Sixty Second Stripper
Within the old wooden building, a group of men were drinking. They had gathered for the pub’s bawdy night, washing down their fatigue with draughts from the bar. It was a rowdy crowd, usual for a Saturday night.
“That’s a nice watch you got there,” Jack told his neighbour.
“Aye,” replied Dan in his thick brogue.
“How much you want for it?”
“A night with your wife,” said Dan, and the crowd roared with laughter.
Saturdays were the most popular night of the week. Tonight was an extra special night: the talent was rumoured to be the loveliest Helene, fresh from a tour of Egypt and Persia where she had undoubtedly learned exotic moves to entice any red-blooded male. As the rowdy group continued their drinking, the lamps suddenly dimmed, leaving a small ring of fire in the middle of the room. Men scraped their chairs backwards, allowing room for the mystical woman to appear.
The noise level dropped in anticipation. There was a tangible energy rising with expectation of something special.
A jingle. A prolonged rebel yell. A soft coo. More jingles. A bare foot stepped into the circle, illuminated by lamps on the floor. The men’s eyes lingered on that foot before slowly eyeing her smooth legs, covered knees, gyrating hips, undulating waist, full breasts, dancing arms, long neck, lips longing to be kissed, eyes beckoning one into her sacred space, hair long and flowing.
The men yelped. A few men reached into the circle, hoping to brush just a finger against the mystical Helene. She smacked their hands away, empowering herself with nothing but the rhythm. No one noticed the piano in the corner nor the steady beat of a home-made drum, but they felt both.
Helene moved around her circular space, giving each man just a hint of her scent. Heady vanilla lingered just out of reach, while orange blossoms danced from her flowered tiara, wafting in the wake of her body.
Starting with her knees, she carefully lifted her skirt just enough to allow a glimpse of her upper leg; not quite the thigh, but definitely more than knee. More than one man swore they had seen her undergarments, frilly pink lace the kind their wives wore on their honeymoon.
Helene peeled her shawl from her shoulders, allowing it to fall gracefully to the floor. The men howled at the sight of her pale, creamy skin. Their howls sent Helene into a literal spin. She fixed her eye on a crack in the wall behind the bar, then pirouetted quickly. Transfixed, no man noticed she was disrobing as she spun.
She slowed to a stop in the middle of the circle. Her clothes, everything except her lingerie, lay in a pile on the floor.
Exactly sixty seconds after Helene had stopped her pirouette, she danced out of the circle, leaving the hungry men attacking her clothes like a pack of wolves.
“Why?” the men cried.
The bar keep shrugged. “Regulations,” he offered. “Anything more than a minute and the cops’ll be here faster than her twirl.”
