

"I cut fuckin' chickens up. And meat. I'm a butcher. A fuckin' butcher! How do you like that?"

What the hell do you say? Any possible comment is only rhetorical. We just stared solemnly past her and let her go, she seemed to want to unload. Water ran from her eyes as she continued, her speech slurred from whisky and beer.

"You know, some fucker hired me to make a movie once. An.., an, I spent days shooting the fucker and never got paid a penny." Tears were flowing now. "I'M AN ACTRESS YOU KNOW!" she yelled, pointing a finger at her naked chest, "A fuckin' actress. That bastard never paid me a mother fuckin' dime." I could just imagine how she had been taken in. He never had any intention of paying her. Bill had a real sad look on his face and just looked at the floor, he knew too. Here we were two successful guys out on the town listening to this poor girl tell her tale of woe, and we could tell she was sincere, and it got worse. "And you know I got a kid. A nice little girl. Eight years old. And I'm fuckin' 28 myself. Nice eh? Real fuckin' nice." More tears. "But I love her and want her to have a different life. Not like me." More tears. I hand her some napkins. "Thanks." And blows her nose with a honk. "My father is dead, you know. A real bastard, he was. I hate him, the fucker. Beat the shit out of me and my mother. He was a fuckin' redhead, an Italian redhead, ever see that?" I wanted to tell her that the Italian composer, Vivaldi, was a redhead, and that Italians have a recessive gene for red hair, but I didn't bother. "Hey, you guys are real nice. I'm gonna dance a good dance for you, you wait. And I like you," she said to me. There was something in her watery eyes which I only dimly saw through my watery eyes. Bill's were not much better. And then, quickly composing herself and drying things up.

"Okay guys, gotta get back to work."

She swung her legs over and mounted the stage again as the music began, and as if nothing had transpired, tore off her panties and started to dance. Now she was really inspired and went to work dancing up a storm. It was like the first dance but wilder, and she kept looking at me and ignoring the growing pile of dollar bills at the edge of the table. Finally noticing the booty, she cruised around the table a bit, making her rounds and doing her thing. And then she looked at me and rushed right at me. Bill laughed and said, "You got her going, Bob, you're in for it now." She came at me in a flash and literally jumped onto my shoulders, her face in mine, close, her lips out for a kiss. I kissed her gently, a real kiss, but a gentle one. She stared at me a moment and laughed and then crawled over my shoulders and onto my back. I fell forward on to the edge of the table. I'm still not exactly sure how she did this but the next thing I knew, she had her hands on the back of my chair and my head in a leg scissors with her crotch pushed against the back of my neck; and she started to hump me right then and there, and squeeze my neck, not really painfully, but hard enough. I couldn't believe it, she was humping me and humping me. God it felt good. Every one was howling and laughing and Bill was laughing the hardest. This was my 50^th birthday and I was getting a real treat. She kept this up for about two minutes, and that's a long time when you're being humped in public. I just sat there with my head bowed and drank it in. With my help, she eventually climbed back up on the table and continued her dance, and never took her eyes off me. I was elated. While climbing back up I stuffed a twenty dollar bill in her hand, I don't think she even knew it was there. And on and on she danced until her set was over.

Finished with the set, she had a break of about a half hour and I talked to her and told her about the money; she found it in the dollar pile and thanked me. I told her I wanted a private session and she said, "You're on," and gave me a kiss. She now had to disappear for a few minutes and said she'd be back. Clutching her panties and a mass of crumpled bills, she lurched off to the dressing room. Bill and I could not believe what had happened. "You hit the jackpot tonight, Bob, I've never seen anything like that." She was gone for some time, but would occasionally emerge from the door of the girls dressing room and look uneasily about and then retreat, she took no notice of me and was obviously drinking hard while in there. Bill said she was likely doing worse and taking drugs. "God," I thought, "drugs and alcohol. That'll kill her." But by and by she emerged and fixed an eye on me and put out a beckoning hand. I ran like a dog to the whistle.

We slipped into the a small rear room. It contained only a single vinyl covered chair; nothing else. I looked at her face, it was blotchy from crying and her hair was a very disordered mass of sweaty curls, but the curls had survived; they were indeed real. And she was nearly naked with just her scanty, filmy panties on, and glisteningly sweaty, her hair matted, her eyes a watery mess; yet I felt a growing passion for her, a deepening kind of love. I was crossing gulfs again, I could feel it. It's a special feeling and you recognize it when it happens. I looked down at her face. She was shorter than me by about four or five inches. For the first time I put my hands on her body in passion, my hands wrapped around her lats and my fingers touched her back. I was holding her solidly and could feel her muscles beneath the sweat. My hands slid up under her sweat-soaked armpits and beneath her broad shoulders. I squeezed her a little, just a little and continued to look into her eyes, those big, black, Italian eyes, and said to her, "Melissa, do I have to sit? Can I just stand and hold you? I just want to hold you near me and hug you." She put her arms around me. This was totally illegal. We were well past breaking the law now. It was nearly prostitution, I was paying her for this, but it seemed to be more than money now. She held me very tightly.

"Yes. It's okay. Hold me, please hold me."

"May I kiss your forehead?" You have to ask, at least I do.

"Yes, kiss my head, my face, anything."

I kissed her head and face. It was wet from her tears, but I loved it. My hands traveled along her body and felt her muscles. I kissed her breasts, gently, lovingly. Then she said, "Wait," and broke free of me and stripped off her panties. "Feel my ass. Feel it." I did. It was wonderful, tight and hard. And then she grabbed my buns, hard, and said something very refreshing to a man of fifty, "You've got the tightest ass. God what an ass." I had my clothes on, of course, but she grabbed like a daemon. I never wished so much to be naked as I did at that moment.

"I work out. Does it show?"

"Oh, yeah, you got a great ass." She was very drunk and began to hump me again. I just hung on and enjoyed her. Then suddenly she stopped and looked up at me. "Did you come?" I was a little shocked. She was far drunker than I suspected. I wasn't even that hard. I was hard, but mostly I was in love, yes, in love, and just wanted to hold her and enjoy the emotional impact of this. She let go a little and looked up at me and asked sadly, "You didn't come? I thought you did."

A little abashed I said, "No. I really didn't. I couldn't. Not here, not now. You're so lovely and strong and you feel so good. I just want to enjoy you." I gently kissed her lips and cheek and kept looking into her eyes, boozy and wet with tears, those ineffably sad eyes. She just stared up, barely understanding what was happening. She expected me to take advantage of her nakedness and drunkenness, to violate her private areas with my hands. I didn't. I just wanted to hold her and love her. I was a little drunk now too, so I began to talk in my more romantic manner. I do that, and really let go and let it flow out like a cheap novel. "It's that face, Melissa, your face, a face I saw two thousand years ago in Italy. Those eyes, those beautiful black eyes, that hair. Your my slavegirl, naked and ready for me, your mine." She began crying again and I kissed her face all over.

She looked at me and said with a look I'll never forget, a great questioning look, full of depthless sadness and confusion, "I really feel something for you, really. You're so different. So different." It made me sad to hear that. I knew what it meant and so did she, the gulf was too great. I kissed her one last time. And then it was over. I let her go and she let me go. I could hear the music going. We just stood and looked at each other.

"I gotta go. My set is starting." She put her little panties back on, sniffling as she did.

"Yeah. I gotta go too." I reached in my pocket. "Here, take forty. We've been here a long time."

She looked at the money and took it and then looked at me sadly and left. In the end, the common ground between us was dollars.

I followed, but she was gone. I went back to the table where Bill was sitting. He was gazing at Lady Drake, with whom he had just had another a private session. I sat down next to him.

"Have a good time?" he asked.

"Yeah. A great time. She was great. She's gone."

"No she isn't. She's at the bar."

Indeed she was, way at the far end of the room, sitting in her panties talking to some guy, some really greasy-looking scraggly-haired bum, and laughing and yucking it up big time.

Bill looked at me, he knew, he knows me well. "Bob," he said gently, "she's a slut, a bum. She has an eight year old girl and spends her Friday nights getting drunk and probably drugged, and dancing naked, and getting pawed by crumbs. Come-on, Bob. She had a moment with you and now her life is back to normal again. Those are her people. That guy is what she's used to."

I just stared at the table and my empty beer bottle and shook my head. "You're right," I quietly said. We both got up. Lady Drake said a cheery good bye and we walked past the bar toward the door. As I passed by Melissa, I looked at her and she looked at me and then quickly made a big deal out of putting her arm around the pig she was with and giving him a kiss and laughing loudly in his face, as though they were old buddies sharing some great joke. Tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after, he would be there, but I would not - I could not. As I went through the door I felt the chilly Spring night air, the cold sad truth of reality.

11/15/97