Looking for Mr. Goodtime

Can we change the world one pole dance at a time?

Last weekend, dance fever was in the air. I didn´t know it until the thing had run its course, and only then did I suspect that I might have been the Typhoid Mary of this particular jitterbug. It all began when, trying to avoid an outdoor gig for which I was inadequately prepared, I had courted the gods with a rain dance. Voilá. Torrential downpour ensued, saving me from a distasteful obligation. When I told my friend Christine about this, her eyes lit up. There were other, worthier uses for my supernatural power, she said. I could use my talents to help sell her house. Thus, the realty dance was born.

That Friday, after we performed my newly invented dance intended to woo the sales gods in preparation for her weekend open house, we decided to go out on a Night Rider mission.

Our destination: the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino, where stars have been known to party among the hoi polloi. We made the long hike across the artificial terrain to Pangaea to check out its summer-solstice shindig. At the witching hour, though, nary a dancer was celebrating the year´s longest day. By the looks of the sparsely populated club, the sun had long since set on that party.

Tony Gleeson

The explanation came to me like a thunderbolt. I slapped my head. Ouch. It´s hurricane season, meaning that locals, not tourists, and certainly not famous ones, are the only ones on the nighttime prowl.

¨Casino bar?¨ I suggested.

Christine and I headed inside with the vague hope that we´d at least meet high rollers with great stories. Beyond the card tables and past the rock ´n´ roll memorabilia, we wended through a maze of musical, illuminated slot machines that stretched in long aisles through the casino´s palatial vastness. The collective effect was a mesmerizing symphony and light show.

When we found the aptly named Lobby Bar, the place felt like a haven where we could spend a peaceful eternity. On the periphery of the electronically pulsing Elysian fields, the bar was a series of ambiently lit white archways. A small bar dispensed drinks at one end; a band played jazz fusion at the other. Things were looking good. Christine, who had worn strappy sandals as sexy as they were excruciating, aimed for a cushy barstool. I, in more sensible shoes, headed toward a young woman who had drawn the attention of a rapt audience.

A group of middle-aged guys was transfixed by the action on the dance floor. Somebody offered us drinks; we accepted. Christine grabbed the vacant stool as I moved toward the show: a scandalous, drunken dance. A slender young thing teased the crowd with her unearthly perfection: a muscular ass, most of which she exposed in micro-mini, yellow track shorts. As she teetered on her high heels, she shimmied and we gaped. Her green tube top clung, as if for its life, to the small cliffs of her breasts. I returned to retrieve my friend so we could enjoy the spectacle together, but since there were no open seats up front, she wasn´t budging.

¨She´s a good dancer,¨ commented the guy who´d introduced himself as David and offered the two of us drinks.

¨Really?¨ I asked. In fact, at that moment, Ms Bootilicious was stumbling through her moves. She fell forward, making a stripper pole of her partner. She leaped, left leg folded and the other extended, clasping her surprised date, managing a bit of a twirl around his hips. I had to get the backstory on this duo.

As if I were destined to go head to head (I didn´t stand a chance butt to butt with she of the steel glutes) once again on the foreign front (I took a lot of heat from angry women with Russian names after last week´s Night Rider, ¨Soviet Block Party¨), the young woman answered my inquiries in accented English. ¨I don´t speak English. I am Russian.¨ When I pressed her dance partner about their relationship, the Russian-American offered only, ¨I´m thinking of sponsoring her.¨

Evidently, this hot piece of property had a sales dance of her own. Was this a buyer´s or seller´s market?

Meanwhile, Christine´s beauty and tolerance had resulted in several offers. She was in the throes of adulation from a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a foot fetish, and a willingness to foot the bill. While she worked on her second complimentary vodka-tonic, he kept trying to cop a below-the-ankle feel.

As she periodically swung her feet out of reach, he tried to cajole her into a different arrangement.

¨Let me take you to dinner,¨ he suggested. ¨C´mon.¨

Christine giggled her refusals, and her coyness egged him on.

¨You gotta eat!¨ he insisted.

His buddy interjected: ¨Take her for the surf and turf... get her a fish sandwich and a cheeseburger.¨

Without missing a beat, Christine´s libidinous suitor persisted (¨I´ll buy you lobster, whatever you want¨) while I watched the night´s best diversion get escorted away, fabulous ass and all, in the arms of her dance partner and potential sponsor. Now the only moves were on Christine as she was double-teamed by the on-the-town pair, David (sporting a diamond-encircled Rolex) and Mr. Happy Feet. With Christine a captive of both her taste for crippling footwear and sense of indebtedness for the drinks, I realized that the evening was a lame washout and that I´d have to venture out a second time.

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