At the Cabaret

Some women have it. And some don’t . And those that do, have it in varying degrees.

Tonight, I swung by The Cabaret: I’m sitting in the dark eating chicken strips, across the room is a young lass; damn, she can flirt. A pot-bellied, balding, 50-something man is talking to her; she is sitting on a bar stool, looking up at him, straight on, full smile, fully engaged. From across the room, I can feel the sexuality, the spaghetti straps of her sensuous black dress resting on her shoulders, smooth and lightly tanned, black hair several inches below her shoulders.

I know it’s a skill, a learned skill. She can, I’m sure, turn it on and turn it off.

I wonder if any of the women in my life have that ability, to the extent of this dancer. I can tell from the guy’s body language, he’s captivated; and, I suspect he didn’t see the lotus opening its lovely petals to eat him alive.

I know I’ve been there – mostly in places like this. I remember a club in San Francisco I went to years ago; the dancer was young and gothic. Black hair. Black slinky dress. Black FM boots. Pale skin. We chatted, and I fell for her; after several bottles of champaign, it was time for her to go on stage. I had to leave; I couldn’t watch, didn’t want to spoil the image I had in my mind of her: pure, mid-westerner, unadulterated.

Looking back, I know she was anything but pure. Likely, she had a trunk full of toys under her bed. I my mind, I see her leaving the strip club and heading home, taking a deter to some Goth dance club in Oakland for an hour or two of dancing to the Goth beat, bass taking over her body, building a sweat for no one but herself. Once home, she’d drag her body, wet with anticipation, to bed. At some point, she’d be on her back, pale skin wet from sweat, her legs splayed wide; she’d be thrusting a huge dildo into her drenched pussy, her boyfriend unable to keep up and sprawled to the side, her ass thrusting off the bed through orgasm after orgasm, her wet cunt desiring full contact with the toy.

In my mind, I don’t think Kathleen or Jane or Beth or anyone else had that ability; or maybe when she’s really good, the guy doesn’t know it. The hormones have taken over and he doesn’t know a thing except for her eyes and her smile and a desire to be enveloped. Okay, perhaps I’ve been there… ;-)

So the dancer in question passes my table and catches my eye. She leans into me; I’m taken, and I know what she’s doing; and still, my heart beats faster and my stomach goes hard with a flutter.

“I’m Kitty,” she says, reaching for my hand.

“You must have hated your parents,” I say, “to have named you Kitty. All the children in school must have made fun of you.”

She chuckles, a full throaty chuckle, her full breasts in a black lace brassiere, pushing out; black panties; garter with fish net stockings.

My word. I could fall in so easily.

A few minutes later, Alex is on stage, dancing to Stray Cats. How do these girls know? It takes me home. She’s wearing a black bustier; sassy. Damn.

Gia stops by my table. She’s from North Carolina & had been dancing at The Cabaret for a couple of weeks. She’s trying too hard.

She walked up as I was drafting this post – long hand, I admit; I haven’t taken to WIFI or wireless posting yet, and the feel of the pen lets me think, and the process of writing lets me revise; although, with all tense shifts in this post, you’d think I didn’t revise a single line. “So young,” think I, “and trying so hard.” Cute, but not really my type. Wafer thin. Heavy makeup around the eyes.

A singer, she says. She picks up my hat from the table and cocks it to her head. And then a dance, she asks.

“Black dress,” say I, “to go with the black fedora.” She wanders off to change into a slinky black and white dress – pert, champaign-sized breasts, poking through the glittering fabric.

Amy, the waitress, sits down to visit with me. I tell her about what I’d seen with Kitty. I ask if she could “turn it on” like Kitty. Amy smiles demurely and glances down. “No,” she says. But I beg to differ. I can feel myself drawn in, a different way, not as forced, not as fake. Subtle. Real. Practiced in a non-professional way.

“I have confidence in the bedroom,” she tells me. As she saunters away, the swath of flesh between her panties and top shows the tattoo on the small of her back. “Yes,” I think. “Yes. You probably do have confidence in the bedroom.”

I don’t need to add that I have thoughts of wanting to find out.

There’s a formula in these clubs. And I know it entails somehow tapping into the male emotion, creating a desire for her to reach into his wallet and part with his money. As I did for Gia, but only after convincing her to change into the black dress to match the hat. Her dance was good, but almost too classy for me. Nothing like the dance at Lipstick last week.

Got me wondering: what were the other dancers like? Could they get me to forget all: hear nothing but the beat of the pounding music, smell nothing but her perfume, feel nothing but the smooth skin of her legs, see nothing but her eyes to fall into, taste nothing but the bead of sweat on her chest as she brushes it past my willing lips?

I want to find out, to conduct a scientific experiment, to try each one, to have each give it her best shot to get me to forget the outside.

I’d start with Amy, the waitress. I imagine if I asked, she'd slap me across my face, leaving a red mark I’d be hard pressed to explain tomorrow. Damn, I think I’d like that.

She’s across the room, standing by the bar, talking with the other waitress and the bartender, swaying to the music, long brown hair tossed in the breeze of movement. I’d like to see her confidence. She told me she had an old boyfriend who stalked her for a year after they broke up. He missed the sex, he told her. She must have a lot of confidence.

The waitress uniform at The Cabaret is sexy; even better than a nude woman. They wear panties with hose over top, and tight shirts – all black. And I’m thinking I like black.

Amy comes over and tells me she’s tired. Her smile is infectious; I want to talk with her, to keep her at my table, to hang out with her.

Yes, she’s got it.