In this line of work, the difference between a rough night and paydirt is slight. But no matter what, there is one constant - everyone appreciates good service.
Her garments reek of menthol cigarettes and perfume. With her palms pressed against an exterior wall, I hear French manicured fingernails scratching virgin concrete. She desperately needs adult supervision, so I give her ponytail a firm tug. As a reflex, her spine arches precisely, presenting a backside that begs for another spanking.
Midway through, I imagine her insignificant other prowling inside the nightclub, searching for his missing D-cup of a fiancée. He is a standard issue male beast who guzzles bourbon like tap water. Testosterone and arrogance would persuade him to wander hallways and lurk near the ladies’ restroom, without any suspicion of our hidden spot in the alley.
After we finish, this debutante regains her false sense of elegance, ashamed of the tawny pantyhose that were temporarily yanked down to her kneecaps. With one continuous motion, she stretches them back up to her midriff and brushes a wrinkle off her Gucci dress, becoming graceful once again. She rummages through a petite purse to reveal a wad of crumpled Kleenex. Smiling, she wipes away any leftover genetic evidence that she didn’t already swallow, deftly hiding her criminal activities before bouncing back into the club.
I slide through the rear door, the obscure entrance that employees use. I casually shuffle inside and serve her boyfriend another shot of liquor, just seconds before the owner announces last call. He grins and instinctually reaches for his wallet, unaware that his beloved future bride has already done enough to pay for this drink. I tell him this one is on the house, and he nods his silent approval.
Like I said before, everyone appreciates good service.
(Good Service received an Honorable Mention in the 2004 Desdemona Fishnet Flash Fiction Contest.)