You watch from the side of the stage - your target. A tall drink of water, dressed in black, unruly hair. He looks like he needs a break from his friends. One of the younger men he’s with is already wasted with teriyaki sauce all over his face, and freaking gross Dibny is here again. Ugh, he never leaves you and your girls alone.
There are some other fellas with tall-dark-and-grumpy, a really interesting group. It’s like they’re all completely different from each other, and yet together, they look more like a family than you’ve ever seen anywhere.
But back to the man - he looks like he could use a show. A little fun. He sits down at an empty table, which appears to be the absolute opposite end of the Golden Booty from the guys he arrived with. You stand, adjust your breasts and muss up your hair, and make your way over to him. When you reach the man, he’s staring down at his feet, but then he notices your heels in his eye line. It takes centuries for his gaze to move up your body. Once his eyes lock with yours, his widen as if he’d been caught staring at something he shouldn’t have.
“Hi, handsome,” you say temptingly. “See something you like?”
“I- no. I mean- not no, but-”
He’s flustered and it’s seriously adorable. You don’t get customers like this very often.
“Are you not having a good time?”
He scoffs, shooting a glance over to his crew. “Not particularly.”
You place your hands on the table and lean forward, making sure the man gets a great view.
“Maybe I could change that for you?” You give a little pout, but that quickly turns into a brilliant smile because now his face is reddening. His body tenses, and when you start to unbutton your tight-fitted shirt, he stammers again, but not with a single intelligible word.
Now left in your golden-coloured bra, you reach down to the zipper of your golden booty shorts, but the man’s hand reaches out to stop you.
“I- oh…” you say.
Now you’re the one turning red. No one has ever rejected a personal strip show from you.
“No, it’s just…” he tries, recognizing your embarrassment. “Would you like to sit with me?”
You try to run those words through your head, checking that you heard the correct preposition in his question.
“I’m kind of on the clock,” you answer regretfully, because yes, you could be earning so much more during this time, but you certainly wouldn’t mind spending a little extra time with this guy.
“I’d pay you,” he promises and gestures with his hand to the seat across from him. “Just, please, sit. Tell me about yourself.”
Where has this man come from?
“Who are you?” you ask bluntly, captivated by him. You shrug your shirt back on, leaving it open, and do as he suggests.
“Harrison,” he offers along with his hand. You shake it, happily and surprised. He pulls something from his jacket. “Hand sanitizer?”
You let out one of the many laughs you would have that night.