Doc In The Box

Jack was buttoning up his shirt. I stared at his upper chest, a slab of tanned and toned muscle. As he tucked in his shirttail, I admired that rippling washboard stomach once more, and imagined those muscles moving the way I saw them last night. My mind wandered to other visions now concealed by his pants. Those strong legs and hot buns and . . .
   "So, was I good?" he asked, combing his hair with his fingers. He didn't wait for me to answer. He knew he was. He was the sort of man who made women howl and claw his hide.
    "Got any hair spray I can borrow?" he said.
    "Nope, never use it," I said. That wasn't quite true, but if you let him, the guy borrowed more stuff than a sorority roommate. He'd already used my powder compact, my teasing comb, and my pink lipstick to make his heart-stopping lips more luscious. He used his own eyeliner, though. I don't lend that out. I wasn't taking a chance of getting pinkeye from the handsome Jack.
    I shifted on my lopsided chair in the men's dressing room at the Heart's Desire, a strip club ten minutes across the river from downtown St. Louis. We like to go across the Mississippi River into Illinois for our sin. That way we can pretend we really don't have it in our city. But we keep it close to home.

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