"A group is always easier to follow
Than finding something new to swallow,
So give us the art that's boring and plain,
It's easier to be different when it's the same!"
Funbus by Buckethead and friends.
The Powerpuff Girls in:
Fierce Cup O Reality
Chapter the First,
Beginning of the End, or End of the Beginning?
It was loud in the club known as Dirtier Dancing. That should come as no surprise, clubs are almost always a noisy affair. The exceptions being Book clubs for the elderly and the existentialism club. But that's because the elderly are too frail to raise their voices any octave higher than a begrudging whisper, and as for the latter . . . well, that just doesn't really matter. Dirtier Dancing bumped and thumped to popular music from these modern days and the 80's. Why skip the righteous songs of the 90's? That is a question asked by many of the people who set foot into Dirtier Dancing. Why should you be any exception?
Entering the building through the rear entrance (the one used exclusively by employees) with a merry skip in her step was that beautiful, caring and altogether sweet eternal flower of grace known as Bubbles, former member of the now disbanded group called the Powerpuff Girls. She walked with a dainty enthusiasm that was uncommon, and almost unnatural when seen in someone wearing heels as high as the ones she currently had on. Her shiny blond hair bopped to and fro with her steps, the little pigtails it was held in shook with a vigor but never moved from its proper place. It was a late night, but Bubbles didn't seem to care, she smiled as though it was the sunniest day of the year. Her explosive charisma shot forth in waves that demanded attention. This pissed off all of the other Dancers in the employ of Dirtier Dancing, but Bubbles didn't care. She was always in a good mood.
Dirtier Dancing's music was simple as always that night. A monotonous thumping that shook any patron's core, and drowned out any hope they had of having a conversation with one of the dancers. Bubbles had made her way to the dressing room and just finished getting changed into her work clothes, a thin white bikini top of the laciest variety, tiny blue thong, the four-inch white heals mentioned previously and a belt. She was just now stepping out into the club's main area when a voice from the shadows came out and stroked her ears, "Bubbles, you're wanted in the private room." The voice was Frank's, the large bouncer who looked as though he just stepped out of a old painting of a whale hunting voyage, then got dressed up in modern clothing, became bored, realized the frailty of existence (in other words joined the existentialism club), and began pondering as to why he ever left the ocean's tender, moist embrace. He was standing by the door Bubbles had just come out of, his face was slightly hidden in the dark light that always accompanied neon strobes, making it look like it was part of the surroundings, perhaps a painting on the wall? The rest of him however, that is to say his clothing, popped like an out of tune string in an otherwise perfect chord! This made his plain white shirt look like the stuff dreams are made of. A evanescent fabric consisting of only thoughts and desires. His pants still looked like pants, though.
Bubbles was surprised by the sudden demand of her company only to the extent that it raised her curiosity beyond the level of, "Electoral vote, what is that?" and brought it all the way up to the area of, "Cookies! For breakfast? !" She responded in a appropriate manner, "Already? But I just got here!"
Frank nodded his head slowly, as though the myriad of naked women dancing about him were of no interest, like they were pictures hanging in a art gallery, and he was a wealthy critic whose house was already full up with photos of fruits and factories, "They arrived about twenty minutes ago, small group of college kids, asked for you by name," then the large man pointed towards a clustering of five or six men, all of whom looked between the ages eighteen and twenty-two. These boys had already noticed Bubbles, and as soon as she looked at them they began to saunter through the lightly packed main floor of Dirtier Dancing.
This excited group had one exception in its midst. The youngest looking of the boys walked with the timid step of a feline messiah. Afraid to tread water, yet fully aware he could walk above it. Bubbles thought that the boy's shy demeanor while among such brazen companions was cute. Most of the people currently occupying the establishment were of a much more hardy sort. They scowled, leered, frowned, drank, smoked, spat, grumbled, sighed, moaned, shook their heads, leered some more, and sweat vodka out of their pores, yet all the while showing no emotion. These enthusiastic youths were a nice change of pace, but their presence would soon become tired. But the singular shy boy was a unique oddity that was unlikely to visit Dirtier Dancing again anytime soon. One of the more chipper looking lads stepped ahead of the pack and spoke in a manner befitting a King's spoiled son, "Bubbles, man you are hot! It's my bro's birthday," he gestured towards the shy boy, "and I want you to give him the sexiest fucking lap dance ever!" After this was said all the boys, sans the one shy one, yelled enthusiastically, while giving out high fives to one another, as young men are wont.
Bubbles did not approve of the familiar tone of voice this self appointed pack-leader used when speaking with her, but her job required that she be friendly with every person that stepped through the doors . . . unless they tried grab her unsolicited . . . or take a picture on their cellphones, "Sure thing, Darling. Twenty bucks."
"Awesome! Here you go," The man handed Bubbles a slip of paper with Benjamin Franklin's face on it, who in turn handed it to bouncer Frank. Again the rowdy men cheered while that curious odd-man-out was pushed forward. "Have fun, Jake!" one of his friends said, "Happy birthday, bro," said another, "I fuckin love strippers!" yelled a third.
Ignoring this, Bubbles took the boy gently by the hand, "Follow me," said she, after which the group once again rallied forth an enthusiastic cry, the sort of cry given before one goes into battle. Bubbles led Jake to the back room or "private room" as it is often called, though how anyone could think of it as private is a worthy mystery that's not worth exploring. The room was, of course, much smaller than the main room, but it wasn't what would be expected from a space designated as "private." Mostly because there were other people already in the room. It was, however, removed from the rest of the crowd, with the music toned down to the point where one could hear the person in front of them (or on top) and the unnatural neon lights were replaced by overly mundane compact florescent bulbs. Every spot on every wall in the room was fixed with a six foot long mirror. These reflections surrounded the occupants with themselves, and could very easily make a Nervous Neddy true to his name. One side of the room also had wooden bench running along its wall. These seats looked as though they were just raised pieces of the flooring, and it was on these that Jake was expected to sit along with all of the grumpy men who had sultry women rubbing up on them.
"Uh, this place sure has a l-lot of m-mirrors." Noted jittery Jake.
"Yeah, it makes the room look bigger . . . and some people just like looking at themselves when they . . . you know." Bubbles sat Jake down at the far end of the bench, "Don't worry, I'll take care of you." That said, Bubbles unsheathed her breasts from their spandex holsters, and began that sexy, exotic dance that would forever change Jake's perception of the female form, and temporarily change the tightness of his trousers.
Jake, while awkwardly enjoying his current experience, suddenly was stricken with the strangest want for conversation. At the best of times, Jacob was a shy lad, so his desire to interact with Bubbles during such a unreserved act was enough to boggle even the sharpest of minds. It was as though he thought the only way to alleviate that floundering pressure pushing down on him (metaphoric pressure, not the pressure applied by Bubbles' body) was to verbally release it, or maybe he felt that he could overload the unwieldy force by feeding it its own power, thus he spoke, "So, um, uh, your name is Bubbles? That's, uh, that's a great st-stripper name."
"Thanks, my daddy gave it to me." Jake's plan failed.
The libidinous nature of Bubbles' dance, the budding euphoria prevailing within his pants, and the totally unexpected response given to him combined within Jake so as to separate his mind from his physical form for a moment. It wasn't until the song playing through the loud speakers ended, and Bubbles stopped the motion of her body, that Jacob regained his senses.
"Your time's up, babe," said Bubbles as she restrung her breasts into their proper fittings, then she moved in close to the boy so that her lips were only a whisper away from his ear, "I can give you another dance if you want, it'll only cost twenty dollars."
Awkwardly, Jacob shook his head, "Friends, holding my money," said he.
From the looks of things, Jake seemed pretty worn out from that first dance, Maybe it's best if he goes and rests, thought Bubbles. Despite her thoughts, however, she did her darnedest to look upset and said, "Oh, that's too bad," then stood up and left the boy to the uncomfortable task of walking in jeans with a blatant erection.
Bubbles left the room a few minutes before Jacob was able to muster the gumption to leave and made it to the other side of the perpetually noisy club. Even still she could hear the jovial cry when Jake finally made his way back to his friends.
After that unusually sudden obligation was completed, Bubbles ascended up the steps onto the main stage, as it was time for the dancers to switch out. When her name was announced over the loud speakers, and the lights shone over her buxomly bodacious body every male in the club sallied forth an explosive and savage, baritone cheer that, for a moment, overwhelmed the music playing and wrought a sort of primeval terror over the other strippers, all of whom could feel with the entirety of their being the manic obsession these men felt for Bubbles, yet only a few of them felt concerned for her. It would not be a bold assumption to say that Bubbles was well liked at Dirtier Dancing.
It should come as no surprise that this is the case. After all, Bubbles had a pretty and honest face with a body that measured time like an hourglass, she could dance with a grace that would embarrass the most intensely trained belly dancers. And as far as "stripper moves" were concerned, those seemed like inconsequential afterthoughts for Bubbles, who preformed them as easily as one preforms the tying of shoes. Also she did this neat little levitating split move.
And so the night moved on like a cruel, unforgiving clock. Always in motion, ignorant to any problem that needs fixing. Oblivious to any joyful memory hoping to become eternal. It just moved, and Bubbles moved with it. More people came to Bubbles looking for private dances, even Jake returned for another round, and Bubble accommodated all of them. It was a fruitful night for her, making just over one-hundred dollars. Still, she was relieved to leave Dirtier Dancing at around two AM. She changed back into her modest street clothes (which were still oddly accented by her high heals) and said goodbye to the bouncers.
Before she walked out the back entrance (or exit, as the need arises), Bubbles looked through the ajar door that led to her manager's office. He was there, organizing papers that Bubbles assumed contained important tax related information, "Matt?" said she.
"Yes?" said the older man as he swiveled around in his leather chair, "Ah, Bubbles, come on in! What's up?" Matt was friendly with all of his dancers, but especially Bubbles since many of the costumers came to Dirtier Dancing just to see her.
"Nothing much, I just wanted to say goodbye before I left and . . ." Bubbles turned her head to both sides looking to see if there was anyone else watching, as though what she was about to say was some manner of horrible slander, "I was just wondering why the club never plays any music from the 90's?"
Mathew's face went blank, "Seriously?" said he, "Have you listened to any song from the 90's? All the musicians were a bunch of self centered, drug addled crybabies who only only ever sung about how bad their lives were, and meanwhile they're sitting in their mansions counting their millions!" Bubbles laughed at his ardent outburst. Matt was quite the enigma. Bubbles thought for sure the man was a homosexual, yet he ran a strip club! And did it well, too!
"Have a goodnight, Matt."
"You too, Bubbles, be safe on your way home."
"Always." Bubbles left the building the exact same way she came into it, skipping merrily and caring little for life's troubles.