“I’d climb that cowboy like a fucking tree.”
“Hell yeah.”
Jen and Jessi clank their glasses together in solidarity as I sit back in my seat, sipping on my third, maybe fourth, drink of the night. Does it matter? Not really. After the Magic Mike remake took place on the stage, the acts kept coming. One after another, we had a biker, a sailor, and now a cowboy gyrating on the stage.
Don’t get me wrong, each one is sexier than the last. Well, except perhaps the Magic Mike wannabe. That guy could’ve just stood on the darkened stage, his head down, and his hands crossed in front of his crotch. A crotch that, by the looks of it, was very impressive. Very.
“Ladies, give it up for Cody the Cowboy. We’re going to take a little break, let the guys catch their breath.”
The DJ finishes his announcement and quickly changes the sensual and sexy music over to a little 1980s rock. I pull my straw to my lips and suck down the last of the cocktail as I begin dancing in my seat. I can’t help it if some old school hair band guitar solo gets me groovin’ in my seat. Dear Lord. Did I just say “groovin’ in my seat”? To myself? I must be getting drunk. Good.
“I appear to be emptyyyyy,” I singsong to my friends. Jessi gets a smirk on her face.
“Well, ladies it looks like it’s time for shots.”
Ah hell.
Fifteen minutes, a shot, and a fresh cocktail later, I’m feeling more than buzzed when a song I know well begins playing.
“Whit! It’s your stripper song,” Jessi shouts. It is. Every girl has one and this one is mine. I remember seeing the video once and thinking it was the sexiest song in the world. It’s not. But in my young teen mind, being a beautiful woman in a flowy white dress, rolling around on cars, while a man sang about you seemed to be the coolest thing in the world. Yes it’s true, “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake is my song choice should I decide to take a walk on the wild side and become a professional dancer.
Looking back, my standards were quite low when it came to how a man should serenade a woman. Perhaps that’s why I walked in on my fiancé getting a blow job on my couch. My beautiful soft heather gray couch with the perfect yellow and teal throw pillows. I’m a sad panda. I can never sit on that couch again. Never lie on it and binge watch a new show over the course of eight hours on a Saturday.
“I have to get a new couch.” My declaration doesn’t surprise my friends as they each simply nod at me. “And pillows. I really love those pillows. Court, remember when we found them? I was so proud. Dammit. Fucking blow jobs.”
Yep, I’m drunk.
Miss Drunkerton.
Mayor of Drunk City.
Tipsy Sissy.
On my way to shit show. At least this way, it doesn’t hurt as much. I’m not even crying over the loss of my couch or my pillows. Drunk status works well for me.
“Drink some water. All the guys are going to come out and dance. You need to be with it for this. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get a dick in your face.” I scrunch my face in response to Jessi’s statement and take the offered water.
“I don’t want dicks in my face.” I believe my proclamation. Maybe. Not really. I’d totally take a dick in my face. Well, maybe not my face. I bet fucking Trenton would see red if he knew I sucked another guy off.
“I should give a guy a blow job.” I say to nobody in particular but it catches the attention of more than our table. The ladies next to us hoot and holler while also offering their support of my suggestion. We strike up a conversation with them. It’s one of the ladies’ fortieth birthday, and they’re out to celebrate. Each tells us a little about them, and I realize this could be the four of us in another fifteen years. I hope so, anyway.
“Here we go,” Jessi says, rubbing her hands together as the lights flicker a few times to indicate the show is about to start. I finish my water and grab another from our table before finishing it off in a few gulps. I know I’m going to have to use the restroom eventually, so I excuse myself and walk the few feet to the hallway marked “Restrooms” while the girls begin dancing in their seats.
I quickly do my business and take in my reflection. Something is different about the woman staring back at me. I’m still me with my long light brown hair brushing the tips of my breasts as it flows over my shoulders. The curl I put in it earlier is barely holding on, but it’s enough to make it look like it has more volume than is true. My dark brown eyes aren’t nearly as puffy and red as they were yesterday. My olive skin could use a little more sun, but that’s what I was hoping to do on my honeymoon.
My honeymoon.
Sighing, I feel the prickle of tears in my eyes and quickly brush the thought away as I peruse my own body. The black tank top with an intricate design hangs loosely, hiding the extra five—okay ten—pounds I’ve put on over the last few weeks as I stress-ate over the wedding, while my dark-wash jeans make my ass look like I’m an avid squatter in my workout routine. The peep-toe stilettos I’m wearing elongate my legs and don’t let on that I’m on the shorter side of average. Not too shabby for having found out I’m marrying a cheater.
My skin begins to flush as I think of Trenton, and my hurt bubbles to the surface. Fate steps in the moment I contemplate giving in to my frustrated sadness because one of my favorite songs fills the small restroom. I may not be a professional dancer, or even a talented amateur for that matter, but I like to shake my ass like the next girl. Don’t get me wrong, I would never put myself on the stage like the men we’ve watched tonight. But as I stand here running cool water on my wrists, I begin swaying my hips. Maybe I should tell the girls we need to leave and go to a dance club. I could dance this emotional surge I’m having right out of me.
Making my way back to the table, I glance up to the stage and see three men walking on stage, the spotlight focusing on the man in the front. Dressed in a tailored suit, he is standing with his arms behind his back and his head down. From his stance, I assume he’s the first dancer we saw tonight. I stop for a minute to watch. His muscles look like they want to bust through the fabric of his suit, and I can almost envision it happening. I’m still standing there when a hand grabs my own.
Before I know what is happening, I’m being tugged forward. I look to my hand, the one nestled in a much larger and darker hand; my heart rate kicks up. I look behind me, eyes wide, to see my friends smiling ear to ear, and I don’t want to know where I’m headed. When I turn to look, my worst fear is coming to fruition.
The stage.