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Selena went there that very night. She was dressed like a square schoolteacher or secretary from Podunk in town for a vacation—bulky sweater, long skirt, running shoes, thick glasses. She ordered club soda, didn’t dance with anyone, shyly brushed off the guys who tried to pick her up.
States didn’t make a move on her. Cool. Selena had banked on that. She would, like the Terminator, be back. Then she would flush the cock out of the fly.
The next night she showed up looking loaded for bear, like her biological clock had exploded, like the world was gonna end in the morning and she had to do the wild thang one mo’ time!
She was wearing a see-through halter top, her round, fine, fat titties spilling out and her rock-hard nipples poking through; a black leather mini that hugged her luscious ass and was slit up the side almost to her waist; fishnet stockings; and stiletto pumps with five-inch heels and cum-fuck-me straps across the ankles.
Oh, heads turned, eyes bulged, tongues lolled, crotches were massaged as she switched ’n’ sashayed, her buns squirming like two pigs screwing in a burlap bag.
She tossed down three scotches fast, one behind the other, then leaned against the bar, arms stretched across it, legs wide like a sexual gunfighter ready for a shootout with Mr. Goodick, and waited for the right moment.
It came when the DJ threw Mystikal’s “Shake Ya Ass” on the box.
Showtime, she thought.
She was up on the floor like a shot. She waved all potential partners off—she had to fly solo, didn’t need no slew foot cramping her style—and she got down.
She flipped through her mental Rolodex of hot dances and finally decided on a medley.
She started with a hip grind that had been cooked up by the priestesses of Ishtar, the Babylonian fertility goddess, that had gotten Hammurabi so hot he left his legislating and hit the streets of ancient Babylon for some tomcattin’.
Then she did a little Yoruba Oshun river goddess move where her whole body rippled like ocean waves, and her breasts spun in separate directions like fleshy whirlpools.
Then she threw her hands up in the air, shouted, and did an ol’-time New Orleans shimmy that made her ass shake like a bowl of jelly and wouldn’t have been out of place with Satchmo blowin’ at the Funky Butt Cafe.
Then, she vaulted up on a table, did a Voodoo spin that would have made Marie Leveau proud, and did the Dog the Slop and the Slow Drag so down and dirty she’d have made a hoochie mama in a rap video look like Miss Muffet.
She was rolling her ass, flicking her tongue out like a dick-sucking lizard, and rubbing her hands all over her tits and belly and hips, and then she did a deep-knee bend.
She wasn’t wearing any drawers.
That did it. Several spectators who were standing too close were bowled over like tenpins.
She wound up doing a little move all her own, an impossible thang where she traced figure eights with her swiveling hips and grinding crotch, running her hands up and down and up her skirt while trembling like she was getting off with multiple, machinegun, jackhammer orgasms.
Everybody else had long since stopped dancing to watch her, a sexy hot fireball flaming across the stratosphere.
Then the song ended. For a New York minute, it was dead quiet.
There were audible gasps, moans, and sighs from the crowd, a release like a mass orgasm. Several couples hurriedly headed for the exits and cars and alleys and homes where they could do the nasty. Other couples fell to necking and groping right there. Some guys who came stag broke for the men’s room, from which soon came the loud sounds of frantic whacking off.
Other people sat stunned at the bar, pouring down drink after drink like they were trying to quench fires of desire, fires that no drink ever poured could put out.
That oughta hold ’em a minute, Selena thought, quietly satisfied.
“I hope y’all brung some protection!” she yelled at them and laughed like a wild woman.
As she started to get down off the table, a tall, tanned, and terrific young man in a red silk T-shirt and tight black pants who had been enjoying the show gallantly offered her a hand.
She nodded to him, all ladylike, and quickly pulled a card with her phone number from her stocking top and slipped it in his hand before he was shoved out of the way and she was surrounded by several big beefy bouncers who escorted her to a table in the corner.
A man was sitting there who looked like a big ugly ol’ bullfrog. It was Rance States, the club manager.
“Well, that was some show,” he said, clapping his large fat hands.
“Fair to middlin’,” Selena snapped. “If yo’ fat ass had any class you’d hire me to put some life up in this dead-ass joint.” She laughed like she was out of control.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
