K. Sawyer: Chill out, son of a preacher man, I was just kidding. I’ll behave. #Seewhatididthere
I do see. Her humor, which she often guards on campus, especially in class, is really spot on. But, her words do something else to me this time. They remind me not of who I am, but who I was. Sure, I’m technically a PK, because that’s how I spent most of my life. But my father hasn’t actively pastored anyone in a year and a half. Despite stepping down three years ago, he remained partially active in the congregation while he was in therapy. When he stopped therapy, the congregation relieved him of his duties. Technically, he stepped down, but there wasn’t really a choice there.
K. Sawyer: Yo. You there?
Matt: Yeah. Heading to my own party, actually. Probably won’t stay long. It’ll be lame. Text me later.
I lied. I lied to the nicest, most honest girl I’ve ever known.
That was quick.
Without waiting for her response, I turn off my phone and put it back in my pocket just in time to watch a girl in what looks like a shredded one-piece bathing suit and high—very high—heels take the stage.
Strolling slowly, like a predator, around the shiny silver pole at the front of the stage, her fingertips caress it slowly. Sweat forms on my upper lip and I swallow hard, fighting the urge to flee.
You’re allowed to be in here.
The music picks up, mainly pop stuff from stations I wasn’t allowed to listen to in high school, but always did once I got in my car. I began to covet my time in the car. Obviously, when my little sister, Ellie, was in the car with me I’d keep it on the Christian-only stations, but not when I was alone.
Now, though, the music sounds different. Looks different, as this girl, identified at the beginning of the song as Leanne—a normal name—twists and turns her body in seductive ways around the pole. Keeping her back and legs straight, she slowly bends over, her backside facing me as she leaves it lifted in the air.
It’s not a normal one-piece bathing suit. She has nothing covering her backside except a floss-like piece of fabric. I know it’s called a thong, but I never planned on seeing one in person unless my future wife wore one. Sure, magazines are one thing, and some of the guys in high school and I joked around with them, but it’s different in person. It’s … personal. But, I force myself to sit and wait for the moment of understanding. Why my father would do this, and so much more, at the risk of absolutely everything. Leanne curves her back and slithers like a serpent up the pole, her breasts cradling the metal on either side as she slowly makes her way to standing.
While I have no intention of touching any of the women in here, and the signs by the bouncer and all around remind anyone patronizing the place that they’re not allowed to touch, people, as usual, seem to like to push boundaries. Men with protruding stomachs and trucker hats edge their way as close as possible to the stage. None of them seem particularly embarrassed or shameful to be in here. There are a few men who, like me, seem comfortable sitting in the back. Watching them, though, makes me feel a little dirty.
I know why I’m here, but why are they here? If they’re not hoping to get a face-full of tanned and tattooed backside, why bother coming? Looking to my left, I try to subtly study one such man. Mid-forties, I guess, wearing decent enough clothing to suggest that perhaps he worked in the business district today. Some high-ish level corporate job, judging by his loosened tie and rolled up sleeves. He looks exhausted, leaned all the way back in his chair drinking coffee that I’m certain he wishes were spiked with something strong.
The funny thing is, despite the pale and worn look on his face, his eyes are alive as they view the stage. The girl. A straight look stays on his face, but his eyes dance wildly, and it’s almost like I can see his brain lighting up. Turning my gaze back to the stage, I tilt my head and try to see what he sees.
The dancer presses her spine against the steel rod and turns her hips, grinding down the pole until she’s nearly seated. Her index finger traces the thick fullness of her bottom lip. Soon, with her eyes closed and head tilted back, her hand moves down her neck, over her breasts, and across the tight skin of her stomach. My heart races, and a warm feeling starts at the back of my head and works its way through my body, heating my cheeks and causing me to shift in my seat. Moving in the same hip-curving way she did on the way down, the dancer stands and faces the pole. She grips near the top of it and hoists herself up, legs winding around it in an almost inhuman way.