a door, rumbled with the knob as if unlocking it, then pushed it open. They stepped inside.
Davey turned back to the table from which the woman had come. Her two friends were hunched forward over the table, their lips moving frantically in turn, their expressions mischievous and conspiratorial.
Davey sat back in his chair, puzzled.
The ladies’ room, maybe? he wondered. But why did he have to unlock it? And why did he go in with her?
The song ended and applause rose from the dance floor. The dancers laughed and chattered as they returned to their seats.
The hands and instruments on the stage faded and disappeared.
The waitress returned with Davey's drink. He winced at the price, but paid her. He sipped the gimlet slowly; at that price, it would have to last.
Davey watched the door through which Cedric had led the black woman. No one else went in, and no one came out.
He was startled by a sudden silent movement before him. The cleared dance floor began to rise until it was on a level flush with the stage; it was no longer a dance floor but a runway.
The lights dimmed and the crowd hushed.
Music began to play, soft and slow, mournful and somehow reverent. The tune was unsettlingly familiar. A spotlight came on as something began to descend from the darkness above the stage, something white and rectangular. As it was slowly lowered, the music became louder and richer. Only when Davey realized what the object was did he recognize the song.
It was a white cross floating down to the stage, and the song was an old church hymn Davey remembered from his days in Sunday school. He found himself remembering the words:
"On a hill far away ... stood an old rugged cross ... the emblem of suffering and shame..."
The cross came lower ... and lower...
"...and I love that old cross ... where the dearest and best ... for a world of lost sinners was slain..."
The base of the cross gently came to rest on the floor of the stage and the soft, sorrowful music exploded with wailing guitars and thunderous drums. Red light bled over the cross and two dancers, a man and a woman, leaped from the darkness behind it.
The man wore only bulging bikini briefs and a clerical collar. He had bushy dark hair that swept around his head as he danced; shadows rippled over his sleek, muscular body.
The woman wore a black and red teddy and a nun's cowl over her long black hair. It was Anya.
They writhed around the cross, their movements sensual and flowing, then they closed in on it like sleek, predatory animals. They put their hands on it, caressed it, pressed their bodies to its sides, rubbed themselves against it. Anya wrapped one leg around the bottom of the cross and slid her crotch up and down its edge; her head fell back limply, mouth open and eyes closed, and her long hair swayed from beneath the cowl. The man locked his hands around the top of the cross and squatted until his jutting knees flanked the base; he thrust his hips forward several times before standing.
As the man stepped away from the cross, Anya held it to her, lifted it, and began dancing with it as if it were a partner.
The music throbbed like the pulse of an aroused giant.
The light changed from red to white to red again.
The man danced around Anya as she twirled and dipped the cross. She tilted it, straddled it, and began riding it like a lover.
Davey sipped his drink as he watched her. He noticed, as he lifted the glass to his lips, that his hand was trembling. Something deep inside him squirmed. A small remainder, perhaps, of his childhood, when his mother would dress him up on Sunday morning, lead him by the hand to the small church a few blocks away where he would squirm through Sunday School and the endless services. Hymns like “The Old Rugged Cross,” which was now thundering through the walls around him, an entirely different song now with its erotic beat, propelling the two hard, glistening bodies over the stage.
The song's words
Davey turned back to the table from which the woman had come. Her two friends were hunched forward over the table, their lips moving frantically in turn, their expressions mischievous and conspiratorial.
Davey sat back in his chair, puzzled.
The ladies’ room, maybe? he wondered. But why did he have to unlock it? And why did he go in with her?
The song ended and applause rose from the dance floor. The dancers laughed and chattered as they returned to their seats.
The hands and instruments on the stage faded and disappeared.
The waitress returned with Davey's drink. He winced at the price, but paid her. He sipped the gimlet slowly; at that price, it would have to last.
Davey watched the door through which Cedric had led the black woman. No one else went in, and no one came out.
He was startled by a sudden silent movement before him. The cleared dance floor began to rise until it was on a level flush with the stage; it was no longer a dance floor but a runway.
The lights dimmed and the crowd hushed.
Music began to play, soft and slow, mournful and somehow reverent. The tune was unsettlingly familiar. A spotlight came on as something began to descend from the darkness above the stage, something white and rectangular. As it was slowly lowered, the music became louder and richer. Only when Davey realized what the object was did he recognize the song.
It was a white cross floating down to the stage, and the song was an old church hymn Davey remembered from his days in Sunday school. He found himself remembering the words:
"On a hill far away ... stood an old rugged cross ... the emblem of suffering and shame..."
The cross came lower ... and lower...
"...and I love that old cross ... where the dearest and best ... for a world of lost sinners was slain..."
The base of the cross gently came to rest on the floor of the stage and the soft, sorrowful music exploded with wailing guitars and thunderous drums. Red light bled over the cross and two dancers, a man and a woman, leaped from the darkness behind it.
The man wore only bulging bikini briefs and a clerical collar. He had bushy dark hair that swept around his head as he danced; shadows rippled over his sleek, muscular body.
The woman wore a black and red teddy and a nun's cowl over her long black hair. It was Anya.
They writhed around the cross, their movements sensual and flowing, then they closed in on it like sleek, predatory animals. They put their hands on it, caressed it, pressed their bodies to its sides, rubbed themselves against it. Anya wrapped one leg around the bottom of the cross and slid her crotch up and down its edge; her head fell back limply, mouth open and eyes closed, and her long hair swayed from beneath the cowl. The man locked his hands around the top of the cross and squatted until his jutting knees flanked the base; he thrust his hips forward several times before standing.
As the man stepped away from the cross, Anya held it to her, lifted it, and began dancing with it as if it were a partner.
The music throbbed like the pulse of an aroused giant.
The light changed from red to white to red again.
The man danced around Anya as she twirled and dipped the cross. She tilted it, straddled it, and began riding it like a lover.
Davey sipped his drink as he watched her. He noticed, as he lifted the glass to his lips, that his hand was trembling. Something deep inside him squirmed. A small remainder, perhaps, of his childhood, when his mother would dress him up on Sunday morning, lead him by the hand to the small church a few blocks away where he would squirm through Sunday School and the endless services. Hymns like “The Old Rugged Cross,” which was now thundering through the walls around him, an entirely different song now with its erotic beat, propelling the two hard, glistening bodies over the stage.
The song's words
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