Dancing Girls

Rachel and I had booked a super-economy whirlwind trip to Paris for our twentieth anniversary. It was a travel offer we couldn’t refuse. And it was a trip without the kids.

We were staying at a nondescript hotel surrounded by wig stores, just up the street from a bookstore in front of which Vietnamese ladies of the night paraded throughout the day.

It was a bit past midnight. I was just dozing off, jet-lagged and exhausted. There was a pounding on our door.

“I don’t know.” I grabbed my glasses as I got out of bed. I found my pants, pulled them on, and plodded over to the door.

I looked over at my wife who was now wide awake. “What the hell?” I said and shrugged.

“Maybe I should call downstairs,” she said. But the telephone, like the television remote, had no markings on the buttons. They were as worn-out as the threadbare sheets she had so closely inspected for bed bugs just hours before.

I opened the door, and three not-really-so-young ladies rushed into our room, shedding their overcoats, to reveal silky lingerie tops and not much else. The room was so tiny that my wife and I had felt cramped just by ourselves. With the three chattering women ... well, I began feeling claustrophobic, and a bit feverish.

“Trois cents, s’il vous plait,” said the one with her hand out. She had on a white silky top over red boy shorts and clear plastic stilettos.

“Non, Monsieur. Three hundred euros.” I did the exchange rate in my head, though euros and dollars were about the same.

Rachel chimed in. “David, you’re such a dumb ass. You and your stupid jokes. I knew it’d eventually catch up with you.”

And of course I understood. Whenever we’d check into a hotel or a motel, the receptionist would ask, “If there’s anything you need ...” and I’d say, “There is something.” “What is it, sir?” “When d’ya think the dancing girls are comin’ up to our room?” and I’d usually get a laugh and, then maybe, “Well, when do you want them?” and I’d say, “After my wife goes to sleep, of course.” It’s my sense of humor and a way to break the ice. So maybe I’m also trying to ingratiate myself with them.

This time I’d said, “Oh, around midnight,” and the concierge said, “Minuit? D’accord.” He didn’t even crack a smile but he did scribble something on a pad. I’ve always assumed you could never trust someone who doesn’t have a sense of humor, and I subtly shook my head with annoyance.

So here we were, just after midnight, and two overly-painted, under-dressed women were lounging real friendly-like on our bed, with my wife shoved up against the wall – and she didn’t really seem to mind it, which was strange – while the third was staring at me, with her hand outstretched, demanding a hell of a lot of money.

And that amount was certainly not in our budget though I actually did have a stash of hundred dollar bills hidden in a tiny nylon billfold I keep apart from my wallet. Just in case. You never know when or where credit cards would not be accepted, and I thought that none of our trois jeune filles was carrying a credit card reader in their Louis Vuitton knock-offs.

I excused myself, sidled into the tiny bathroom, and drew four hundreds out of the billfold. As soon as I returned, the woman with the outstretched hand grabbed them, and said, “Sorry Monsieur. We have no change. Consider it un pourboire – how do you say? … a tip.”

Out of another’s pocketbook appeared a miniature mp3 player, and American dance music started playing. They began dancing slowly, real sultry-like, as AC/DC was followed by Billy Idol. It was lascivious and so seductive

The third reached out towards my wife. She kicked off the sheet as they pulled her up and she began gyrating with them to Beyonce and then 2Pac. She was wearing only a camisole and panties and let me tell you … she looked hot. They were all building up a sweat and I … well, I was building up a sweat of my own.

After four or five more songs, the leader abruptly clicked off the mp3 player and slid it back into her carryall. “I’m sorry Monsieur, that’s all your argent – your money – pays for.” And then she added, “Sauf si …”

That I understood: “unless.” I glanced at my wife for her reaction and then shook my head. “That’ll be enough … uh … ça suffit.” The girls pulled on their coats, air-kissed us, and were out of there in seconds.

“Shut up and come to bed,” she answered, as she billowed out the sheet, giggled, and settled under it.

… and we had one of the hottest love-making sessions we’ve had in many years.

After, I lit up an imaginary cigarette, exhaled, and said, ‘That was good. That was so damn good.”

She turned and caressed my chest. “Happy Anniversary, honey,” she said. “But you’re still a dumb ass … my dumb ass.”

Originally written December 21, 2009 .. Rev 3 / October 17, 2016

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October 2016…Copyright © 2016, Lloyd B. Abrams

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