My Favorite Stripper
For Britney LeRoux
My favorite stripper is not dancing on a stage
At Imperial Showgirls orSahara’s Theatre.
She does not dance at California Girls either.
Underneath the soft pink lights of this clandestine club
The DJ has not called her name in the rotation.
Other men are looking at their favorite strippers.
It is a slow night inside a solitary club
I bide time watching other dancers working the pole.
Their tits, legs, asses are not the ones I’m looking for.
The strippers each take their men to the VIP rooms.
I watch the empty stage and long for my strippers dance.
My stripper demurely goes up the steps of the stage
In very very tall gloss black stiletto heels
She is going to dance
She is going to dance now.
She wears a black minidress with a slit on the side.
Her pompadour glows under the pink lights of the stage.
She dances and the mirrored reflections dance with her.
She is nude. She wears her tattoos on the stage.
My stripper finishes her dance and walks towards me.
Her pompadour bounces towards me under pink lights.
She takes my hand; Leads me to the VIP rooms.
Her hips undulate; swaggering from side to side
Like a mesmerizing pendulum of hypnosis.
Her skin is soft and golden; her hair sandy blonde.
My fingers run through the currents of her silken hair
She straddles and bounces me to the rhythm of drums.
I am asphyxiating happily in her eyes.
I am overdosing on her rosewater perfume.
My stripper stays with me after the dance has ended.
My hand caresses her thigh. The music plays louder.
Mirrors shake, the club crumbles, Everything disappears.
This is our moment. We have rewritten the rules here.
The waitress breaks the spell of my little reverie.
I order another. The stage won’t see my stripper.
She dances on a different stage (that is not mine)
Dancing to a melody I’ve never heard before.
My favorite stripper doesn’t have a stage to dance.
She flings off assembly orders instead of clothes.
Beads of sweat gather like dewy webs above her brow.
Her chest rises and lowers with spinning conveyors.
There is no DJ and no music for her to dance.
Just my stripper, working, dancing in warehouse glare.
My favorite stripper is tired at the shifts end.
She sits on a pallet of corrugated boxes.
Her tired head tilts forward in the afternoon sun.
I want to kiss the mole on the nape of her soft neck.
There’s tension in her back I want to massage away.
She takes off her gloves. I want to kiss her fingertips.
I watch my favorite stripper resting in silence.
I leave the club still looking for my favorite stripper.