with Jess and her hoard, so I loaded her up and I’m taking her with me.
“A titty bar, or a strip club?” she asks.
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe.” I can hear the wheels up there turning, and I’m smelling trouble. Swear to fuck, she was brought into my life to kill me. At least it’ll be a beautiful death.
“Well, it’s all the same damn thing.” Okay, not really, but that’s neither here nor there. There are tits and there is ass, and there’s some dancing that lonely motherfuckers pay to see it all. One place is just more extreme than the other, not that it makes that much of a difference. Shady shit happens at both.
“Its not the same thing,” Lennon says seriously. This isn’t a matter of life and death, it’s a matter of butt-ass naked and half-naked women.
“Anyways, you gonna be okay?” I ask her, knowing damn well women are a sensitive bunch and assholes like me are always walking a fine line with them. One wrong move, word, or look, and I might wake up with a shotgun to the head.
“Sure,” she chirps happily. “Can I dance? Ya know, do a little guest appearance?”
“Fuck no.” Has she lost her goddamn mind? This is hard enough without having her beauty crammed further down my fucking throat. Looking at her with clothes on is hard enough, but any less clothing, I’d die of a heart attack.
“Come on Buck,” she starts begging, her chin resting on my shoulder. She’s too damn close to be asking these kinds of questions.
“Not fuckin’ happening.” Not while she’s with me and I’m breathing.
“We’ll see.” Yeah, we will. We’ll see her staying right by my side.
Unlike most assholes, I don’t get a thrill from sitting on my ass watching hungry women shake their shit for my hard earned cash. It reeks of desperation, and I’ve had about all I can take of desperate women.
The strip joint is a place for business in our world. A lot of shit goes down here under the neon lights. Discretion and obscurity are offered up here in spades, something we can’t get many other places. The unspoken rule that whatever happens here, stays here, extends to clients and business partners. We tend to find that shit appealing, and even some brothers enjoy the free show with their drinks and business, but I’m just not one of them.
I appreciate the women’s hustle. They’re doing what they’ve got to do to survive. We have that shit in common. The almighty dollar calls to us all. Clothes on or off, we’re all trying to get by and they’re just doing it with what they know best. Can’t really shit on that, but I’m just not looking for that in a woman, if I were looking for a woman.
The Love Lounge isn’t a dive, but it’s not upscale either. Blue collar and you’re average joe frequent the place. There’s a main stage with a few poles front and center, a long bar to the left, and private rooms to the right. Tables are in between and bathrooms are in the back. It’s all neon signs, ‘80s rock, and cheap booze. It’s exactly like you’d expect.
Average doesn’t seem to faze Lennon because the second we walk through the doors, she’s smiling, excited as hell.
Walking in next to me, Lennon says, “I love this song,” as she bumps into my side with her hip. She’s looking around from side to side, fascinated, her hair swaying back and forth.
“This place is crazy.”
“Crazy fuckin’ packed.” Of course it’s fucking packed when I’m looking for a single individual, soon to be a dead son-of-a-bitch.
I notice the stares and the looks Lennon’s getting. Every motherfucker in here sees her. Wearing jeans with more holes than a block of Swiss cheese, rips across the bottom right, just below her ass, and a tiny black tee stretched over her ample tits. She looks fucking sexy. I know it, she knows it, and every asshole in here knows it. It feels fucking good to be next to a beauty like her.
We walk through the crowded tables with Lennon on one side, Rock and
“A titty bar, or a strip club?” she asks.
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe.” I can hear the wheels up there turning, and I’m smelling trouble. Swear to fuck, she was brought into my life to kill me. At least it’ll be a beautiful death.
“Well, it’s all the same damn thing.” Okay, not really, but that’s neither here nor there. There are tits and there is ass, and there’s some dancing that lonely motherfuckers pay to see it all. One place is just more extreme than the other, not that it makes that much of a difference. Shady shit happens at both.
“Its not the same thing,” Lennon says seriously. This isn’t a matter of life and death, it’s a matter of butt-ass naked and half-naked women.
“Anyways, you gonna be okay?” I ask her, knowing damn well women are a sensitive bunch and assholes like me are always walking a fine line with them. One wrong move, word, or look, and I might wake up with a shotgun to the head.
“Sure,” she chirps happily. “Can I dance? Ya know, do a little guest appearance?”
“Fuck no.” Has she lost her goddamn mind? This is hard enough without having her beauty crammed further down my fucking throat. Looking at her with clothes on is hard enough, but any less clothing, I’d die of a heart attack.
“Come on Buck,” she starts begging, her chin resting on my shoulder. She’s too damn close to be asking these kinds of questions.
“Not fuckin’ happening.” Not while she’s with me and I’m breathing.
“We’ll see.” Yeah, we will. We’ll see her staying right by my side.
Unlike most assholes, I don’t get a thrill from sitting on my ass watching hungry women shake their shit for my hard earned cash. It reeks of desperation, and I’ve had about all I can take of desperate women.
The strip joint is a place for business in our world. A lot of shit goes down here under the neon lights. Discretion and obscurity are offered up here in spades, something we can’t get many other places. The unspoken rule that whatever happens here, stays here, extends to clients and business partners. We tend to find that shit appealing, and even some brothers enjoy the free show with their drinks and business, but I’m just not one of them.
I appreciate the women’s hustle. They’re doing what they’ve got to do to survive. We have that shit in common. The almighty dollar calls to us all. Clothes on or off, we’re all trying to get by and they’re just doing it with what they know best. Can’t really shit on that, but I’m just not looking for that in a woman, if I were looking for a woman.
The Love Lounge isn’t a dive, but it’s not upscale either. Blue collar and you’re average joe frequent the place. There’s a main stage with a few poles front and center, a long bar to the left, and private rooms to the right. Tables are in between and bathrooms are in the back. It’s all neon signs, ‘80s rock, and cheap booze. It’s exactly like you’d expect.
Average doesn’t seem to faze Lennon because the second we walk through the doors, she’s smiling, excited as hell.
Walking in next to me, Lennon says, “I love this song,” as she bumps into my side with her hip. She’s looking around from side to side, fascinated, her hair swaying back and forth.
“This place is crazy.”
“Crazy fuckin’ packed.” Of course it’s fucking packed when I’m looking for a single individual, soon to be a dead son-of-a-bitch.
I notice the stares and the looks Lennon’s getting. Every motherfucker in here sees her. Wearing jeans with more holes than a block of Swiss cheese, rips across the bottom right, just below her ass, and a tiny black tee stretched over her ample tits. She looks fucking sexy. I know it, she knows it, and every asshole in here knows it. It feels fucking good to be next to a beauty like her.
We walk through the crowded tables with Lennon on one side, Rock and
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