Thunderstorms had slowly moved in, creeping in pace with the sun’s arc across the sky. Binghamton fought with Seattle every year for the most cloudy days, usually winning. The warm air was now humid, and both women looked simultaneously bedraggled and eminently fuckable, their clothing sticking to their sweaty skin.
“This wasn’t in the weather forecast this morning,” Monique grumbled as they met at the entrance to Monique’s store.
Traffic into the store was light: it was early for the after-work shoppers, and late for the senior citizens. They were all out getting their oldster discount dinners, Carla thought sourly. Then she shook her head. “Hey, wanna go for drinks before we head to my place?”
“Sure,” Monique said, then stopped. “But won’t that get in the way of the yoga practice?”
Carla shrugged. “We don’t have to see it as soon as we get home; I’ve got pea soup simmering in my crock pot that’s got an hour or more to go.”
“Works for me. Tranquil okay by you? I’ll drive.”
“Sure,” Carla said. They headed towards Monique’s car; it was parked way out in left field.
The Ford pickup was once a nice ride, but the years, ice, sand and salt hadn’t been kind to it. About the best thing one could say about the body was that the primer over the Bondo patches almost matched the faded red paint – what little there was left on it. “You know,” Carla said as she tried to heave herself up into the jacked up cab without breaking her heels or her neck, “you should try and get a car loan for something nice. Like at that bank we pass every day.”
Monique snorted. “Sure, Marty Walls pays pretty well, but I still have my little plastic problem to feed.”
That, Carla mused, was an understatement. According to her friend, she’d been quite the wild spender until fleeing St. Paul. While the unlamented boyfriend never caught up with her, her credit cards debts, fueled by a crazed ex-boyfriend, did. Monique could nail the bastard in court, but that would mean his finding out where she lived. And she had quite enough scars, she’d said over too many drinks one day, to let any bastards into her head or heart. So her paycheck poured almost dollar for dollar into the black hole of her credit card debt.
Monique maneuvered the truck into the street, and they rumbled and squeaked through the streets, other cars giving their truck a wide berth. They pulled into Tranquil, Monique steering the behemoth into a spot on the far edge of the lot.
“Are you afraid someone will ding your car?” Carla asked as the truck wheezed, burped and choked to a stop.
“Nah,” Monique said, swiveling out of the truck.
Carla noticed absently that her skirt rode up all the way, exposing her panty-clad ass as she hopped down to the curb. “Nice undies,” she said, hopping down on her side and slamming the truck door shut.
“What? Oh.” Carla say Monique blush as she adjusted her skirt. “Well, sometimes a girl needs to look good just for herself,” Monique said. “C’mon, I’m thirsty.”
“For what?”
“For who, ya mean, right?” Monique gave Carla a wild, wide grin.
For a moment, Carla had a momentary visual flash of Monique, her head between Carla’s thighs. She shook her head to get rid of the absurd image, and ignored the damp feeling between her thighs.
The place was just crowding up, the regulars coagulating by the left side of the wide bar as the happy hour office crowd took over the rest of the bar and the tables scattered by the entrance. The stage at the back was empty: it was too early for any contests, but a banner draped above the stage proclaimed “Wet T-shirt and Pole Dance Competition Tonight!”
Monique led Carla to one of the empty tables up by the darkened stage. “Here, we should be okay back here.”
“One drink, then we head for home, right?”
“Sure,” Monique said, saving vigorously at a waitress trolling at the perimeter of the tables, “just one. And then off to pea soup land and lotus bliss.”
“Hey, ladies, the usual?”
“Um, sure,” Carla said. She didn’t recognize the waitress. “What’s our usual?”
“You’re funny, Carla: you ask me that every time! You each start off with a Cosmo with Woodford Reserve bourbon. After that, it’s up to the shift manager.”
“The shift manager?” Carla asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Yeah.” The woman waved in the direction of the crowded bar. “He usually comes out with your drinks, anyway. And with that she plopped a pair of glasses of water and a bowl of beer nuts on their table and headed off to derail a small herd of young nerds headed for the already overcrowded bar.
‘Weird,’ Carla thought to herself; she couldn’t remember the last time they were here...
“Hey, dreamer girl,” Monique said. Carla looked up. “So when did you get into yoga? You never mentioned it to me before.”
“Well,” Carla began. Then stopped. She didn’t remember. She racked her brain, looked around in increasing panic. More images flashed by her, faster than she could process. Her, looking down from the stage. Her, looking up at Monique on stage, grinding against the pole, her friend’s face a mask of pleasure.
“Well, girls, here you are.”
Carla looked up: a young, tanned man, impeccably dressed in a black polo, pants and crepe-soled black suede shoes, stood beside her, a tray with drinks in his hand.
“One for each of you lovely ladies,” he said, expertly dealing paper napkin covered plastic squares from the tray and centering their cocktail glasses on them.
“Thanks, Robby!” Monique bubbled, and tossed half of hers back in one gulp.
Carla looked suspiciously at her friend, then the man, who stood above them, watching them. “I don’t know you, do I?” she asked slowly.
“Now now,” Joe said, bending closer to them. “But Mister Bone Dancer says hello.”
“Mister Bone Dancer…” Carla heard roaring in her ears, her eyes automatically drooping.
“Mister Bone Dancer,” she heard Monique murmur, and her eyes slammed shut.
“Mister Bone Dancer,” Monique murmured, and she felt herself slip into a warm, dark, comfortable place.
“Mister Bone Dancer wants you both to have these DVDs,” she heard, barely, as the triggering phrase plunged her deeper and deeper into a hot, wet trance. “The DVDs are under your glasses. You will both play the first, then the second ones. Then you will train.”
“Train...” Monique heard a woman near her mutter.
“Mister Bone Dancer wants you to know he thinks you both can provide wonderful customer service.”
Monique didn’t hear anything for a long minute, as an orgasm, bright and fast as a bolt of lightning, coursed through her. She missed Carla’s stifled moans, her own feet beating out a tattoo of pleasure on the dance floor, and Joe bringing them both back to what they thought of as reality.
“Wow,” that was one hell of a drink,” Carla said.
“Huh?” Monique opened her eyes, then sat up in her chair; she’s been slumped over, legs splayed open. She gave a quick glance around, but her chair was angled towards the stage; she’d missed giving anyone a free show, thank god!
“I said, that was one strong drink. And I don’t know what they added to it, but it’s really gotten my motor going, if you know what I mean.”
Monique glanced at her friend, still wearing the white silk shirt. Carla had popped but good, her nipples poking tightly through the material.
“I’d put a jacket over those puppies if I were you, Carla,” Monique said, polishing off the delicious drink. “Walk around like that and you’ll attract a following.”
“Mmm...” Carla purred. “That actually sounds fun.”
Monique giggled, then turned as the stage lights all came on at once: the disco ball reflected shattered light all over the front area as a white spotlight patrolled the stage, stopping briefly at each of the three dance poles planted mid-depth on the stage. Monique glanced at them, then, as light shards glinted off the center pole, she had split-second view of Carla writhing on the pole, then the next instant the feel of the slick pole between her thighs as she spun out, seeing the crowd and the back of the stage upside down, as if she was one of the dancers. The slick feeling between her legs intensified.
“Hey, check that out!” Carla said. Monique turned to her, then followed her arm to where she was pointing. A stagehand was propping a board on a rough easel on the side of the stage. “T-Shirt and Pole Contest Tonight,” it read. “$500 first prize. $20 to enter.”
“I wouldn’t do it, but it might be fun to watch.”
“I’d do it, if there’s $500 at stake,” Monique said, surprising herself.
“No shit!”
“Um, yeah, I think so.” Monique thought of the stack of credit card bills on her kitchen table. “Heck yeah.” She pushed her chest out. “What, you don’t think I’ve got it?”
“I don’t know; we were supposed to do the yoga tonight.” Carla got pensive. “And food’s already cooking.”
“It’s crock pot food, Carla, it’ll wait.”
“I don’t know,” Carla said, dithering, fingering her pocketbook chain. “I really want to get started on the yoga.”
“But the money?”
Carla wavered, then said “Tell you what: let’s do the yoga this week, and try out for that contest next week.”
“You’re just trying to get out of it.”
“No,” Carla said, feeling her flush deepen. “Just a bit, um, focused. She tweaked her own nipples as she put on her jacket.
“Carla!” Monique squeaked, scandalized.
“Don’t worry, it’s just us girls,” Carla said, dumping a couple of dollars in tips on the table and walking away.
“Hey,” Monique said, pulling the DVD’s they’d gotten from the club off the table. “Take the disks.”
“You can have mine,” Carla said, heading for the door. “I’m starving all of a sudden, and dinner’s ready at home.”
“Oh, yeah,” Monique said, sliding the CD cases into her purse, “I could use a bite too.” Then tried to clear her head of the image of a cock, tantalizingly before her mouth. For a fraction of a second, she could almost smell the drooling dong before her. Then Carla opened the door, and they walked out into the remaining daylight.