As far as she could tell, the audience consisted mostly of men, with a few mixed male-female groups. Between her table and the stage sat three women, obviously dykes. They had barely glanced at the good-looking butch as she sat down, apparently also taking her for a man. Van smiled, then felt a stab of jealousy when she thought she heard one of them say, “Roxy.” She didn’t like the idea of men drooling over Roxy but hadn’t even considered that lesbians would also be part of the audience.
The spotlight on the stage went out, and the volume of the music lowered. The two strippers came down to the floor and mingled, chatting at each table and collecting the cash placed in their hands or tucked in their thongs. When Orange Thong reached the dyke table, one of the women pulled her close, stroking her bare butt. The stripper giggled and pushed her away.
“Not now,” she said. Van wondered if they were lovers.
When the dancers reached her table, she was generous. She placed some bills in their hands, and they thanked her and smiled prettily. Lime Thong kissed her cheek and called her “Loverboy,” and suggested they meet in the Champagne Room.
Suddenly, a pale blue light bathed the stage. For a few moments, all was quiet, then a murmur rippled through the audience. Van caught her breath. Roxy stood there motionless, dressed in a full black leotard. Only her head and hands and feet were bare, tinted blue. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back, light catching her blue-black hair. Suddenly a blast of music—angry, in-your-face, screaming rock. Roxy didn’t strip, just danced to the hard pounding beat. Van sat mesmerized, watching her lover’s athletic moves. Halfway through the song, Roxy rolled down the bottom half of the leotard, removing it to the rhythm of the music, muscles flexed in her bare thighs and calves. The audience yelled and whistled, including the women at the table in front of Van.
Roxy took off the black top more slowly. The audience seemed to hold its breath, and Van’s cheeks burned. It seemed as intimate and sexy as if Roxy were taking it off just for her. Roxy even seemed to look straight at her, and Van had to remind herself that she couldn’t be seen from the stage. When the music stopped and Roxy finally stood there with legs apart, hips thrust forward and arms upraised, she was wearing red—a short, skintight camisole and bikini bottom. Van’s eyes were riveted on her nipples, their outlines clearly visible. She recalled sucking them, and a flame of arousal burned in her gut. Roxy pirouetted a couple of times to provide all on the floor a clear view as the audience clapped and yelled their approval.
The next piece was traditional striptease music, accompanied by brilliantly harsh lighting and the sound of catcalling and cheering. Obviously the audience recognized “The Stripper.” Van knew that Julia chose her own music for Roxy’s gigs, and this was just the kind of song to appeal to her sense of humor. The familiar, brassy rhythm made you want to swivel your hips and take it all off, very slowly. Which is what Roxy did—almost. She was already nearly naked when she began her bump and grind, but it took her all of the song to strip down to a tiny white thong. Van couldn’t tear her eyes away, just like the audience. She felt herself getting wetter and was glad she was wearing dark trousers.
The last song was languid and bluesy—a woman’s voice, a tenor saxophone, a muffled drumbeat. Julia always liked to end sets with slow sensual music. Of the three, this was Roxy’s longest, most erotic performance. Her skin shimmered with a light sheen of sweat in the pale pink spotlights. Van could see the muscles ripple in her limbs and belly and ass as she danced and writhed and taunted her audience to the heavy beat. Her rosy-red nipples stood out from her glistening breasts. Roxy’s black hair shimmered around her head. Van wondered if the audience was as aroused as she was, especially the dykes who gazed up at the stage as if hypnotized.
On the last few bars of the song, as the stage lights intensified to white, Roxy suddenly pulled away the thong and spread her legs wide. Van stared in shock at the familiar sight of the trimmed, arrow-shaped hair at the apex of her thighs. Roxy thrust her hips forward, giving those near the stage a teasing glimpse of what the arrow pointed at. Then she flung the thong into the audience, above the heads of the dykes. Automatically Van reached up and caught it easily. The audience whistled and howled as Roxy pranced around the edge of the stage.
Shaken, Van got up from the table, stumbling a little, still holding the thong in her hand as she made her way out before Roxy could come down and mingle.
She walked around to the alley behind the club where other times she had waited in her car. It was dark there, except for a single lamp above the door. Well away from the light, she slouched against the wall and pressed a hand between her legs to relieve the swollen ache. She still held the thong in her other hand. She sniffed it, groaning, and tucked it in her breast pocket, like a handkerchief.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she took out a Cuban cigarillo from its slim box. The flame of the lighter caught her face momentarily, highlighting its angles in the surrounding gloom. A film noir moment, she thought. She drew the aromatic smoke deeply into her lungs. Julia would be about half an hour, she figured. After pacing back and forth for a while, she felt loose and relaxed and resumed her position against the wall, careful to stay in the shadows.
She had just flicked away a second half-smoked purito, its pale tendrils of smoke still drifting in the darkness, when the door opened and Julia stepped out. She was wearing stilettos and a clingy dress with thin shoulder straps, revealing skin that glowed in the golden light. It was a warm night. Van unfastened another button of her shirt.
Julia peered around, searching for Van’s car. Just as her lover started to turn to head toward the side of the building, Van took a deep breath and swaggered into the pool of light, hands in her pockets. Julia stopped dead, startled. Van saw caution in her face, then recognition as Julia’s eyes widened at the sight of the elegant butch.
“Van! I thought I smelled the… Oh… You look so…” The words trailed off as Julia raked her eyes over Van, taking in the cropped hair and suit. For the first time in the four weeks they’d been lovers, her voice sounded uncertain.
“I watched you in there.” Van didn’t smile. Her eyes glittered as she approached.
“You… you did?” Julia’s expression was hesitant but contained a hint of excitement.
Van could see her breathing quicken and felt her own pulse speed in response. Julia didn’t resist when Van pulled her in and kissed her throat. The slightly salty taste of Julia’s skin and the faint smell of sweat aroused Van even more. She slid her hands down Julia’s smooth, warm back to cup her ass, and Julia arched against her, giving a tiny whimper, the beginning of a moan, as she clutched Van’s shoulders. Inserting a thigh between Julia’s, Van pushed her roughly backward into the shadows.
“Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” she said curtly, and Julia assumed the position. She spread her legs just enough, arching her head back and shuddering as Van ran her hands over Julia from behind, from hard nipples to stomach to underneath the short dress. Julia’s thighs were bare, no stockings. With one hand on her belly, Van pulled Julia hard against her. For Van nothing was more erotic than a woman’s firm behind against her groin, and she bit her lip to keep from groaning. With her other hand, Van caressed the damp, thin cloth between Julia’s thighs from hard pubis to soft crotch, then slid her fingers beneath the edge, into the slick heat. This time Julia really did moan, and she writhed her hips to make Van’s fingers go where she desperately needed them. But Van avoided Julia’s clitoris and only stroked on either side and into her. She had never felt Julia so wet. She withdrew her fingers.