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Private Dancers

You arrive at Darren and Sharon’s place at around eight in the evening. The plan is for you and Darren to visit a nearby strip club for a bit of lap-grindage. You’ve been looking forward to it all week. There’s nothing more fun than blowing a stack of cash in the desperate hope that some sympathetic stripper might let you touch her boobs.

You knock at the door and your heart skips a beat when Debbie opens it. You weren’t expecting to see her. You’ve been guilty of thinking about Debbie in an inappropriate manner on numerous occasions, usually just before impregnating a wad of Kleenex.

“Hi Bruce!” she says cheerfully, stepping back to let you inside. “Ready for your night of debauchery?”

“Uh, yeah…” you begin, before trailing off awkwardly. You suddenly feel a bit cheap. For some reason you don’t like the idea that Debbie knows about where you’re going. “It’s nice to see you — I didn’t expect…”

“I’m keeping Sharon company while you guys are out,” she replies. You follow her down the hallway and note that she seems a little unsteady on her feet. Then she stumbles and you catch her by the elbow.

“Sorry…” she giggles. “I might be a little bit tipsy…”

You find Darren in the living room and greet him with your customary fist-bump. His housemate Sharon can be heard distantly singing in the kitchen.

“The girls have been making cocktails,” he explains, almost apologetically.

Debbie plonks herself down in the couch. “These two have enough booze to make almost everything in the cocktail book. We’re working our way through from the beginning.”

“Well, we had enough booze…” says Darren grumpily.

Sharon appears in the doorway, brandishing margharitas in both hands. “Hey there Bruce. All set to corrupt Darren by taking him to your sleazy club?”

It seems Darren hasn’t been completely honest with Sharon. He’s actually the one who always wants to see the strippers. Sharing a house with someone as attractive as Sharon must be very frustrating for the poor guy.

“Here, you guys can have these,” says Sharon, handing you and Darren the margharitas. You thank her and take a sip. It’s strong.

You hang around and make chit chat for fifteen minutes. You’d like to stay longer, but Darren is eager to get going. You both say your goodbyes and head for the door. But you’ve barely taken three steps outside when suddenly the heavens open and torrential rain starts bucketing down.

You cower with Darren in the doorway, waiting for the rain to abet. Instead it just gets heavier and heavier. Flashes of lightning illuminate your disappointed faces.

“I’m fucked if I’m going out in that,” says Darren, and you are forced to agree. You head back inside.

Sharon and Debbie are dancing to music on the radio in the uninhibited way that only completely drunk women can.

“Hey Darren, back so soon?” asks Debbie cheekily.

“Didn’t bring an umbrella, Bruce?” asks Sharon, rubbing salt into the wound.

You both decide to ignore them. Darren turns to you. “Beer?”

You nod and he fetches a couple of brews from the fridge while you settle down on the couch. He joins you and you both sit there, watching the girls make idiots of themselves.

“Look at them, Debbie,” says Sharon as she dances around. “So sad that they don’t get to go out.”

“You can watch us instead,” teases Debbie. “We’re better than some skanky strippers, right Sharon?”

“It’s not exactly the same,” grumbles Darren.

Sharon throws herself down between you both on the couch. “No? Well, what do they do there anyway? Can’t I do the same for you, Darren?”

“Is this a way to get out of paying your share of the rent?” asks Darren coolly.

Sharon makes a face. “Well, how about Debbie gives you a dance, and I do Bruce?”