Tales of the Vu

Eleven dollars and unlimited refills later
I find myself chatting up a stripper
putting herself through college.
An art major.
She said her favorite painter was Turner.

She fondled my head
to put her nipple in my mouth
as I reclined on the couch
melting into her purrs and growls.

The VIP room made me feel macho.

She gyrated and grinded
told me she liked the band Tool.
I sat there with my eyes closed
kissing her thigh as it brushed my lips.
I paid for two dances but
stopped her before the second.

“Let’s just chat.”

We talked about life and art.
She asked to sketch me
I said okay.
She grabbed a pen
flipped over a flyer
I posed.

She drew passionately.
Her fiery red hair tossed
each time she glanced to soak me in
burn me onto the paper.
The most piercing eyes.
A goofy smile.
She was intense
unfazed by the flashing lights
or skimpy bathing suit.
When she finished she signed it
Ruby ‘99
and gave me another couch dance.

She told me I smelled great
was cuddly
had a wonderful demeanor
all while nibbling my ear.

I returned to the showroom
as she took the stage.
Smoking my cigarette
staring casually as
she glided up and down the pole.
I envisioned us living in a studio in Soho.
Sunday morning
Jewel playing in the background.

I watched as patron after patron
put dollar bills into her panties with their mouths.
I felt like I had something they didn’t.
A glimpse into her world.

Either way I had her art
my face as seen by her soul,
the soul of a twenty-two year old stripper
that captured my attention,
my face,
and a page in the book of me
which was getting very dusty.