Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
When the man is down to only his red boxers, I realize I’m holding my breath. I’m not a creative type, but I could probably write poetry about his thighs. Everything about his body is perfection, and I want to see all of it, but I know from the previous acts that the men don’t strip all the way.
I imagine myself running up to the stage, waving a handful of bills, trying to persuade him to take it all off. I would touch this man — both of these men — and I wouldn’t care who was watching. I want them to touch me.
The realization startles me to my senses, and as the other man removes the woman’s robe — she’s still fully dressed beneath — and helps her climb into the empty bathtub, I snap out of it.
How did I forget that these men are young, much too young for me, and that what they’re presenting here is just a fantasy? I can’t believe I was getting caught up in it.
Men aren’t really like this. None of this is real.
Despite getting a grip on myself, I keep watching. The man who’d disrobed cuddles the woman in the tub, cradling her back against his chest, which I imagine is warm and would make anyone feel safe and protected.
The second twin disrobes and joins the couple in the imaginary bubble bath, and the fantasy shifts. This had been about being cared for, attended to, and pampered, but now my thoughts focus on the fact that there are two men in this scenario, both nearly naked. If this was real, presumably sex would follow. A threesome. What would it be like … with two men? And especially … with these two men?
I get that weird feeling you have when you’re being watched, and pull my eyes away from the stage to find my sister staring at me. She’s grinning a knowing grin, and I quickly look down, focusing on my drink, which had been abandoned on the table. She knows how much I was enjoying what I was watching, and it’s embarrassing.
Why did I get so caught up watching this performance, when all of the previous ones had done nothing for me? The men are ridiculously good looking, of course, but objectively, all of the men have been attractive.
Not like these two, though.
When I finally look at the stage again, the twins are working together, toweling off the woman after her “bath.” One of them picks her up in his strong arms and carries her backstage, the other man following, and the curtain closes.
That act was so different from the others. So intimate. I felt like a voyeur, while at the same time wanting to be the woman in the performance. I understand now why so many women come to this club. It’s deceptively easy to get caught up in the fantasy of it all.
There’s a brief intermission where I take the opportunity to order another drink before excusing myself to go to the restroom. I don’t need to go, but it’s a convenient way to avoid a conversation about what I just saw on the stage.
I wonder if Brittany knows those men.
It doesn’t matter; I won’t be asking her. Besides, what would be the point? It’s all make believe. I don’t need to know who they are, and I can guarantee they’re nothing like that off stage. That’s not reality.
Not surprisingly, the line is long at the restroom, and the show has already resumed when I get back to our table. I can’t help but scan the men on stage, and a little thrill zings through me when I spot the twins. I hadn’t noticed them before the dinner/dancing/bath act, but I hadn’t been paying much attention.
Now, I can hardly look away.
There are two other men on stage with them now — one with scruffy dark hair and a beard, and another with longish dirty blond hair and dark brows that give him a brooding look. And speaking of dirty … the way all four of them are pumping their hips to the beat of the music has my skin heating up again.
While the other three dance in the back, the dark-haired bearded man moves to front and center, where he squats up and down, thrusting and rolling his pelvis, circling his fist in the air, and holding the other arm out like he’s taming a wild bronco, while he makes me sweat more than a heatwave in August.
The show has definitely awakened something in me that I thought was either dead or dormant. The men on stage are all younger than me, but I no longer care. I’ll bet these men know how to please a woman.
And why should I worry about age when my husband certainly didn’t? The woman he left me for is probably younger than any of the men performing here. I may as well enjoy the night.