By Margo Perry  (margo707 AT rogers DOT com)
Copyright 2008 by Margo Perry, all rights reserved.

His Story

Bruce Campbell caught sight of his reflection in the grimy, but colourful tiles of the subway pillar. With his brand new brown Armani suit, tan V-neck shirt and matching crocodile print ankle boots, he looked every inch the young urban businessman, successful and self confident. But, he was neither. His brother’s tailor and generosity were responsible for his outfit and he wore it uneasily, as though it were an inauthentic and ill-fitting costume. What he was used to and wore with ease, were his seminary robes.

The underground smelled of dampness and waste. The wail of an unhappy child pierced through the echoing cacophony of subway sounds. And the earth trembled under the distress of so many speeding trains. He felt like the proverbial stranger in a strange land. What his soul longed for was the order and quietude of his prayers and theological studies. For the peace and serenity of a barefoot wade in the soothing pond. But his soul wasn’t the problem. His libido was. And yesterday, he had put all that he loved most in jeopardy when, drowning in guilt, he met with his spiritual advisor and exposed his love of large breasts and his impressive cache of corresponding pictures and videos.

The response was immediate. Overwhelmed by Bruce’s predicament, the advisor rushed to the Chancellor for counsel and Bruce was summoned directly.

“Let’s go for a walk,” the Chancellor said, leading the way through the courtyard and away from the beautiful, but imposing medieval structure.

They walked the grounds for awhile in complete silence. In the Chancellor’s presence, Bruce began to feel so humbled, so protected and loved that he began to talk and didn’t stop until no thought, no question, no doubt or fear had been left unspoken.

“Let’s sit,“ the Chancellor said, when they reached a bench overlooking the lake. “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it? But it’s not for everyone.”

“But I love it here. I even love my celibacy. It‘s the form of a woman, her beauty. It moves me. I can‘t resist the way it . . .”

“Ah, there’s the rub,” the Chancellor interrupted. “It would seem to me that you are being called in another direction. There is no shame in the love of a woman, her form or the way she makes you feel. The only shame is in the denial of your true self. I was a poor boy and had to wear hand-me-down shoes for years. Have you ever had to walk miles in shoes that are too small, that pinch your feet? There is no joy of life in it. Only pain. A celibate life is hard at best. Impossible if it’s not a true calling. I want you to go away from here this weekend. If you’re open and honest, you‘ll soon know where you belong.” He looked straight into Bruce’s eyes, his smile kind and full of wisdom. “Our tenets don’t demand celibacy, nor do they tell you how to serve, except to do so with a pure heart. You don’t have to lead any ministry. You’re one of the best mind’s and souls to study and retreat here and the outside world needs men like you. Go out and find your way. By Monday morning vespers, you will either return to stay or say goodbye. Either way will be good, as long as it’s truly where you’re meant to be.”

Bruce could still feel his embrace, so full of warmth and faith, so reassuring. He put his fingers to his ears, shutting out the roar of the approaching train, but couldn‘t avoid the surge of bodies that herded him on to it. He moved straight ahead, taking refuge against the side of the car and took deep, studied breaths. He was feeling claustrophobic. Only four stops, he reassured himself, and he’d be sitting in a restaurant across from his brother David. He’d be safe. Away from this madding crowd. But he wasn’t safe yet. He didn’t know how to make himself small, how to separate himself from the swaying press of bodies around him. A panic attack was near. Breathe, he told himself. Concentrate on something else.

The woman beside him, in her high-heeled pumps, was almost as tall as he was. He could smell her perfume, sweet and spicy. It teased his senses, his cock and his imagination.

“I got caught in a sun shower,” she said. Dripping ringlets framed her china doll face. “The devil’s beating his wife and there ain’t no rainbow.”

She laughed a throaty, sexy chuckle and looked up at him with limpid, come-hither eyes. Bruce just stared. He couldn’t help noticing the pout of bright red lipstick that lined her cupid-bow lips. Or the black poly belted raincoat that she’d opened just enough to expose her breasts, breasts that bulged over the scoop of her close fitting red sweater. The train lurched and her left breast brushed against his arm. Bruce jerked away, but it was too late. His cock was already stirring and his breathing suddenly seemed too loud, seemed to be broadcasting his hunger. Embarrassed, he looked away from her and she squeezed a step forward into the crowd and away from him. He closed his eyes against his own lust, but his mind grabbed onto the fruits it bore.

“You getting off here? I can tell you need some company bad!” The woman was whispering in his ear, circling his lobe with her tongue for emphasis.

Bruce’s heart began to palpitate and he could feel a tightness in his chest. His balls were heavy and ready to explode. The woman turned into him and began deliberately rubbing her humongous breasts over his chest, gently manipulating her leg between his own. His panic grew, hand in hand with his arousal, with the enlargement of his cock. People could see. He was trapped. At this woman’s mercy. He tried to plan an escape. But he couldn’t think. There was no plan. There was no escape.

“I could make you come right here and right now,” she said.

“No, no, please don’t,” he begged silently.

“Alright. Don’t panic. But you’ve got to stop denying what you need. I know just what it is and I’m going to give it to you.”

Bruce felt the cold steel of the door hard against his ass, as he tried to draw away from the hand rubbing his crotch. But the truth was that his cock loved the invasion, had betrayed him long ago and gone over to her side. And she knew it. Her amused eyes held his gaze. They were slits of power and passion. She had Bruce exactly where she wanted him. Bruce took a deep breath. The subway reeked of sex, of bodies aroused. And sweat, the kind of sweat that trickles out of danger, or anger, or fear, or unbridled lust. And his cock was leaking, threatening to stain his pants.

“You’re too hungry, boy. You won’t last that way. Do you know just how big my titties are? How heavy they are? My nipples are long for you, long and thick and rubbery, just for you. They’re ready to be suckled. Are you ready to suck? I know you are. When the train stops, follow me.”

He looked into pale blue eyes that were much too old and tired for the face they lived in. Her rosy cheeks and pony-lean body described youth. A hard youth, but youth. Her huge and heavy breasts described woman. A hungry, knowing woman. Bruce could feel her fingers playing tantalizingly over his balls. He could feel her fingers tugging at his zipper. He was so aroused, so ashamed, so ready.

The warning whistle of an approaching train penetrated his fantasy. As it roared into Theatre Row Station, he found himself nearly consumed by the fire that was threatening to annihilate him. He wanted his zipper down, his cock available. It felt so good. He was pressing into her hand . . . into thin air.

The strident squeal of the braking train jolted Bruce out of his fantasy. The woman had moved even further forward and was already exiting the train. He worried that his intense fantasy had described itself on his face. That somebody had seen. He moved with the crowd onto the platform, directing his thoughts to the safety of the seminary with its rolling greens and forests. He imagined the peaceful pond and the way the grass smelled when it was freshly cut. He could hear the birds that sang in the mornings. If he could only go back, in time and place. But, then what? He’d been challenged and beaten, over and over, by his own nature. And just to prove the point, his blue balls ached and his cock had spit pre-cum onto his Calvin Klein boxers. Bruce climbed the stairs on shaky legs. He knew nothing about the future, past having dinner with his brother, and not knowing frightened him to death.

On the street, a siren sounded through the steady roar of traffic and honking horns. The sun again shone through a gentle shower. The rain felt good on Bruce’s bare head. Cleansing. He looked up and across a sky billowing with clouds, some heavy and some light, some cottony white and some threateningly dark He spied a rainbow and it reminded him of life’s infinite possibilities. Whistling just under his breath, he walked the short block to the restaurant, the pavement sure beneath his feet.

Jake’s Bar An Grill. Bruce stared at the red and green neon sign, with its lost ‘d’, and was about to go in when he heard the sound of angels singing.

I walk along the street of sorrow,
The boulevard of broken dreams.
Where gigolo and gigolette
Can take a kiss without regret
So they forget their broken dreams.

You laugh tonight and cry tomorrow,
When you behold your shattered dreams.
And gigolo and gigolette
Awake to find their eyes are wet
With tears that tell of broken dreams.

The kids were huddled in the alley between buildings.. A small crowd had gathered. Six perfectly pitched voices crooned out that bittersweet song. A capella. Their emotive faces were a kaleidoscope of browns and whites and blacks all shining from under their hooded bright yellow rain slickers. When the song was over, a man in a three piece suit used his foot to open an instrument case that sat off to the side and threw down a twenty dollar bill. It seemed to drift slow motion down onto the guitar.

“Don’t touch our stuff,” one of the boys warned. He stooped, grabbed the money and passed it back. “No money today, Dawg. This is Nat’s day. February 15th Nat King Cole died on February 15th,. 1965 and we sing out his songs every year. Right in this alley.”

Bruce watched as the man stuffed his money back in his pocket. He looked embarrassed, hurt even, and Bruce felt compelled to reach out to him.

“I’m amazed that those kids have even heard of Nat King Cole,” Bruce said. “Makes me feel hopeful.”

“You’re so right,” the man said. “I love Cole’s style and they interpret it really, really well.”

“They do and I hope someone who can boost their career hears them.”

“That’s an idea,” the man said. “I do have a very good friend in the music business. I better find out how to get in touch with them.”

They smiled at each other. The man moved back toward the alley and Bruce continued the few steps on to Jake’s. Bruce felt good. The man had meant no harm and might now do some good. It was too easy to disrespect another by assuming things, not knowing what was in another’s heart. It was equally easy to reach out and make a moment or a situation better. Just then, a limousine pulled up and three gorgeous women tottered out of the back seat and strutted their way into the bar, hips swaying, tits bouncing, talking and laughing raucously. It never ends in the city, this constant over stimulation, Bruce thought, as he followed them into the bar. He immediately spotted David, in a nearby booth, sipping a beer and ogling the women without apology. Bruce laughed out loud.

“Hey Bro,” David said, getting up to hug him. “Tailor work out okay?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, simply. “But it’s too much. I know how disappointed you must be after sacrificing so much for my education.”

“Disappointed? Not me. I couldn’t figure out how you’d willingly go through all that in the first place. I mean giving up worldly goods is bad enough, but women?! You got to be crazy. Never mind, my work’s cut out. My job is to give you a taste of the dark side, the fun side. Show you just how good life can be on the outside. Starting with a drink. What’ll you have?“

“Ginger ale, please.”

“No can do. Bring us a pitcher, my lovely.” The waitress smiled and walked away. “Now tell me brother, in plain English, what’s really at the bottom of all this?”

“Them,” Bruce said, gesturing toward the bar. “Women.”

David slapped the table hard and guffawed. His fingers were thick and strong. A builder’s hands. Hands that had help support Bruce’s education and build a family fortune. Bruce could feel his helplessness, his sense of worthlessness descending over him like a shroud.

“Where ever you’re going, don’t go there!” Bruce had always marvelled at how well David knew him and that obviously hadn’t changed. “Look at those women. I love my wife, but I’m looking. Don’t be shy. Feast your eyes, Brother.”

The women sat on barstools, a row of them, downing shots of vodka followed by generous squirts of breath spray. Their pimp circled them, his cell phone attached semi-permanently to his ear, a notebook and a stack of money lining his grubby hands. Short skirts, boots and tight sweaters vied with long gowns with plunging necklines. Tall versus short. Brown versus white. A long haired, blue eyed Swedish ice queen versus a bald, long lashed African goddess. And the shots kept coming until the man whispered in an ear and someone was back in the limousine and on her way to delivering more pleasure.

“I know you’re not a virgin, but have you been getting any at all?” David asked.

“If you’re asking if I’ve made love to a woman lately, the answer is, ‘No.’ Not since Molly.”

“But that was in high school. You mean you’ve only fucked one woman in your whole life? You’ve got to be kidding. Well, this is your night. You pick. I’ll pay.” David filled two glasses from the pitcher the waitress had discreetly placed on the table. “A toast.” They each raised a glass. “Let’s drink first, to the best lay of your life. Second, to your informed assessment of the lay of the land. Now, enjoy your beer and choose wisely.”

“I don’t know if I can do that. I have a lot to think about.”

“There’s nothing to think about without evidence. That’s what your Chancellor was talking about. Get yourself some evidence and make a sound decision. One you can live with for the rest of your life. Being with a woman is evidence. And if you don’t choose one, I’ll choose one for you because Brother, you’re getting laid tonight and there’s no time to establish a relationship.”

Bruce sipped the first alcoholic beverage of his twenty-eight years of life. It was refreshing and he thought he could taste cloves. He sipped again. A sensual warmth spread through his body and it occurred to him that life outside the seminary would bring many challenges. Many challenges indeed. David meant well, but he couldn’t possibly understand. Being with a woman he didn’t know just wouldn’t work. He’d handle it somehow.

“Well,” David started. “We know what you like. She’s gotta’ have . . ..”

David’s voice trailed off and Bruce gasped as the girl of both their dreams climbed up on a stool. “Look no further,” David said. “Look no further.”
 

Her Story

“Thanks for your patience. Will the following dancers step forward, please?”

Tara grabbed Panther’s hand and strained to hear either of their names. Nothing. Dancers stepped forward. Dancers stayed. Neither knowing which line would lead to the job. She felt as though she were being dangled over a cliff by a rapidly fraying rope.

Brian stopped calling names and the room fell silent. She was grateful to be still holding Panther’s hand, that they were still together in the back row. Brian had partnered them on the very first day of auditions. Panther stood six foot three and, in heels, Tara was almost six feet. Were it not for their mutually prominent height, neither would have made it through the first cut.

“Let’s go already,” Tara hissed.

“Hush,” Panther whispered, “and I’d appreciate it if you let up on my hand before paralysis sets in.”

Brian was talking again.

“Back row stay. Front row, thank you very much.”

Tara threw herself recklessly into Panther’s arms. Even through his dance belt, she could feel his burgeoning excitement. She teasingly pressed her huge breasts closer into him. But Panther ignored her. Hurt, Tara pulled back, but soon realized that she was the only one cheering. She was the only one selfish enough to ignore the pain of those rejected. They were all a part of that moment in which ‘shattered dreams’ and ‘dreams well-met’ were forced to co-exist. And the pain had to be acknowledged first. They all stood quietly, allowing a small wave now and then, sending out powerful empathetic waves because they knew that, down the road, one of them would be leaving too early, no job in hand.

As soon as the last dancer left, pandemonium erupted. The call was for twelve dancers and there were twelve of them left. There were hugs and congratulations, tears and a stream of chatter about what the job meant to them, what fun they were going to have. And how they’d spend all that money. The moment was intoxicating!

“Dancers, we’re going to need a few minutes. Don’t leave the room, but relax. Grab something to drink.”

It was as if the room sighed for a moment. Some dancers headed for coffee or water or the washrooms. Others just collapsed.

“Want something?” Panther asked.

“No, I’m just gonna’ lie here. My back’s killing me.”

Tara stretched out, allowing her body to sink into the floor. It felt good. Her slender body was very strong, but supporting her massive breasts was a challenge. She loved her breasts. They were her mother’s breasts and she’d lost her Mom tragically to a drunk driver only two years earlier. Her painful loss was still with her every moment of every day, but it was getting better. Days like this made it better. She hugged her breasts close. “I love you, Mom. I wish you were here to share this.”

She eyed Panther across the room, chatting up one of the dancers. Her friend was so hot. Even when he wasn’t dancing, he moved with the sexual power, grace and speed of his namesake. And he was straight. He got married while on tour four years ago and she’d never seen him happier. He was in love with his wife. He was in like with his wife. He was completely faithful. . . .almost completely. And memories were both harmless and golden. She closed her eyes and let them come.

“I love my wife,” Panther had said.

“I know,” Tara said. “So think of her.”

They were in the studio alone at night learning a pas de deux from a video. The steps were learned and they were working on the dramatic intent of the piece, the gradual wearing down of a couple’s resistance and eventual surrender to sex. And Brian’s choreography was as hot as fire.

They rehearsed over and over and the movements became more and more internalized, more theirs. Tara began to feel like she’d been touched by magic. She didn’t have to think. There was complete trust between them and the sexual energy they were sparking was both exquisite and dangerous.

“Look I don’t know about you, but I can’t take much more of this,“ Panther said. “One more time and I’ll film it. See what we have.”

Panther went to set the camera and Tara paced. She had never felt so alive or nervous in her life. And she was off the scale horny. Her nipples were tingling and erect and her pussy was throbbing. You’re a pro, she admonished herself. Cool down. Perform the number one more time and send Panther home to his wife.

When the music flowed, so did her sexuality. The first touch of their hands, eyes locked as they circled each other, easily established both their hunger and their need to resist. That energy grew with every note, every step, every touch of her body against his. Each lift became foreplay. Her damp white leotard exposed long, rubbery extended nipples. It’s V-neck framed her heaving mass of breast flesh, accentuating her long line of cleavage. And Panther began to lose focus. He was keeping up with the steps, but his eyes had become hypnotized by Tara’s abundant breasts. She was keeping up with the steps, but her kissing him was improvised and unstoppable. Their tongues danced deep in each other’s mouths. And the music kept urging them forward. Then, there were no steps. Just animals in heat.

They sunk to the floor. Their clothes came off quickly. Tara could feel Panther’s naked hard cock between her legs, as he kneaded and then caressed her tits. They pawed and hugged and rolled, skin against damp skin. Tara’s pussy was wet against Panther’s leg, as she climbed over him to kiss his erect tiny nipple. Panther placed her on her back, opened her legs and manipulated her clit into a frenzy before thrusting one and then two fingers into her tight, dripping pussy. Tara was writhing in ecstasy, crying that unearthly howl of a cat on a hot tin roof.

“Please, I’m so ready for you,” Panther said.

Tara ran her finger along the length of Panther’s cock. The head was dripping wet. She wanted more. Wanted it to last forever.

“Stroke it for me,” Tara directed.

Panther began to stroke himself. “That’s good,” Tara said. She reached between her legs to stoke the fire that was already ablaze. She could hardly stand the pleasure of watching Panther’s hand moving up and down, pleasuring himself. She could hardly stand the sight of Panther’s face contorted with lust. She twisted her aroused nipple with one hand and pulled, patted and rubbed her clit with the other.

“You better stop,” Panther cried, stroking himself faster and faster. “I can’t stop.”

“Hurry, hurry Panther.” Tara lay back, opening her legs wide. Panther slipped between them, brandishing his cock like a sword.

“Wait,” he said. “I want you to feel hungry. Very hungry.”

He teased her clit with his cock. Let it probe her pussy. He tweaked her nipples before leaning forward to take them in his mouth, first one and then the other. Tara felt like his big cock was everywhere. On her belly, brushing her cunt, driving her insane with need. The room disappeared in the white all consuming heat of her need to fuck Panther.

“Please,” Tara begged. “I’m not kidding. Fuck me, Panther. Please fuck me.”

And Panther did. He was a sexual god. He stroked long and short. Hard and soft. He fingered her clit, keeping her temperature on the rise. Tara fucked back. She couldn’t help herself. They were dancing again, but it was a different ballet. This one was primitive. This one was out of control. And they fucked until they both came in a rush of thrusts, pants and cries, catapulting headlong into nothingness, into the absence of longing.

“Drink this,” Panther said, startling her out of her reverie. “It’s good for what ails you.”

“Thanks,” Tara said, gratefully accepting the bottled water.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Panther said.

“I was remembering that pas de deux we learned for the audition. It was beautiful.”

“Do you ever watch that tape?”

Tara laughed. “If there is still a tape, and if I have ever or will ever watch same tape, it’s my secret.”

“Fair enough,” Panther smiled.

“Tara Miles to the table, please”

Tara looked toward the producers’ table. She couldn’t read their stony faces. Brian started toward Tara and Panther, but veered off, beckoning her toward the barre and privacy. Panther grabbed her hand. She could feel his tension. She looked up at him. Her lips were still, but the question gleamed out of her eyes. “Why are they calling me out?” Panther shrugged helplessly, releasing her hand, and she hurried over to the barre.

“There’s an elephant in this room and I’m going to ride it,” the choreographer said. “How many times have you auditioned for me? Three? And each time I’ve told you that I loved your dancing and your look. Each time you’ve been on my wish list and each time you’ve been turned down. Tara, it’s because of your tits. I’m giving it to you straight. I’m a gay man and I love your breasts, but some suit always decides that you’ll pull focus, probably because he can’t keep his eyes off you. I’ve fought as hard as I can and I haven’t gotten anywhere. I hate telling you this, but the only way you’re going to work in an A house or on a high profile television gig like this one is if you treat yourself to a breast reduction. You’ve got to decide. Your tits or a successful dance career. We have four months before auditions start, so you have time. But you’ve got to decide this weekend. I can’t hold your place any longer than that. Besides, if you go, Panther goes, too. I hate this, but them’s the breaks. I’m sorry. Tara.”

Brian tried to take Tara in his arms, but she shrugged him off and bolted over to the table. Her brain was scorched with anger.

“Tell me something,” she raged. “If I were Black amongst this white bread bunch of ours, I’d stand out. Would you then make it a condition of my employment that I skin myself?”

“Now look, young lady,” one of the elder statesmen started.

“Fuck you!” Tara finished.

Every part of her was shattering under the weight of her disappointment and pain. All she could think of was getting out of there. As she rushed away, Panther, cut her off.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’ll call you later, but basically, they want me to cut off my tits or it’s a no go.”

There was a dull roar of concern coming from the dancers and that sound filled her with so many tears that she thought she’d drown. The dancers’ eyes were lasers boring into her back, as she bent to grab her dance bag. She couldn’t look at them. Not even to say, ‘good bye’. If she did, their pity would make her scream. She pulled on her coat over her practice gear, shoved her street clothes and shoes into her large tote, and fled.

Tara wasn’t the only one helplessly spewed from the sardine packed elevators, swept across the marbled foyer, and dumped onto February’s wet and slippery sidewalk. There were thousands spilling out of fifty-four floors of dance studios, recording studios, television studios and offices. They were all cogs in the wheel of the television industry, an industry run by suits dressed in jeans and T-shirts, but oiled and gassed by what they called the ‘talent’. And no living human force was as desperate to work, to be chosen and loved as they. No human force was as vulnerable, hopeful and available for manipulation. And Tara felt manipulated. Her tits were a part of her. They’d been with her all through the process. Why had they kept her so long without telling her that her breasts were a problem? How could she afford a breast reduction? Did she want a breast reduction? No, that answer was clear. Her breasts like her arms and legs, were an integral part of who she was. And they gave her great pleasure. Her mind turned on itself, devouring all ambition and care, leaving only anger in its wake. “Fuck them,” she said again. “Fuck them all.”

Outside, she stepped into a puddle and shivered as the icy cold wetness seeped through the Latin high heeled sandals that she had scrimped and saved for, that were never meant to be worn anywhere, but onto the sacred floors of a dance studio. They were now ruined. She hugged her huge dance bag against breasts that she loved, but were costing her a brilliant dance career. It just wasn’t fair.

She turned left, away from her apartment and toward Ray’s, the place whose bar tips paid for her dance classes and rent. She wasn’t working tonight, but couldn’t bear to be alone. She shivered. It was raining. She was getting wet after sweating all day. Maybe she‘d die of a common cold, she thought sarcastically. Whatever! She just didn’t care. All she wanted tonight was to get drunk. And forget.

She heard them before she saw them. Voices of angels.

Dance, ballerina, dance
And do your pirouette in rhythm with your achin' heart.
Dance, ballerina, dance
You mustn't once forget a dancer has to dance the part.

Whirl, ballerina, whirl
And just ignore the chair that's empty in the second row.
This is your moment, girl,
Although he's not out there applauding as you steal the show.

Once you said his love must wait its turn
You wanted fame instead.
I guess that's your concern,
We live and learn.

And love is gone, ballerina, gone
So on with your career, you cant afford a backward glance.
Dance on and on and on
A thousand people here have come to see the show
As round and round you go
So ballerina, dance
Dance, dance!


The kids were huddled in the alley between buildings.. A small crowd had gathered. Six perfectly pitched voices crooned out that bittersweet song. A capella. Their emotive faces were a kaleidoscope of browns and whites and blacks all shining from under their hooded bright yellow rain slickers.

When the song was over, a woman passed Tara a stack of Kleenex. “I guess they’re singing your song. You’re a dancer, right?”

Tara hadn’t realized she was crying.

“I was a dancer,” she heard herself blubber.

“Can’t be that bad. Things will look better tomorrow,” the woman said.

“Hope so.”

The woman was being kind, but things couldn’t get better. Tara couldn’t afford the operation, financially or emotionally, and according to Brian, she couldn’t succeed in the business unless she reduced her breast size. Stalemate. All that was left of her song was emptiness and that achin’ heart. She turned into the bar. She was relieved to see the girls. Glad to see Ray. She felt as close to home as she’d ever be, without taking a bus ten hours west to the little town she was raised in. As she hung up her coat on the rack near the door, she realized that she was still dressed in audition gear: a black skin-tight unitard with a short dance skirt and high heeled sandals. Many eyes devoured her as she marched across the room, but she didn’t care. I’ll fit right in with the other night creatures, she thought, as she perched herself on a stool.

Ray took one look at her and poured a shot of brandy. “You’re wet,” he said. “You’ll catch your death of dampness.”

Tara downed the shot in one gulp and could feel the tears coming again; this time because of kindness shown. “Thanks, Ray.”

“Did you get the job?” Molly one of the regular girls asked.

“Does she look like she got the job?” Ray roared. “Now leave her alone.”

In the mirror, Tara noticed two guys in a booth giving her the once over. One of them looked like a regular guy. The other looked too sweet for the world of his designer togs. He looked very irregular indeed.

“Here.” Ray had poured her a glass of wine, the good stuff. Nearly eighty, he came to work every day. He protected his bar with the splintery baseball bat that had been in residence for fifty years. But he’d never had to use it. Ray’s was where the dancers came because he fed them much more than they could afford. Ray’s was where the prostitutes came because they found warmth and respect here, protection even from their pimps. Stars dropped by for his specialty steaks and fries because they’d been coming here since the beginning of their careers, when nobody knew their names. And it was packed with people and love every night.

“Need any help, Ray?” Tara asked.

“Not tonight. You just cool out. When you’re ready, I’ll fix you some grub.” He leaned over the bar to whisper in her ear. “You could dance here. We could fix up a little stage in the corner and you could do your thing.”

“You’re the best, Ray.” Tara said, again fighting tears.

As Ray moved away, she noticed the regular guy from the booth approaching her. He looked so lumpish that Tara almost smiled.

“I wonder if I could speak to you?” David asked.

“If you’ve got something to say,” Tara answered.

“We’ve been watching you, my brother and I. You’re one beautiful woman,” David said.

“I’m glad somebody thinks so,” Tara said.

“I’ve never done this before and I really don’t know the score, but I’d like to negotiate your evening.”

“Negotiate my evening?”

The man thought she was a call girl. And why not? Tara thought. She was dressed the part. That’s what she needed tonight. A part and an adventure. She pulled off the band that held her hair in a dancer bun, shook free her curly raven mane and laughed long and loud for the first time that day.

“I’m sorry, if I said the wrong thing,” David shifted his weight self-consciously from one foot to another, but couldn‘t stop ogling her glorious breasts. “My brother’s been in the seminary for a long time. He needs to find out what women and sex mean to him, you know, and you‘re perfect. Just his type.”

Tara glanced from Bruce to David. They both looked so blushingly sweet and innocent. What could be the harm? And they were both as cute as they could be. This venture held so much more promise than just eating and getting drunk.

“Am I supposed to talk to him?” The pimp was walking by, busy with his calls and girls and stash of bills.

“No,” Tara said, “Call me Gigi. I’m an independent. Now, what exactly are you looking for?”