On The House
The music pounded like a locomotive. The go-go girl followed it like a train. And every patron in the bar was her caboose.
Her nucleus of sexuality, hardly covered by a little white bikini bottom oh so snug, exploded, poetically speaking, all over the stage.
She aimed it at a poor hobo and pumped him a few. She would never know how much he appreciated that. She did the bump ‘de bump with a lonely soldier boy’s ambition and ground to pieces an old cowboy’s sadness. Boldly she stepped up close to a wicked man’s leer, crouched low and with her hands ludicrously rammed it in and out.
Her fat, shapely, little belly, a masterpiece so tan, so smooth, so hot, was just about smoking like a home on fire. Her belly button was the sun. Her stage, more than just creaking wood, was the face of every feller’s drifting dream.
She really knew how to dance.
Like a snake, like a swan, like a cloud, like a shooting star, like the terrible truth and a thousand lies. Nobody, absolutely nobody played pool when Philana danced.
A tall stranger sauntered into the place. Infront of the go-go bar’s stage, or ramp, he stoically stood ~ watched the go-go girl go-go. His presence loomed so profoundly that the hooting, guffawing, and even the silent dreaming of all the Saturday night patrons ~ died. He was that rare kind of guy. Besides, except for a preposterous, black, cowboy hat on his head, he was naked.
The go-go tune ended.
Nobody clapped. Usually everybody clapped, and a few would holler, when Philana finished a number. But due to this stranger’s strange naked presence ~ not this time.
An old drunk accidently knocked over a glass of beer. He ducked his head sheepishly. Not a soul moved. Deep silence reigned.
The stranger, lewdly handsome, smiled just a little bit at the intrigued saloon girl who was now standing still in the quiet limelight. She rested her hand on her smooth hip, eyeballed the stranger up and down ~ especially down. She was out of breath. Her round, bare, little breasts gently rose and fell.
“What? What? Are you trying to corrupt this town?” she finally asked of him ~ her smile twitching.
“No,” replied the stranger with an unobtrusive chuckle. “Just escaped from jail. All I could grab on my way out was ~ my hat.”
Another working girl, scantily clad, quietly served him a beer. “The bartender says this one is on the house,” she whispered.
The stranger nodded gratefully, toasted the bartender, lifted the frosty mug to his thirsty lips.
Philana rested a high-heeled foot on the bar that encircled the ramp. She was staring at the stranger with not just her eyes, it seemed, but also with the provocative bulge of her snuggly, barely veiled, dynamite-packed pussy, which was at the same level as the stranger’s face and just a few inches away. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Bogie,” drawled the stranger. He ignored the saloon girl’s poignantly flaunted mound, squinted up into the soul in her brown bottomless eyes. “Nick Bogie.”
“I’m Philana,” said Philana. Music began to play again. Some fool howled. There was laughter. And cigarette smoke. The woman and the man stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment.
“Let’s ball, Bogie!” cried Philana like a whip. Her eyes squinted full of tears. Her thigh quivered. The man to whom she had spoken held open his arms.
He carried her out the door like a bride.
the short story & song collection
by rawclyde !
gathered & presented by artificial intelligence
copyright clyde collins 1989, 2010