Illusions

ILLUSIONS

         Recently divorced, after a veritable life-time of marriage, Ben Tolbert discovered he knew nothing of dating in the 21st century. Too many taboos. It seemed signed releases were required before a man could touch a woman--even in the most casual manner.

         Adding to his distress, the women he met came with two or three children--baggage he found unacceptable at this point in his life. Still, the inescapable need for female companionship nagged him incessantly.

         That is why, at age fifty, Ben found himself for the first time in a so-called "gentleman's" club, waving away a blue fog of cigarette smoke and self-consciously ordering a four dollar cola from an aggressive waitress. He felt as out of place as a Southern Baptist at a synagogue.

         Highly amplified music blared from speakers in the ceiling, and a man with a microphone yelled above the din, "Okay, guys, put your hands together for Destiny!"

         Multicolored spotlights bathed a small, raised stage. The girl who appeared from behind a black curtain strutted, swayed, and scissored her legs into floor-thudding splits. Ben grimaced.

         She wore a short blue dress and four-inch heels of some see-thru plastic material, like something from a Barbie doll accessory package. Her short hair glinted with red highlights. Heat rose in Ben's neck when the girl did a slow striptease, exposing her tall, pale body. Only a slender strip of shiny white material between her legs, held in place by mere strings around her waist and over her hips, kept her from being completely nude. He watched in awe as she performed a series of sexually explicit gyrations on the floor.

         A minute into her "dance", a young, wide-eyed man approached the stage clutching currency in his hand. The girl zeroed in on him like a shark to chum. She thrashed and wiggled scant centimeters from the man's face. Finally, she squatted and pulled one of the strings away from her hip. The man slid a couple of bills beneath the string. The girl leaned forward, kissed his cheek, then stepped across the stage to relieve another admirer of his money.

         Unbelievable, Ben thought prudishly. Still, he checked his wallet for one dollar bills.

         The music changed. The redhead left the stage, and the disc jockey boomed again. Most of what he said came out a garbled, static-filled roar--like the speakers at a drive-thru burger joint. Ben caught only, "The sultry Sabra!"

         This one was short -- even in heels, blonde, and cheerleader pretty. She paraded her drum-tight, petite body around the stage--not dancing--not needing to. Her easy grace personified that indefinable element of womanhood which draws men like a magnet attracts nails. Men lined the stage. Before the song ended she fairly bristled with cash.

         Ben caught a glimpse of the girl's shoulder-length, frizzy hair as she moved through the crowd, sitting with one group of men after another for short periods of time. When she wandered his way, he stared. Her eyes cut to the left, making contact with his. He looked down and lifted his ice-diluted cola to his lips with a trembling hand, expecting the girl to pass him by. He could be her father, with his protruding belly and trifocals. Almost grandfather. He would be invisible to her.

         "Want some company?" the girl asked, having already slipped into the chair beside his. Her bare knee pressed warmly against his thigh.

         "Uh, sure. Can I buy you a drink?" Ben asked, certain such an offer was still valid, even in these days of political correctness.

         "Thank you. That's sweet," she said with a smile on her wide, full lips. She offered her dainty hand. "I'm Sabra."

         He took her hand in his. Adrenaline pumped through his heart. "Ben. Ben Tolbert."

         The waitress hurried to the table. "Drinks?"

         "Another cola for me, and whatever the young lady wants," Ben said, unable to look away from Sabra's green eyes.

         She ordered something unfamiliar to him, and the waitress departed. He still held Sabra's warm, delicate hand--fought the urge to stroke it with his thumb. "Come here often?" she asked.

         "God, no. My first time."

         "I'm glad you're here tonight, Ben." His skin sizzled as she stroked his hand.

         The waitress returned with their drinks. "Ten-fifty," she announced.

         Ben's forehead crinkled in a frown, but he paid. Sabra's clear drink filled a shot glass to the rim. "What is that?"

         "Goldschläger. It has gold in it. See?" Sabra said, holding the glass before his eyes. Tiny flakes of gold swirled in the liquid. "Taste." She dipped her index finger into the glass then insinuated it between Ben's lips. He sucked the cinnamon-flavored fluid off her finger, unable to remember anything so sensual. Sabra tipped her chin back and swallowed the shot in one quick gulp.

         "Feel my hair. Isn't it soft. I used a new conditioner today," Sabra said, lifting his hand to her hair. He patted it softly, cautiously--as he would touch an iron to test its heat.

         Soft.

         "I like having my hair pulled. It turns me on," she volunteered. Ben tugged gently. "Harder," she breathed. He wrapped his fingers at the back of her skull and pulled sharply. She sighed.

         Ben gulped.

         "Know what else I like?" she said animatedly. "I had my eyebrow pierced and I wear a ring in it when I'm not working." She leaned closer. Whispered. "It rubs and feels sexy when I'm giving head."

         Ben gulped again at the girl's complete lack of guile. He recalled the sixties. Free love, no inhibitions, cheap dope. He wondered when that spontaneity left him--when he evolved into a tight-assed, middle-aged, white man. Before he could reply, not that anything seemed appropriate anyhow, Sabra changed the subject.

         "Would you like a table dance, Ben? Only twenty dollars...and I know you'll enjoy it."

         Though he saw no way she could dance on the small, circular tabletop, he reached for his wallet and handed her a twenty. "Do you need help getting up there? Those heels look treacherous."

         "Up where?" Sabra asked, her lips puckered inquisitively.

         "Uh...on the table?"

         She slapped his arm lightly. "Silly! I knew you were a funny guy."

         Ben grinned and nodded as though he understood.

         Sabra stood. "Turn your chair around this way."

         He complied.

         Sabra whisked her dress off over her head, revealing only red panties. She parted his knees with her hands and stepped between them. Ben froze, statue-like, as Sabra danced between his thighs. Her knee brushed his lap and Ben became erect in an instant. How long since that last happened, he wondered, unable to recall.

         Sabra placed her hands on his shoulders and arched her back, thrusting toward him. Her breasts, small but firm, passed close to his face. Then again. Her protruding nipples caught his glasses, knocking them sideways on his nose. As the music stopped, she lowered herself into his lap, legs dangling over his left knee, and smiled down at him. "Did you enjoy that, Ben?" She wriggled against his erection. "Feels like you did."

         He straightened his glasses. His heart boomed within his chest. His voice cracked like a teenager's entering puberty. "Yes. Thank you." He wanted to bury his fist in her hair, the way she liked, and crush her lips to his.

         "Want another one? They get better."

         Out came his wallet again, as it would five more times during the evening. Once, as she gyrated between his legs, she lost her balance and almost fell. Reflex prompted Ben to reach out, to steady her. His palms cupped her taut, smooth bottom. As soon as she regained her footing, Ben yanked his hands away. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean--"

         She touched his cheek. "You're so nice. Most of the guys make a grab for anything they can get their hands on. You know how to respect a woman. I feel safe with you, Ben," she coo'ed.

         As unlikely as it might be, she really likes me, Ben thought, feeling a virility long since gone dormant.

         She proved that to his satisfaction in the next instant. She lifted the ball-point pen from his shirt pocket. "Give me your telephone number. I'd like to see you again." He recited his number twice as she wrote it on a napkin, then peeked over her shoulder to make sure she had it right. Below his number she had written: Nice guy. "It's closing time, Ben. Drive home safely."

         "Really, Sabra...do call me. We can have dinner and a movie, or see a ball game...I have season tickets. Or go to the horse races," Ben said, noting his own pleading tone.

         "I will. I promise," Sabra said sincerely. She kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand. "And my real name is Cindy."

         Ben floated to his car. All the way home he argued with himself. "She likes me. God, she's so beautiful. I'd forgotten how young female flesh felt."

         "Are you that stupid, Ben? She just played you for all the money she could get. She'll never call."

         "Damn it, she will! She's a sweet girl. She wouldn't lie."

         "Sure she would. She makes her living lying...telling men what they want to hear. You think she's turned on by your pot-belly?"

          One good thing about arguing with yourself: you always win, one way or the other.

         By the time he crawled into bed, he knew she would never call.

         Her image would not leave his brain. She danced on the stage of his memory. He went about his mundane office job mechanically, totally preoccupied with the girl. He played back their conversation repeatedly--and the look and smell and feel of her. But she did not call.

         The following evening Ben went to dinner with his ex-father-in-law and mother-in-law. Twenty-three years of marriage to their daughter could not be dismissed simply because she chose to divorce him. In fact, his in-laws tended to side with him. Always a good husband and provider, they grew to love Ben. Had his ex-wife not been struck stupid by the middle-age crazies they would still be together.

         When he returned home the light on his answering machine blinked twice. He pushed the playback button. His mother reminded him he needed to take her to the doctor the next day. Then: "Ben? This is Cindy. Sorry I missed you. I'll call you later, okay? 'Bye."

         "Shit! She calls and you're not here! Idiot!" Then he remembered the star sixty-nine call back feature on his telephone. Fortunately, Cindy's call came after his mother's. His hand shook as he snatched up the telephone and stabbed the buttons. After three rings a girl answered. "Cindy?" he asked hopefully.

         "Hang on, I'll get her."

         Ben sucked in air, relief washing through him.

         "Hello?"

         "Cindy?"

         Yes."

         "It's Ben. You called?"

         "Oh, hi! I wanted you to come visit me tonight. I've missed you."

         "I've missed you, too."

         "I'm not dancing at Delirium anymore. Too slow. I'm dancing at Sugar Baby on Division Street. Know where it is?"

         "I think so. But I was hoping I could see you when you weren't working..."

         "I'd sure like to see you. You don't have to stay long," she purred.

         "I don't know," Ben hesitated, knowing he could not afford to spend another hundred and fifty dollars for her company.

         Petulently, she said, "Okay...if you don't want to see me..."

         "No! I do! When do you have a day off?"

         "I work every night. Sorry to bother you, Ben. I'll call you again sometime," she said. But her tone said she would not.

         "Wait! What time do you go to work?"

         "Half an hour."

         "Maybe I will come by for awhile," Ben conceded.

         "Hope you do. I have to go now. 'Bye."

         "'Bye," Ben said. But she was already gone.

         He found her on one of the five small dance stages when he arrived. He walked over to let her know he was there. "Hi!" she beamed, all sparkling eyes and teeth.

         "Hi. I'll be over there," he said, pointing to a table for two nearby.

         He half-turned toward the table, but she caught his arm. "Stay a minute and watch. See if you like my new routine."

         She sank to her knees, bent backward until her head touched the floor, then snaked onto her back. Naked but for the G-string, she spread her legs, knees bent slightly, and undulated in faux passion. She lifted her breasts, pushing them together and upward. Her tongue darted, licking them, as she gazed up at him through half-closed eyes. Ben swallowed hard. His face burned. She rose to her knees again and pressed the top of her head against his chest, moving down slowly to his pelvis, then back up his body. He touched her hair. "What do you think, Ben? Did I embarrass you?"

         She had, but he would never admit it. "Unh-unh. Very nice," he mumbled.

         Sabra hooked her thumb in her G-string and held it away from her, hinting. Ben fished in his pocket for the two dollars change from the cover charge and slipped it beneath the elastic. She kissed his cheek, then turned to perform for a bespeckled, grinning Oriental man.

         Dismissed, Ben took his seat.

         After Sabra made the rotation of the remaining two stages, she danced and flirted her way through the crowd to Ben's table, scooted her chair close to his and held a cigarette for him to light. Fortunately a book of matches lay in the ashtray on the table. She cupped his hand in hers as he lit her cigarette. Wasting no time, she asked, "Table dance, Ben?"

         "Okay. Maybe one," he said, already aroused.

         "Let's go over there where it's dark. I can do more," she said, taking his hand. Ben allowed himself to be led to a chair in a darkened corner. She moved between his knees and danced--much closer, more intimately-- than before. "Touch me, Ben," she breathed, placing his hand on her round, tight bottom.

         He would have anyway. Could not have helped himself.

         Clamping both palms over her buttocks, he eased her closer--kissed her slender neck. She arched, and her rigid nipples burned paths of fire down his cheeks. She flung her hair over her shoulder, bent, and slipped the tip of her tongue into his ear. Ben shivered and strained forward in the chair as orgasm exploded through him. Mortified, he wondered if Sabra knew.

         She did. "Whoops! You got your forty dollars worth, there, didn't you, Ben?"

         He wondered when the price increased from twenty dollars, but gladly handed her two twenties from his wallet with trembling hands.

         "Just stay over here. I'll come back when I can," she promised. Ben nodded. He watched her walk away and sit with a party of three young men.

         Retreating to the men's room, Ben entered a stall and cleaned up the remnants of his spontaneous passion. When he returned to his table Sabra was performing for one of the trio of men. Different, he told himself confidently. Not as intimate as the dance she gave me. He kept an eye on her as she danced for several men over the next two hours. Jealousy invaded him by slow degrees, but immediately withdrew when she returned to his table.

         "Another dance, Ben?" she asked.

         He angled his wrist to see his watch in the dim light. "It's almost closing time...I don't think so. But would you, maybe, like to go to breakfast when you get off?"

         She snuggled against him. "Would I be safe with you, Ben? There are a lot of nut-cases in the world."

         Catching himself before he could give her a Scout's honor sign, he said simply, "As safe as you want to be."

         "Okay," she bubbled. "Policy is, they clear the club and the parking lot and make the girls hang around for fifteen minutes so no one follows them. Leave and come back in twenty minutes. Park on the east side and I'll meet you there."

         The elation Ben felt was indescribable. If she didn't care for him would she see him outside the club? Hardly. He would consider it their first date.

         He hurried to his car and drove to a nearby convenience store. He appreciated one aspect of the new century: condoms were readily available everywhere. He bought a box of six, tucked two in his wallet (recalling times long since gone when, as a teenager, it was a badge of cocksmanship to have the rounded condom outline worn into the leather of your billfold), and stuffed the others in his glovebox. He felt twenty again.

         Doubling back to the club, he parked where instructed. In two's and three's the girls left the club and went to their cars. He glanced at a blonde walking toward him, then looked past her, hoping Sabra would not stand him up.

         He jumped when the blonde opened the passenger door and slid inside his car. "Sorry you had to wait. It took them forever to figure my withholding taxes," the girl said.

         This wasn't Sabra.

         This was Cindy.

         She wore her long, lovely hair pulled back in a careless ponytail. Without her stage make-up she appeared to be around sixteen--and somewhat plain. Gone were the short dress and high heels she wore on stage, replaced by a loose-fitting T-shirt, knee-length bicycle shorts, and dirty sneakers. But, in the shadows, the eyes and lips were the same.

         "Where to?" Ben asked, starting the engine. Garth Brooks sang from the radio.

         "Ugh! Nowhere with that on the radio," she complained, pushing the scan button until she found music to her liking. The high-pitched voice of a male singer formerly known as someone else insulted Ben's ears. "There's an IHOP still open. Turn left. I'll tell you where to go from there."

         The seven or eight occupants of the restaurant stared as the waitress escorted Ben and Cindy to a table in the smoking section. Their smirks said they did not believe the old man and young girl were father and daughter.

         Seated across from Cindy in a booth, Ben now found it difficult to look at the girl; and could not make eye contact. They gave their order and chatted--mostly about Cindy's job. He learned that some of the girls hooked on the side, some were single mothers with no other skills with which to support themselves, that many did drugs, and that a large percentage of them were lesbians. Ben wrinkled his nose as though scenting something offensive.

         Cindy caught the look. "You don't like gays?"

         Ben shrugged. "I don't know. Two girls together is sort of a turn-on. But two guys..."

         "I've tried both. That bother you?"

         He really looked at her for the first time. He knew about the large, light brown birthmark on her right inner thigh. The dark egg-sized one above her left eye and the jagged white scar below her nose came as a surprise. Make-up and poor lighting hid them in the club. "I don't guess so," he said.

         Conversation ceased when they were served. Cindy wolfed down an egg and sausage filled burrito, drenched in Tabasco sauce, with single-minded concentration. Ben barely touched his Rooty-Tootie, Fresh and Fruity. He missed Sabra.

         Afterward, he headed back in the direction of the club. "Where you going?" Cindy asked.

         "Don't you need to pick up your car from the club?"

         "Don't have one. Or a license either, now. I got three DWI's and they yanked it. I have to give my lawyer two grand to keep me out of jail next month."

         Half an hour later he delivered Cindy to the duplex she said she shared with another dancer, in a run-down area of town. She thanked him for breakfast and bestowed a warm, wet kiss on his lips. "I'll call you," she said, gazing at him with troubled eyes. She seemed reluctant to leave. Expectant.

         Ben patted her arm. "Do that."

         But he hoped she would not.

         Things had not changed that much from his youth. He instinctively knew he could, just for asking, have Cindy.

         But not Sabra.

         Women were still easy.

         Illusions impossible.

The End

DM