Could Have Danced All Night, Part II

Alan and Miranda lay in bed, spent, relaxed. Alan picked up one of her gloves from the nightstand and put it on.

"I really like these. I think we should make these a regular part of our…repertoire."

She giggled and reached for the glove, laying across him. "You're going to stretch out my glove."

He held it away from her. "That's the great thing about being rich, Miranda. I can replace these over and over again."

She looked down into his face, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Hmmm. But don't you think it's silly to destroy things just because you can afford to?"

He raised his eyebrows innocently. "But what good is being rich if you can't be destructive?"

"Oh, no you don't," she said rolling onto her back and snuggling under the blankets.

"What?"

"You're not luring me into a political debate." She closed her eyes, smiling.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do. You're feeling frisky now that we've made love and now you're wanting to debate."

He chuckled.

"So, I give up now, you win. I don't want to argue right now."

"That's a first. You usually enjoy our…post-coital debates."

"Not tonight. I just want to enjoy this feeling a little while longer, if you don't mind. My toes are still tingling a little."

He rubbed his chest with the gloved hand. "Do you have any idea how good this feels? Have you…ever worn the gloves and…touched yourself?"

She laughed. "No. I can't say that I have. But I'll keep that in mind for those nights when you have sleepovers with Denny."

"Here, feel this." He ran his gloved hand over her chest, down her breast and belly.

"Mm. That does feel good."

He sat up on one elbow to face her. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," she said, her eyes closed.

"Do you think I'm…too…old and fat for you?"

Her eyes popped open and she turned her face to his. "You're not still thinking about what Denny said are you?"

"I am."

"Honey, he has mad cow. He probably doesn't know what he's saying sometimes."

"Don't let him fool you. He's more lucid than he lets on."

"So it's gotten to you."

"It has. And then you said I don't take proper care of myself—twice in one night is more than a coincidence."

She rolled over on her side to face. "I hope you realize that what I said had nothing to do with age and weight, Alan. I'm more concerned about the amount of stress you take upon yourself—that has a far more insidious reach. If I had a problem with your age and weight, do you not think it would affect my libido, my attraction to you?"

"I suppose it would." He ran his gloved hand down her arm, his eyes not meeting hers.

"And have you noticed any changes in that regard?"

"No."

"So why the insecurity?" She touched his face.

"I don't know."

She sat up on her elbow. "Alan, look at me."

He lifted his eyes to her face.

"I am intensely attracted to you on every level…."

His eyes betrayed his feelings of tender insecurity. He soaked up her words with child-like craving for approval and praise.

She continued. "I want to do things with you that are illegal in the states that carried Bush in the last election."

He laughed. "I think we've already done most of those things."

"You're a fantastic lover, Alan." She ran her hand over his hip. "You want to know a secret?"

"I love secrets."

"You're the only man who's had the ability to…bring me to fruition—every time."

"You're toying with me." He said flatly. "That's unkind of you, Miranda."

"I'm not. I've always had to do it myself—well, most of the time. Other men didn't care; didn't know how and wouldn't take the time to learn; or didn't want to put forth the effort. So how could I not be happy with you?"

He chuckled. "I've done a lot of research and experimentation over the years. It's all about control; it's a powerful feeling, I assure you, to be able to control the responses of a woman's body."

"Who cares? As long as you keep getting results, you can control my body all you want!" She said happily.

"I hope you don't come to regret those words someday." He said matter of factly, running his gloved hand under the blanket along her hip.

"You laugh, but you are truly the most sensual…unselfish lover I've ever known—I get tingles just thinking about it." She moved closer to him and wrapped a leg over his. "And then my attraction to you mentally—oh, my God, Alan, your mind is the single most erotic thing I've ever encountered—and I don't mean just the naughty parts. "

He laughed.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again: when you're in that court room, giving one of your long, eloquent closings—the way you use language, your passion—I become so aroused that it sets my teeth on edge—makes me just want to tear into you." She grabbed him and growled roughly.

He lifted his eyebrows, surprised, flattered. "Well, I'm currently working on my closing for the McPherson case. Would you like to hear it?"

"I'm not finished," she said, putting her finger to his mouth to still his words. "I'm attracted to you spiritually, politically, professionally—and most importantly…emotionally." She lowered her voice and spoke gravely. "As rash as it may be to admit this right now, I'm going out on a limb to say my heart belongs completely to you. I'm sure it's a foolish thing, love often is. I've been warned against it, but you possess it nonetheless."

He blinked rapidly, genuinely touched. "I'm not sure if I'm the one you should trust with the responsibility of caring for it."

"Too late. At any rate you should not let Denny's comment get to you."

"I just wonder though if we could do more if I were younger…thinner."

"Like what? I can't think of a single thing we've tried that we have been able to accomplish. Besides, if you were any younger, you would lack the distinguished, refined element that deeply attracts me. If you were much thinner, I wouldn't feel like I was with a man; it would feel more like a college boy and I lost interest in those in high school."

He furrowed his brows. "I'm sure you think you've explained it."

"It's hard to explain, and this is certainly my personal tastes, but for me, I like to feel the weight of a man—a man with a little meat on his bones. I don't want to feel like I might hurt him if things get a little rough—as long as I can still put my legs and arms around you, I'm happy."

He chuckled. "Of course if maybe I lost a little weight…"

She put her fingers to his lips. "Maybe losing ten or fifteen pounds would benefit your health—that's my only concern. If you want to do it, then fine. Just make sure that you're doing it for yourself, not for me. I've told you how I feel." She studied him for a moment and brushed her fingers over his face and then kissed him. "What's really going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've never known you to be insecure about this sort of thing before. So why now? What are you really asking me?"

He wavered.

"Just come out with it already."

"Saheed. Was he your lover at one time?"

She smiled knowingly. "So this is about Saheed."

"He is kind of dreamy."

She laughed. "I was never his lover, Alan."

"What about his equally dreamy cousin?"

"Ahmed…" she hesitated. "That's a bit of a different story."

"I see."

"No, you don't. It was a purely physical attraction—at first." She sat up and propped herself up on pillows against the headboard.

"Then you fell in love?" He looked up at her.

"Not at all. He became incredibly possessive and jealous—and he fell under all of the selfish lover categories: he only was concerned about his own satisfaction and did not know, care to learn or put for the effort into my satisfaction. Therefore, the physical attraction went down hill quickly on my part."

"Is that why you wouldn't tell me about what you did for them…because of the relationship?"

"In part. I didn't want him to cause a scene. I didn't want to get you involved."

"What is it with you and jealous, possessive men—your ex husband and now Ahmed?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I think it's because these men appear to be really sensitive and passionate—and at first they are. In addition to that, I think it's because I'm not so jealous and possessive.

"You're not jealous?" he scoffed.

"Well not over trifles. I only get jealous when I feel legitimately threatened. You do the same thing by the way."

"I'm not jealous." He put his head in her lap.

"Really? Then why the questions about Saheed and Ahmed?"

"I just want to know you better, that's all."

She scoffed. "Ha! You forget whom you're talking to, Alan Shore; it's okay." She ran her hand in little circles through his hair. "I don't hold it against you—a little bit of jealously, like the kind you're currently experiencing, is completely normal and healthy.

He chuckled anxiously, "I'm not…"

She interrupted. "But to answer your question: I don't know why I tend to attract these men. I guess I'm a little more independent and free-spirited than they are and that's an aspect of my personality they wish they had so they seek to both possess it and control it."

"How long were you with Ahmed?"

She pursed her lips. "I guess about six months or so."

"Was he the one right before me?"

"Yes."

"Why did you break up?"

"It was an illicit affair. We were both married—only I didn't know he was married, and a father of four, until the week I broke up with him. I was separated and on my way out of the marriage—you know all the particulars there. But Ahmed was just looking for a little fun on the side and I'm no side dish."

"No you're not."

"Nor am I a home wrecker. And playing second fiddle to any woman is intolerable to me, so I broke it off when I found out."

"Was his wife at the ball last night?"

"She was—so there was an added discomfort."

"Perhaps you're ready to tell me now what you did for a lot of money that didn't involve prostitution or catering."

"Ahmed and Saheed are co-owners of a private gentleman's club called the Morocco."

He lifted his brows. "A gentleman's club?"

"It's almost like a resort; it's got gaming tables, massage parlors, cigar rooms, a restaurant, billiard room. It's like a tree house for grown up rich boys."

"And it has girls?"

"Yes, but not strippers. The girls are more like geishas—beautiful conversationalists and entertainers who are trained to make the men feel as debonair and powerful as they think they are. There were girls there who did grant additional favors, for a price, but I was never one of them."

He stared at her. "Not even once?"

"Never—and there were offers all the time. But I was dating Ahmed and though I didn't love him, I believed we were monogamous."

"Were you a geisha?'

"No."

"Too bad. I've always wanted to date a geisha." He frowned.

"They weren't really geishas, Alan; it was just a term I used, loosely, to identify their role."

"So what was your role at the Morocco?" He looked up at her.

"I was…a dancer."

"I thought you said the club didn't have strippers."

"It didn't. I was a belly dancer in the restaurant section. The men would come, order food and drinks, watch a show. I was a performer only. I did my job and went home. I rarely mingled with the men."

He sat up quickly, mouth agape. Immediately, his mind launched into an onslaught of images and fantasies His mouth tried to form the words, "A b-." He chuckled. "A belly dancer? This is so much better than the geisha." He threw a hand over his heart. "I can't tell you how happy I am. I may weep. This is as good as that time I got to see nude pictures of Shirley Schmidt."

"Nude pictures?"

"Yes; taken when she was about 18."

"She's a good looking lady now, so I bet she was gorgeous when she was younger."

"She was," he said dreamily. "But I think I prefer her now—mature, wise, seasoned, experienced."

She nodded. "I can understand that." She patted his thigh and smiled at him. "Well, it's good to know you aren't angry at me, holding grudges or feeling insecure anymore."

"I'm not. But I don't understand why you hid the truth."

"Embarrassment mostly."

"Why would you be embarrassed if you did nothing wrong?"

"Just everything about that time in my life," she sighed. "When I think of it, it just brings back bad memories, bad feelings—feelings of guilt and humiliation. Think about it, Alan: My marriage had fallen apart because of my drug-addled abusive husband. He had blown all our money and I was the sole supporter. I danced because it was a way to make lots of money fast so I wouldn't have to prostitute, so I could get out of my broken marriage. I was forced into the situation, which made it feel dirty and cheap."

"I like dirty and cheap."

She rolled her eyes. "The worst feeling of all was that I felt stupid because I was suckered by Ahmed into becoming his mistress. I beat myself up over that one for a long time. I should have known better. I don't care to be a man's lover, but I won't be anyone's mistress. Can you understand why I really didn't want to talk about it?"

He set his jaw, his brows furrowed, puzzled. "I'm not sure."

"Every time I think about those days, I revert to those feelings of humiliation."

"But you were a belly dancer," he said excitedly. "That's a wonderful, wonderful thing."

She laughed. "Nothing like the professionals, I assure you. But these men didn't know what they were looking at. All they saw was a decent body wrapped up in a glittery shiny costume—it was the mirage of a belly dancer."

He chuckled. "Perhaps you're too modest."

"No. I had taken some lessons as a hobby, but I was not a professional performer by any stretch of the imagination. Ahmed and Saheed liked me because I did manage to bring in money."

"How so?"

"We have a large Middle Eastern community in Boston. When word got out that there was a Middle Eastern dancer at the club, memberships increased. Then Ahmed would hire me out to perform at weddings and private parties. He got a cut of all the money I brought in from outside functions. He very quickly stepped into the role of manager. He took something that was remotely fun for me and turned it into something I began to despise. Then when I found out about wifey-poo, I had had enough; so I quit. By that time, I had been hired at the firm."

"I can't believe you kept this a secret from me. I'm distraught I didn't know about this sooner." He paused and ran his hand up her arm. "Do you think it would be possible for me to…see you dance sometime?"

She smiled, wavered. "Well, I was saving this for a bit of a surprise."

"Oh please, I don't think I can take any more surprises."

"I promised Saheed I would come back to perform one time only if, and only if, all the proceeds would go to the children's hospital. He agreed to it. I'm drafting a contract tomorrow at work that I'm going to make him and Ahmed sign. I'd like for you to look at it, make sure it's airtight."

"Of course." He stammered. "I'm confused. Is the contract the surprise?"

She chuckled and pushed him playfully. "No silly. The surprise is that I want you to come to the Morocco on the night I perform—to watch the show."

"If you're teasing…"

She laughed. "I'm not. But there's an ulterior motive."

"What's that?"

"Well, now that the cat is out of the bag, I wanted to show you what I once did and where I did it… I know it bothered you last night that I didn't talk about it and that it must have set up some doubts in your mind about me."

"It did."

"So I want you to come to the performance so you can see for yourself what I did, where I did it. I know you have trust issues and I don't want you to ever have reason to doubt me."

"You mean I will actually get to watch you dance…in the little costume and everything?"

She nodded, smiling. "Yes. But really, I wouldn't get too …enthusiastic."

"Much too late for that."

"Can I invite Denny?"

"If you'd like."

"When is the show?"

"The night before we leave for Paris."

He looked at her tenderly for a moment. He ran his finger across the scratches on her cheek. "Looks like this is starting to heal."

"It is."

"I'll be a little sad to see it go."

She was surprised. "Really? Why?"

"I don't know. It's hard to put it in to words. It's sort of a sign of your inner fierceness."

She laughed. "I don't really consider myself fierce."

"Oh you are, or rather, can be, if provoked."

"And you like that?"

"I do…a little. There's something titillating about it."

"I think you may be losing your grip a little, Alan."

He chuckled.

"Or maybe you're just really tired since it's three in the morning."

"So?"

"Soooo…we have to get up in about four or five hours."

"We can be late."

"Actually, we can't. You have that deposition first thing in the morning."

"How first thing?"

"As in nine, first thing."

He groaned and lay back on the bed and rubbed his face. "Why do you schedule those things so early?"

"There was no other time." She moved closer and lay on his shoulder. "You see, that's what I was talking about earlier. You work yourself to death: you take on all your work, plus help out so many other people. Your altruism has made a very tight schedule for you." She touched the tip of his nose with her finger. "You've done it to yourself, love."

"Hmm." He put his hands behind his head. "So I guess there's not enough time for a second dance tonight?"

She kissed him. "I don't think so. You know how grouchy you are when you don't get enough sleep."

"Me?" he chuckled. "You can be quite a bear when you're tired—almost as bad as Denny."

"So that should motivate you to let me get some sleep."

"Indeed. Come here." He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down to his chest, smoothing her hair.

Two weeks later...

Alan sauntered onto the balcony; it was a cool spring night and a light breeze played over the balcony.

"Where have you been?" Denny asked irritated.

"I dropped Miranda off at home. You know that," Alan said, picking up his cigar that Denny had placed on the side table for him.

"Yea, but I've been here for over an hour."

"Well," Alan wavered. "I was temporarily…detained." He sat in his chair.

Denny sat on the edge of his seat and said lustily, "You had sex?"

"Well…"

"Was she still in her little…costume?" Denny asked eagerly.

Alan said, lighting his cigar, "Denny that's inappropriate."

"Sex with a belly dancer," Denny growled. "Can I smell you?"

"Excuse me?" Alan said chuckling, releasing his smoke.

"Some of her scent may be left on you."

"No, you can't smell me," Alan said.

"You've let me do it before…with other girls."

"This is different." Alan sipped his scotch.

"Buzz kill."

"Nevertheless."

"I bet she's an animal in bed." Denny said, gazing at him.

"Denny…," Alan said, warningly.

"Aw c'mon, Alan, you got to give me something here. I'm your best friend."

"Even still."

"Oh all right," Denny said grumpily, "But I don't like it."

"I can live with that."

Denny pouted, gnawing on his cigar pensively. At last he said, "That was some performance, huh?"

"Indeed," Alan said, releasing his smoke into the air.

"I like the dance with sword. That was the more erotic than…"

"If she had danced with a gun?"

"Exactly." Denny pointed his cigar at him.

"I liked the snaky, sultry dance at the end," Alan said. He sipped his drink.

"The one with the candles?"

"Yes."

"She has some body," Denny growled. "I've said it before, I'll say it again. You are one lucky bastard."

Alan chuckled. "I have you to thank, Denny." Alan looked at him warmly.

"Don't ever forget that." Denny bit his cigar, staring out at the sky.

"No chance of that, my friend."

"She's truly a beautiful woman, Alan."

"Yes. She is."

"How could you have kept that a secret…from me? I thought we were flamingos."

Alan said, chuckling, "I didn't know either until a couple weeks ago, after the charity ball."

"Oh?"

"Turns out one of the tall, dark and handsome men had been a lover at one time."

"Really?" Denny said.

"Yes. Made me feel rather…insecure."

"Why?" Denny looked at him.

"Well, I'm not tall or dark…"

"But you're handsome."

"You think so?"

"Not as handsome as me, of course…"

"Of course…"

"But you're still handsome, so I don't know why you'd feel insecure."

"He was younger, thinner," Alan said half-heartedly. "I thought maybe Miranda…I don't know…might prefer him to me."

"That's ridiculous. You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because you're rich and powerful—that trumps young and thin any day."

Alan shook his head, looking at Denny. "I don't think that's it."

"Sure it is."

"You think Miranda is after my money and my power?"

"Women love money and power; it allows them to go shopping and get out of speeding tickets."

Alan stared at him in disbelief.

"What are looking at?"

"Just soaking in another pearl of wisdom." He sipped his scotch. "Besides, Miranda likes me for more than my power or money."

"Oh yea? How do you know?"

"She told me so."

"And you're going to take her word for it?"

"I am."

"Why?"

"I have an instinct for these things. I've known women who were only interested in my money and power and she doesn't behave like any of them."

Denny sat back in his chair and contemplatively puffed his cigar. Finally he said, "You know what I would do with her—that is, if you'd let me touch her?"

"I'm scared to ask." Alan chuckled.

"I'd grab her, marry her, make her mine, make strong, strapping boys with her…"

Alan's mouth dropped open.

"What? Why you staring at me like that?"

"I…never expected you to say…children? You'd want to have children?"

"Why not? Someone to carry on the Crane legacy."

"I thought you never wanted children."

"I never said that," Denny said sternly, pointing his cigar at him. "I said I never made time for children—my career took a lot of time. There was Donny, but he was never really mine. I supported him, but I didn't make time to be with him either."

"This is quite a revelation, Denny," Alan said quietly.

"But now, these days, now that I'm established, I sometimes think that it would be nice to…be a father. You should do that now while you're young enough Alan. It's too late for me. But you, you've already established your career, you're young enough, you're rich."

"I don't know, Denny." He scoffed. "Me as a father? That's a frightening thought."

"Why?"

"Because I'm terrified that I would turn out…like…my own father. If I…I just wouldn't be able to live with myself."

"We're all afraid of becoming our fathers. But you know what I've learned over the years?"

"What?"

"That you're aware of your fears and because of your awareness you won't become like your father. The only ones who become like their fathers are the ones who are never aware."

Alan squinted. "I don't know Denny."

"I do."

"It's so much responsibility and…commitment. I mean we aren't even exclusive yet."

Denny laughed. "Are you kidding me? I've never seen you so exclusive…except with me."

"She hasn't said we are."

"Are you sleeping with anyone else?"

"No."

"Is she sleeping with anyone else?"

"I don't think so."

"Then you're exclusive; it's just words…never mind that anyway. I'm saying you'd be a good father whether you think you would be or not."

"Well," he chuckled. "You can think that all you want but I'm not going…to…" He rolled his eyes and scoffed, sipping his scotch.

"What's wrong?" Denny sat up in his seat, looking at Alan.

"I'm getting a little light-headed just thinking about this. Let's change the subject."

Denny shrugged and sat back. He puffed his cigar, staring at the sky.

Alan silently fretted, shook his head, disturbed by the conversation.

"So we're going away soon: you to Paris with a belly dancer, me to Hawaii with Hot Tamale Joan."

"Yes," Alan said. "It won't be the same without you, Denny—being apart for a whole week."

"We should have a sleepover tonight."

"Yes," Alan said happily.

"I've been thinking," Denny said, leaning over the arm of his chair, "We can still have balcony time while we're apart."

"How?"

"Over the phone."

Alan leaned his head back and released his smoke into the air. "We could try that. You think the girls would mind?"

"Doesn't matter. Flamingos first."

"Indeed."

"You promise?"

Alan swallowed his drink. "I promise."

"Every night?"

Alan thought for a moment. "You know that your morning will be my night and vice versa. Paris is 11 hours ahead of Hawaii, Denny."

"I'm an early riser. How's 7 am?"

"That would be 6pm for me."

"Every night."

"Every night." Alan sat quietly for a moment, gazing out at the lighted buildings. "I'm going to miss you, Denny."

"Don't be such a girl. It's just for a week."

"Still."

Denny stood up. "C'mon. Let's go make some s'mores. Apocalypse Now is on TV tonight."

"Sounds good." Alan stood and put down his glass and buttoned his suit jacket. He patted Denny on the shoulder as they walked through the balcony door.

They gathered up their things and headed toward the elevator.

"I still don't know why you want to go all the way to Paris and hang out with a bunch of Frenchies."

"Well, Denny, sometimes, we do things to make the ladies happy. After all, that seems to be the secret to getting them to continue having sex with us." He pushed the elevator button.

"I suppose you're right. So if I did something to make Miranda happy, you think she'd have sex with me?"

The doors open and they stepped in.

"Hands off my girl, Denny." Alan pushed the button to the first floor.

"So you would deny me, your best flamingo friend…"

"I would." Alan looked up at the floor numbers.

"Fine," Denny grumbled.

"Fine."

The doors slid shut.