American Sextet Read Online Free PDF Page A

along the
highway toward the flashing neon of "Johnny's Roadhouse Go-Go Bar."
Like all things in Hiram, it was an anachronism, maybe fifteen years behind the
times.
    Squinting into the smoke, the smell of stale beer in the
air, he went in. A jukebox blared a noisy rock tune. In the South, the
clientele would be considered redneck. Here the necks seemed more than
figuratively coated with black grime. Every male along the bar had nails filled
with black half moons. He made fists to hide his odd cleanliness and ordered a
brew, served up straight in cold bottles. It seemed a badge of male dishonor to
drink from a glass. Even the few women present drank from bottles.
    Above the bar, standing on a precarious wooden platform, a
go-go dancer in a tiny beaded skirt and bra bounced her tits and hips in time
with the music, her face as bored as the customers were eager. It was late,
nearly one, and the alcoholic level of the blood was high, reflected in the
cacophony of high-pitched voices.
    He ordered a couple of rounds of rye doubles to go with the
beer, which came in over-sized shot glasses. He rarely drank rye, but Scotch
seemed almost effeminate in this atmosphere.
    As the crowd thinned, the music grew louder. The booze drew
him deeper into himself, into that recessive pool of anger and self-pity.
    By two A.M. the dwindling crowd seemed to develop a strange
air of expectation. He noted that the neon light had been turned off and heavy
canvas coverings had been pulled over the windows. He noted, too, that those
who were left bellied up to the bar, a mixed bag of all ages, including a
grizzled toothless gent who could barely keep his head up.
    "Twenty bucks to stay," the bartender said. He
was built like a slab of stone with bulging neck muscles and an ample belly
that hung over tight-belted pants.
    Without curiosity he took a twenty from a roll of bills in
his hip pocket and pushed it forward.
    Suddenly music exploded in the room and the lights went low
except for one above the rickety little stage, on which a young blonde woman in
a white bikini stood, feet astride. Ruffling her hair, she twitched her tight
smooth full rump, swaying to the music with uncommon grace, obviously different
from the girls before her.
    Bending forward, thrusting out her buttocks, she rolled
down her panties, showing tight perfect globes. There seemed to be a
simultaneous swallow in the crowd, the sound of a gulp, louder than the music.
Naked from the waist down, the woman unloosed her bra then straightened,
showing the proud posture of youth.
    When she finally turned, the men applauded. He did the
same, less out of lust than admiration. The woman had the face and carriage of
a junior league hostess. Her hair cascaded in a perfect ruffled line. Even her
cheap makeup couldn't hide the strangely patrician aura about her. Her mouth
was set in a painted smile above an upward thrust cleft chin over her long,
swanlike neck.
    In the icy white light, her body had no edges. High tipped
nipples jutted upward from the rosy centers of her full breasts. Her belly was
flat with a button that seemed to wink like an eye in step with her gyrations.
Below was a dark curly bush, the upper part of which had been shaved into a
heart's shape.
    "My little valentine," he chuckled.
    The men were uncommonly silent, lost in private fantasies.
    "Makes a dead man hard," a hoarse voice said
beside him. Jason agreed completely, feeling his own tumescence begin.
    The girl performed an exhibit more than a dance, but that
seemed okay with the crew that watched, in fact anything would have been okay
with them; she was like an angel that had simply descended from outer space. He
wondered if he were fantasizing himself, embellishing the woman's charms with
his own overheated imagination. He had been womanless for quite awhile now.
Even before she'd left, Jane had withdrawn herself and occasionally he
experienced a "nocturnal emission," something that hadn't happened
since he was an