Friday, 30 January 2015

Caledonian Road

She dealt with that well; if they throw something move it, don't throw it back. The younger men act up, drinking, stand at the front but backs to the stage. One thought this was a dance floor, another threw his hat at her feet, shouting, 'wear it'. Some boys are naughty when they try to be friendly; he made some gesture to make her laugh but someone called out, 'don't laugh you put me off'. Well, you can't please everyone and she won't shake her hips, part her legs, squeeze her tits or strip until everyone has paid a pound, change is given. The older men, alone or in groups stand hands in pockets and nod when I pass; one expert to another when flesh is the subject and the bar is not far away. No fooling on a Friday night out, I am here for the same reason as you. She flips from a smiling shop girl taking the money to a woman on stage, get the music right first. Girl You'll Be a Woman Soon is stopped before they have time to recall Urge Overkill. She puts on something faster like he used to dance to in the 90s then gets down to getting them off. This girl does it for the stage and eyes the walls and floor as her lover. These men like sport, the place gets packed after a big game and they evaluate muscle and cheer the girls who are built for a good workout. One shouted, 'no that's wrong,' with a laugh in his voice when a girl fingered herself then licked her fingers, all the time looking at us. But the girl who's up now teases the floor; we're not there as she lowers herself slowly, shoulder blades tense, then turns raising her hips before the music stops and she smiles at applause. While she was on the stripper up next looks young and shy, she's in the wrong job asking for coins. Her cover up is cream knitwear, no taller than me in her heels, voice not loud enough to hear an accent. She's up on the stage, now confrontational down to her legwarmers in black high street vest and knickers set, I've got some the same. Any romance about the girl next door is gone; she's playing it filthy, treats herself rough and in language we can all understand says, 'I can take it, can you?'. The men take her seriously and clap obediently. Round one to the 5' blonde. The girls are all blonde or have dark brown or black hair, most are shaved, some are tattooed, they all know stagecraft. I've never seen a redhead stripper nor have I ever seen bruises. They range from petite to athletic, statuesque to voluptuous; white, oriental, black or olive skinned. They look healthy and dance like they have training. Heavy make-up is rare but high heels always stay on; perhaps it's the law. The man next to me says, 'she's not the girl I paid for but she's fit'. Her whole body pouts in Mediterranean comfort as she stands, one leg bent, leaning against the wall close enough for us to touch; she turns from the waist and bows forward so her hair touches the floor. A perfect abstraction.   

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