John's new job had plenty of drawbacks, but the view made up for most of them. Damn near all of them, in fact. Bartending involved standing on sore feet all night, the ever-present odor of stale alcohol, and enduring the pounding music and the drunken come-ons from "gentlemen" who were too far gone to realize they didn't have a chance in hell of pulling him - but it also meant he had a perfect line of sight to the stage. And to Shezza.

Not that Shezza was the only performer at the club, by a long shot - there were half a dozen dancers taking turns on any given night - but he was easily the biggest draw. The crowd was twice the usual size on nights Shezza danced. More bodies meant more alcohol sales, which meant John was busy and Greg the manager was happy, but there seemed to be an unspoken accord that nobody buy their drinks while Shezza was actually on stage for fear of missing something. Which meant that during the important parts of the evening, i.e. when Shezza was performing, John was gloriously free to watch. He leaned against the counter, absently circling the same spot over and over with his cleaning rag, and just let himself appreciate the sight.

And oh, what a fabulous sight it was! Shezza came on stage, like usual, in a gorgeous slimline suit which accentuated his long limbs and high cheekbones. He winked cheekily at the few wolf-whistles he'd already accumulated, then cued his music with a flip of his head and started undulating slowly as the song built. His musical choices were night-and-day different from what the other dancers preferred, but it worked - instead of repetitive techno or heavy electric guitars, Shezza used something that sounded like a cross between rock and classical. John had no idea what - music wasn't really his thing, popular or no - but the odd mix fit Shezza to a T.

As did his suit. John dropped the rag and stopped bothering to even pretend he was doing anything but staring. Tonight Shezza had a royal purple dress shirt on underneath the suit jacket, almost indecently tight. Almost. Actually, John reasoned, that was probably part of the appeal - Shezza's outfit at the start of his routine wouldn't be amiss in the posher parts of London. He looked like any rich bloke just out for a stroll on a long lunch break. (Any gorgeous rich bloke, but still.)

As the music grew more evocative, though, so did Shezza. The jacket disappeared slowly, almost by magic - John couldn't pinpoint when, exactly, Shezza took it off, only that one moment he was all buttoned up tight and proper and then some mesmerizing number of gyrations later, he was down to a tight pair of black dress slacks and a half-open purple shirt and John was drooling along with everyone else in the crowd.

Shezza loosened his tie, slowly, like he was debating whether they deserved to see him continue. Even though this was a regular part of the routine, the same thing Shezza did every night he was on stage, John still found himself holding his breath until Shezza finally yanked it off with a sharp snap and began the tease in earnest. Through some slight-of-hand the tie made its way over Shezza's entire body - sliding over his shoulder, caressing his taut stomach, winding between his thighs and drawing tight to give the crowd a close-up of his incredible arse before reversing course and eventually ending up on the floor at the back of the stage. The belt met a similar fate, although not without a few whip-cracks which never failed to draw murmurs of appreciation from the kinkier men present.

"How's the evening going?"

John jumped. It actually took a few seconds to come back down to earth. Earth, where his boss was watching him with an amused smirk and a knowing gleam in his eye.

"I know, I know," Greg said. "He's pretty impressive, isn't he."

"I, ah. Yeah." John took a deep breath and forced his voice back to normal. "Evening's going well so far - looks like we'll be on par for the usual volume. I was just . . . taking advantage of a lull."

"You were ogling that incredibly fine specimen onstage, was what you were doing." Greg grinned. "Would have thought you'd be sick of the dancers by now - I know you've only been here a few weeks, but you've seen 'em all four or five times over by this point. It's not like they vary their routines much."

John nodded toward the stage, where Shezza was currently sliding his palms down from his abdomen and into the very open flies of his trousers. Where the sparkly black thong was already peeking through. "Dance like that and you don't need to."

"True enough - he's certainly got enough groupies who don't seem to care." Greg's expression turned serious. "Fair warning, though - for all he looks delectable on stage, Shezza's not one you want to get mixed up with. You wouldn't believe the diva tantrums he's capable of."

John would, actually - it was bloody obvious Shezza was the club's biggest draw, and with that status came a not-inconsiderable amount of pull with the management. The talent didn't come to the bar much - they were forbidden from drinking while working, which was probably a good thing - but John had still heard stories. Anderson, the soundboard bloke, could barely stop frothing at the mouth long enough to order a beer when he really got going on a tear about Shezza's latest stunt. So far Shezza had (according to Anderson) caused two dancers to quit ten minutes before they were due on stage, started three fires in his dressing room, and caused an all-out brawl in the back alley between two rival lowlife bigwigs after spitting out a series of embarrassing and apparently true facts about each in the presence of the other. There was more, old grievances which spanned back to when Shezza first started dancing and the club was under previous ownership, but John usually was able to deflect Anderson before his sulks turned into epic drunken rants and included all the messy details.

Right. "I've been warned," John said. "But it's kind of a moot point - he's never come to the bar, so it's not like I'm going to meet him anytime soon. And I do know the saying about not shitting where you eat."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "I'm going to pretend that didn't just give me a terrible mental image of what you two might get up to if you ever did get together. He's probably a kinky bastard like that."

"Fuck you."

"Not on a work night, but thanks." Greg threw him a wink and stood up. "I'm gonna go make another round - holler if you need anything."

"I will."

He meandered off through the crowd, leaving John just enough time to appreciate the final five minutes of Shezza's strip. It was nowhere near long enough to get his dick back under control before the post-Shezza bar rush hit, but that would have taken all night.