Quarry in the Middle by Max Allan Collins

gals on the circuit. I can’t explain how I knew this, other than to say about half of the dancers were breast-enhanced, and the others weren’t. Obviously, the road girls had the fake tits and the locals what God have given them. Most of the customers hooted and hollered and even invested in table dances, when the girls had big enough fake tits.
    I had zero interest in fake tits, but to each his own. The girl I did find of interest, which is to say who hard-ened my dick, was clearly local—she was very pretty, blue-eyed, pouty of mouth, with straight blonde, seemingly natural hair, modified by a Farrah Fawcett flip that was a decade or so out of date. She had a pert dimpled ass that defied gravity, and wonderful pale creamy flesh, but her boobs were too small for the room.
    They were just right for me. They perched on her rib cage with tip-tilting authority, perfect handfuls that these other cretins couldn’t appreciate. This cretin and his throbbing dick were most appreciative. I was on my third beer, by the way.
    And in fact, I had just gotten rid of it or anyway its predecessors and was heading back from the john for my table when I felt a hand on my arm, and turned to look right into the little stripper’s big blue eyes.
    “Can you do me a favor?”
    She was either actually asking for a favor, or damn good. No, I didn’t think she was in love with me…
    “See that guy over there—stuffing a dollar into Heather’s g-string? Be subtle.”
    I flicked a glance at a beefy, make that fat, biker with a leather cap and more facial hair than two Grateful Dead band members—kind of an awful hair color, too, a yellow that tried to be red but didn’t make it.
    “He’ll want a table dance,” she said. “I have to work the room or get fired, so I can’t, you know, turn him down or just disappear.”
    “You want me to buy a table dance, I’ll buy a table dance.”
    This was not nearly as hard as she was making it. Not that she wasn’t making it hard…
    “He’s been here before,” she said. “He’s persistent. He puts his hand down in my front. I don’t do that. I’m not that kind of dancer.”
    This was interesting to hear, since the Lucky Devil’s strip club was raunchy indeed—the girls took off their pasties and g-strings at the end of their first song. And they danced to three songs…
    “How can I help?”
    “We have a V.I.P. room. We can go in there and stay for a while, and maybe he’ll go away or settle for some-body else or something.”
    “I do want to help, but what’s the V.I.P. room cost?”
    “I’m not going to charge you anything! You’re helping me.”
    So I helped her.
    She took me into the back room, which was a bunch of easy chairs in open cubicles. No fucking was goingon or anything overt; this was not about blow jobs or even hand jobs. This was good, clean, all-American fun, like the so-called dry humps healthy teens used to have under the bleachers at ball games. And I presume they still do, if they have a lick of sense.
    The girls kept their pasties on and their g-strings, in the V.I.P. room, but otherwise were naked, and danced for a guy for a song (ten bucks for one, I gathered, twenty-five for three), most of it grinding in his lap or shoving her fake titties in his face and rubbing and rubbing and rubbing some more.
    My little blonde did rub her cupcakes in my face a couple times, but mostly she just danced, or straddled my lap and didn’t really grind. We just talked. Here’s some of it, shouted over loud piped-in music:
    “What’s your name?”
    “Candy.”
    Bow Wow Wow was doing “I Want Candy.” I swear.
    “Stage name?”
    “Real. Candace.”
    “You go to school, Candace?”
    “I wish. I wanna go to beauty college, but it’s expensive.”
    “You local or on the road?”
    “Local. Can’t travel. I got a kid.”
    “Really?”
    “Uh huh. Little boy.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Sam. He’s five. He goes to kindergarten next year.”
    “His daddy