Page 7 of John Wilder Gets Schooled
This wasn’t how I’d intended to out myself to my new colleagues, but hewashot, okay? Also, I guessed I hadn’t been flying exactly under the radar if Dana had dragged me to the front row of a strip show where the stripper was a guy. She hadn’t dragged Alan over here with us, had she? Then again, Alan didn’t wear a rainbow lanyard.
Alan was still over by the bar where he was in deep conversation with a woman who was definitely approaching cougar territory. But Alan looked like the kind of guy who knew exactly what he was getting into and couldn’t be more pleased.
On stage, the stripper spun to face us, ripping off his shirt to a chorus of cheers and whistles, and moved his body in a way that made his abs ripple. Abs didn’t do that in real life, did they? Mine certainly didn’t. Then again, mine were protected from sight by a soft layer of belly fat, so they could be doing anything under there and I would never know.
“He looks like a cheese grater,” I said.
“Do you mean a washboard?” Dana asked.
“Yeah. That’s it. A washboard.” I was maybe drunker than I’d thought.
“If he’s a washboard, I’d rub my lacy delicates on him any day,” Dana said. Then she stood up and cheered as the stripper gyrated closer to the end of the stage, and I wondered why we’d gotten onto dirty innuendos about washboards when he was dressed as a firefighter and all those hose jokes were right in front of us.
I blamed the blue fish. Then I drank some more of it and realized I couldn’t stay angry at it. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted in my life. I was sad when it was over.
I stared at the stripper and his abs and his ass and all the otherparts of him that were large and tight and blurry at the same time. Then I remembered I was sad about my drink.
“I need new fish,” I said and got up and shuffled my way to the bar. It took a few minutes to get my new blue fish—wasn’t there a kids’ book about that?—and by the time I carried it carefully back to my seat, the stage was empty. From the way Dana was wiggling in her seat in anticipation, though, the show wasn’t over yet.
I’d hadn’t even had time to sit down before Dana was leaning over and plucking my blue fish out of my hand. I made a noise of protest, but Dana laughed and said, “Oh hush, hun, I’m doing you a favor. You’re going to need your hands free.” And then she thrust a handful of dollar bills at me. I took them, because what else was I going to do?
I wasn’t sure what was happening, but there had been a sexy guy and a tasty drink—or was that a tasty guy and a sexy drink?—and now they’d both disappeared. Before I could question it, though, the music started up again. I recognized Ginuwine’s “Pony.” Then the stripper was back, prowling across the stage like a big cat looking for its next meal. I wouldn’t have minded being his snack. He was wearing a cowboy outfit this time, complete with assless chaps. I stood there staring, with my fists full of dollar bills and my jaw on the floor.
Dana gave an extra loud whoop, and the guy turned toward her, and even though his face was hidden by the shadow of his Stetson, the light gleamed off his teeth as he grinned and made his way in her direction.
From the other side of the stage, a girl carrying a chair appeared. She was dressed as a sexy angel, which didn’t really match the cowboy theme, but whatever. She strutted forward with the chair and set it down, and meanwhile the cowboy drew closer and closer to Dana. The crowd cheered and whooped when he held a hand out.
I cheered and whooped too, except Dana shook her head, grinned, waved a twenty, and pointed at me.
The cowboy took the twenty and held his hand down to me instead.
There was not enough blue fish in the world to make this okay. But there was enough, it turned out, to turn off all the parts of my brain that knew how to refuse this gracefully and with any dignity intact. Or to just refuse at all. Because before I knew it I was being pulled up onto the little stage and planted in the chair.
The music changed to the electric choral intro to Sam Smith’s “Unholy.” Then the beat dropped, and so did the stripper’s ass. Right into my lap.
The stripper was hot as hell, and the way he moved was incredible. His spine shifted sinuously, and his hips never stopped. I knew that I was supposed to match his energy. Not in a sexual way—that was his job—but I was supposed to at least look like I was having fun. I was sure that if he turned around and looked at me, all he’d see was an expression trying its hardest not to swing too hard between either awkwardness or abject terror. It was nothing personal. It wasn’t even about the stripping part—it was because I hated this level of audience participation. It would have been just as bad if he’d been a magician.
Actually, that might have been worse. I hated magicians.
But I tried to smile and move my shoulders in a way that suggested I also knew what rhythm was, and “Unholy” was only a short song, right?
The stripper straightened up and then ripped his chaps right off, leaving him wearing only a red G-string and his Stetson.
My brain didn’t know what to do with all that hot, shining muscle in front of me, so I started to tuck dollar bills into the elastic band of his G-string as intently as a little kid shoving shapes into one of those colorful block puzzles. And maybe we would have made it to the end of the song just fine like that, except the stripper decided to straddle me. He put one hand on my shoulder while his ass gyrated over my lap, then gave me a sexy grin as he lifted his other hand to tip his cowboy hat back.
We both froze.
Holy shit.
It was John Wilder.
It was obvious he hadn’t recognized me before, and his smile vanished as quickly as his rhythm, but he recovered quickly enough. He tugged his hat forward again and kept moving while I avoided eye contact and held out my fistful of dollars like they were an apology bouquet.
The song ended, and he snatched the dollars and stood up. He didn’t even shake his ass at the crowd before hightailing it backstage.
I climbed shakily to my feet and hurried back into the cheering crowd, my face hot.
My brother Dallas had given me a bunch of advice on how to deal with the worst parent of the year, but somehow that had never covered what to do if you accidentally paid them for a lap dance. There probably wasn’t any advice for that scenario, except for drinking so much I could forget it ever happened.
