Cane Dance by Jeri (jeri@thegym.net) A bellydancer meets her match Cane Dance by Jeri I love Egypt. The streets, the open marketplaces, the cabarets. Yes, the cabarets. I was working in a small cabaret in a small side street on the edge of Cairo. I like these small cabarets. They allow you to get up close and personal with your audience. They allow you to tempt and taunt your audience. They allow for one-on-one interaction with your audience. In the bigger cabarets and in the full-size restaurants and theatres, you were back, well away from your audience. You were up on a stage, away from your audience. You were back, well away from the TIPS of your audience. And in the largest ones, you were just barely visible to your audience. But in these small cabarets... Did I mention I liked the small cabarets? I was just beginning my third set of the night. I had been in this particular cabaret before, and they had gone out of their way to ask me back. And being as small as it was, I was the only dancer. In fact, I was booked with them for the next two weeks, every night doing a show of three sets. And of course, since they got so may repeat customers, most from the local neighborhood, I had to vary my act each night. So I never did the same exact number during the entire run at a single place. And this suited me just fine. The pay wasn't as good as the larger cabarets, but it was more than enough for me. And of course, the tips I made were an added bonus that I didn't get when I couldn't mingle with the audience. Did I mention I liked the small cabarets? I didn't really have dances as such. I just went with the flow of the music, dancing as I felt like it, combining moves from lots of the different dances I knew, and a few I made up myself. And tonight was no exception. The first set, I danced with veils draping my body, a cabaret style of belly dancing. It was more-or-less a traditional dance, a story dance with traditional, slow, tribal movements, telling the story of an unrequited love. The second dance was an all-out, energetic, non-traditional dance, with fewer veils, of course. The idea there was to keep the audience in the cabaret, wanting more and more (or less and less, I should say). And as the dance progressed, the veils that were left came off. The third set, I had asked the musicians to play a specific piece of music, my "signature" piece. It had been a while since I did this one, not since that cabaret two back. But tonight, I felt in a playful mood and wanted to have fun with my dancing. I wanted to have fun, to taunt and play with the music, to dance with the abandon I had learned to love, to dance first, and to belly dance second. The music started out in a frenzy. And I came on to the floor in a frenzy of my own. I was wearing a pair of sheer, tight, see-through pants, with thin bikini-bottom panties underneath. I was wearing a just-as-sheer, just-as-tight, just-as-see-through shirt, with nothing underneath. And of course, the pants and shirt rode down and up respectively, to expose the maximum they could. After all, there was a reason they called it "belly dancing." But that was not the reason the audience came alive with cheers. I came out twirling an American Hula-hoop. And why not, I was an American, after all. I had learned to twirl the Hula-hoop back in high school, not that many years ago. I made it a part of my dance routine when I first started out in belly dancing. I considered it a challenge to keep the hoop rotating in its orbit while executing the most complicated, most traditional of belly dancing moves. And I felt playful tonight. And I wanted to impress the three American girls in the front table. I started out with it circling around my waist, keeping time to the quick rhythm of the music. I let it stay in its central orbit while my whole body undulated to the music, keeping my body's undulations just a fraction ahead of the hoop, to keep its speed up, to keep it in orbit. Then I changed my rhythms, letting it crawl slowly up my stomach, over my rib cage, over my almost bare breasts, up to my neck, then up my arms stretched upward, until it circle my fingertips. Then with another change in my body's movements, I let it slowly, excruciatingly slowly, reverse itself back down my body, to my stomach, and farther on down. When it hit my ankles, I lifted one leg to let it circle just that one ankle, then hopped from leg to leg to keep my other leg clear. Eventually, I jumped back into the hoop with both legs, and let the hoop again progress back up my body. For the next minute and seventeen seconds (I had timed the music before and knew exactly where in the music I was), I let the hoop roam up and down over my body, like a python trying to wrap itself around the body of a sleek, strong, lithe leopard. Like a bullwhip trying to cut into the soft, tender flesh of my belly. And I gyrated as if it had succeeded, writhing in pain and ecstasy at its intrusion each time it cut into my stomach on each traverse. The music changed tempo at the appointed time. It slowed down to a slow beat, and the hoop slowed to match it. Eventually, it was just barely hanging on my body, being supported only by its periodic contact with my hips, being thrust back up by belly and hip thrusts. With one quick flick of my stomach, I directed it upward, and intercepting it with my hand, twirling it off to the side to be caught by one of the waiters. The music had slowed to a sensuous crawl. My belly crawled to match the music. Gyrating, bumping and grinding to match the music, I went to circle the tables, like the hoop had circled my body. Several of the men there stuck bills in my waistband, some in appreciation and approval of my skill, some, their hands lingering on my waist, some feeling my undulating muscles, and me feeling their probing, approving fingers. I avoided the three American girls. I had something for them later. I circled the room, collecting tips, complements, pawings, all appreciated, then returned to the open floor area that was the stage. The waiter threw me my cane, and without breaking my rhythm, I caught it. In earlier times, men used this as a weapon, even from horseback. It is said that the Middle Eastern Cane dances were parodies of the men's cane fighting techniques, eventually woven into a dance. Of course, like all my dancing, and especially like tonight's, I wasn't conventional. I used a straight cane instead of a cane with a hooked end, more like the combat canes of the men. But I had attached a large rubber bulb to one end of it, to give it heft and an unusual balance point, and for another purpose. I had tied a streamer of ribbons to the unweighted end of the cane, and slowly twirled the cane around. And on cue, the music sped up as the cane twirled to keep time. With the music at its original frenzy, I twirled and directed the cane, holding the cane by the bulb, forming the long ribbons at the other end into intricate patterns in the humid but cool night's air. I threw the cane into the air, the weighted end keeping the cane's movement going until it landed back in my fingertips. I twirled the cane around its center, balancing the twirling cane on my fingertips, held high, the swirling ribbons forming a descending spiral encircling my body. I let the cane prance around in my fingers like a frolicking mountain goat, skipping from pose to pose, from rock to rock. In one final fling, I threw the cane up into the air, letting it cavort and wheel on its own, then grabbed it just as the music stopped. The audience was just starting to applaud as the music started up again. That's one of the things I liked about this particular piece of music. It has a lot of variety and surprises, just the way I like to dance. I had never danced this dance before. As I said, I like to make up my dance as the music goes along. And with this music, I have a lot of latitude to play with the dance, to add new moves, to try new steps, to experiment. But for this part, I had already decided what I wanted to do. The music had returned to a slow, undulating rhythm. And I undulated to match it, still carrying the ribbon-festooned cane. Now, it was my turn for the American girls. There were three of them at the table, with an Egyptian girl their age. They had started out quiet for my first set, then rapidly warmed to my dancing. By the second set, they were intently and noisily watching my every move, laughing and giggling as I moved. At the start of this set, they had been quiet. I think my virtually-naked breasts had disturbed them. But they had quickly overcome their reticence, especially when they saw my tricks with the Hula-hoop. And by the time I was weaving through the tables, they were following me with their eyes. I think I detected a bit of sadness in their demeanor when I had bypassed their table. But now I was going to devote my full attention to them. This was a trick I had learned from an Egyptian belly dance teacher. I always had fun with it. As the music flowed, I flowed over to their table, matching the tempo with every step. As the music undulated, I reached out my undulating arms, inviting them to dance with me. It was obvious they were embarrassed, as they all shook their heads and withdrew their hands under the table. I said, "Please?" and kept imploring them with my hands. They were still giggling, and I thought I would have to go to another table, when one of them pushed the Egyptian. The others immediately picked up the taunting. I could see that they were determined to get her up with me, and that it was working. The Egyptian girl got up. She had been the quiet one. While the other girls had been laughing, giggling and generally carrying on, she had been stoically and solemnly observing me, observing my dance, my every movement. She had on a large scarf that was pulled away by the girls as she rose to me. And I almost froze. She was not Egyptian. She was undoubtedly an American. Her tanned skin had fooled me. She was dressed in short, tight jeans and a short, ripped-off T-shirt that had a hard time covering her lower breasts, and not really succeeding. With her low-riding jeans, almost as much of her was exposed as me. And her stomach... But I didn't have time to observe any more. There would be time for that later. But the music would soon be ready for me, even if I wasn't ready for it. It would only be a few more bars before the next change, and that was a date I had to meet. As she rose, I reached out and took her hand. I had done this to others before. Usually, I had to grasp their hand and drag them to the stage. But with her, as soon as I touched her hand, she lightly extended her fingertips to meet mine. Then as I backed up, each step in time with the music, she followed, also in sync with the music, maintaining that light, but unwavering contact with my hand. She had danced before. I backed to the stage and she followed, as if we had choreographed it, perfectly in step with each other, and with the music. At the stage, I broke contact. I reached down to get the cane I had left there, and pulling gently on one end of the ribbon, untied it and threw it in a flourish to the waiter. I would have to remember to thank him later, probably with a big, wet, tight, squirmy, bare-breasted kiss. As the last bar of this part of the music played, I positioned the cane between us, jamming the small end into my bellybutton, resting the other, the larger end, the cushioned end of the cane, in the middle of her stomach, applying a little pressure to keep it in place, then taking away my hands. To her credit, she didn't flinch, as so may of my other "victims" had in the past. Not that I had expected her to though. The music reached the last note of that bar precisely on time. It changed tempo again, but not as frantic as in the other sections. It turned into a rolling, syncopated, drum-dominated rhythm, that would put any belly dancer to the test to match both the quick, foreground, shimmy tempo and the slow, methodical, snake-hip tempo. This was the fun part. To the complexity of trying to keep in sync with the multi-rhythms of the music was added the extra complexity of keeping a constant pressure on the cane so it would not fall. This was more difficult than it would seem. While my whole body undulated back and forth to the rhythm, I had to move in such a way that my navel essentially kept stationary. I had to feel the pressure, and make sure that it did not change. And, I also had to account for any movement of my victim. In the past, about three quarters of the people I danced with stayed stationary, or at least tried to. But there were always those who wanted to try to get me to drop the cane. They would step backward, and I would be hard pressed to try to keep up with them. Most times, I reacted quickly enough that the cane stayed put. Once in a while, I would be caught by surprise, and the cane would fall, with me catching it in mid-air. And there were the ones who would push forward to try to jab the end of the cane into my stomach. Those I could handle. Two more bars to go... Tentatively at first, then more confidently, she started to dance, started to dance in time with the music, started to dance with me, following my movements. She wasn't as skilled, but she was a quick study. She was able to follow the movements of the main, slow, background rhythm Her movements paralleled mine well enough that I had no trouble keeping the cane in place. I let my faster shimmy die down, to match her rhythm of the main, slow, background beat of the music. I circled to the right. It took her a second to see my plan, but she caught up with me, circling to her own right, the two of us slowly, pivoting around the center point of the cane. I really wished I had a few weeks with her. I know she could be a great belly dancer in just that time. One more bar to go... With this slow, sensuous pirouette going on, I had time to observe her. I had seen her type once before. She had the grace of a dancer, the poise of a beauty contestant, the arms of a model, and the stomach ... the stomach of a body builder. She was a fitness competitor, maybe even an instructor. Half a bar to go... Back in high school, our school had been the host for a fitness contest. I had never seen such well-built girls before. I had never seen such strength in girls. I had never seen such energy in girls. I had never seen... Well, I had never seen anything like it... ever. Three beats to go... This girl had that same strength. As the others had, she had slim but strong-looking arms and legs, not at all like a bodybuilder's, more like a runner's or a... yes like a gymnast's. But her stomach had that well-defined, solid, hard, flat look of a top body builder. Two beats to go... I almost couldn't take my eyes off that hard, undulating, sensuous stomach (it most certainly wasn't right to call it a belly, not when it looked like that). And as I was in the business, I admired the way it undulated, in an amateur way of course. Yes, with a couple months of training, she would be a top dancer in this field. One beat to go... She almost made me forget the music, though I'm pretty sure my subconscious dancer's instinct would have prodded me at the right time. In time with the music, I swayed violently forward and backward, by body wrapping forward around the cane, then backward in an arch, then forward again. NOW... The drum sounded a single, deep, loud, resonant boom. From that forward bend, I snapped my body backward, driving the cane deep into her stomach. I had my hands at my side, ready to catch the cane if it fell. If it fell... With all the others I had danced this dance with, I had said WHEN it fell. But I had a suspicion about her, and I was right. The large, round, padded end of the cane buried itself in her stomach. She let out a "woof" of air and surprise. But that was all. She slowly straightened up, the cane still in her stomach, with only a little help from me to help hold it in place. I returned to my dance, and after a moment, so did she. And for the first time that night, I saw her smiling. A bar later, there was another boom. But this time, she had little reaction to me trying to drive the end of the cane into her body, into her backbone. In fact, it penetrated only a little, more from the thrust on my part than from weakness on her part. In all, there were eight of these drum beats, punctuated by my pelvic thrusts and her rock-hard stomach resistance. And with each one, I would futilely try to drive that cane clear through her and out the other side, with her hard stomach laughing at my puny efforts. I told you I could handle my victims trying to push my own cane back into my stomach. While I had learned the dance technique to hold the cane between me and my partner right here in Egypt, from an Egyptian instructor, the trick of taking the end of the cane in my stomach I had learned from my high school days, on the cheerleading team. At the end of a game, especially a game where we had won, we would all be in a playful, energetic mood. We would play a game, holding one of our cheerleading batons between us in our stomachs, trying to push it into the other girl's stomach, trying to make her give up, trying to make her give up in pain. And being the competitors we were, it usually wound up that way. I hadn't been too good at the beginning of that season, but by the end of the season, I was the best on the squad. I practiced and strengthened my stomach almost every day. I hadn't done any of those exercises since high school, but being in the belly dancing business more than made up for it, what with all the strength moves I had to learn. And it had worked, up until now. The music changed once again, this time losing the quick beat, the slow, undulating beat taking over the whole show. And we both writhed to the hot beat. Yes, I realized, it was getting hot. And not from the lack of air conditioning. I realized I was starting to like the sensuous, inner feeling of the small end of the cane digging deep into my belly. Yes, deep. As our dancing continued, I had increased the pressure on the cane, trying to steadily wear her belly down. Where my sudden jabs to her stomach had failed, I thought maybe a slow, steady, increasing pressure would get through. So I gradually increased the pressure on her stomach, and as a consequence, increased the pressure on mine, as hard as I could stand, and harder. And all the time, writhing, undulating, pulsing to the music. The musicians were good. The end of the score, the end of the music came... and went. I had worked with this pair before, so they knew how I danced. When the end of the score arrived, they knew I wasn't finished. So they improvised, adding to the scripted score as they went, the music taking on a slightly rougher sound, but still with the same beat, with the same basic, smooth, pounding rhythm, the rhythm set by our bodies. The music writhed to our bodies. Our bodies writhed to the music. By now, I suspect the whole audience knew this wasn't part of the planned dance. By now, I suspect the whole audience didn't care, couldn't, didn't want to take their eyes away. I suspect. I suspect, because they weren't there, the three other girls, the pawing men, the disapproving wives, they all weren't there. There was just this other girl and I, writhing in ecstasy, joined at the navel, the cane jammed tightly into our stomachs. The other girl suddenly stepped back, grabbing the falling baton. I was so enthralled in her belly's movements it didn't even register on me at first that she had moved. And when it did, she had already jammed the cane back between our heaving, our longing stomachs, but reversed. Now the large, cushioned end was in my belly, the small, hard end was in hers. My whole body shuddered, shuddered at the feel of the large end rolling back and forth over my belly, rolling over my navel, my abdominals, my obliques, and especially the soft, yielding spaces in-between, rolling in time to the slow, sensuous beat. Shuddered at the thought of what that large end had felt like to her when it was I rolling it over her hard stomach. Shuddered at the thought of that small end digging, poking, grinding deep into her stomach, her navel, and farther in. We were both slick with sweat, breathing heavily, hot. And not from the exertion, at least not too much. It was becoming hard to keep the large end of the cane on my stomach. It kept wanting to slip off, under that hard, steady, undulating pressure, to explore other parts of my body. And every slip, every slide, every movement sent new shudders coursing through my body, my stomach, my breasts, everywhere. There might have been an audience, a cabaret around us, but I didn't know. I was engrossed in the feel of the hard, soft cane digging itself deeper and deeper into my toned, flat stomach, the scent of her hot, sweaty, smoldering body, the sight of the cane digging itself deeper and deeper into her tight, hard, tanned stomach, the thought of what it would feel like to run my hands over those hard, tight, undulating abs. And she was watching me, my stomach, my abs, my obliques, my muscles, with that same deep breathed, flushed, hot look. A sudden movement snapped me out of my trance, like a rubber band, stretched beyond its limits, breaking. There was that same electric shock. I came back to the present, and the music. Back in reality, my mind re- synched with the music, and five beats later, I turned and backed up and gently took the cane from between us. The musicians, as attentive as ever, launched into the last two bars of the score, as I twirled the cane, flinging it into the air and grabbing it, in a typical cheerleading baton movement, but unheard of in belly dancing. Then, whipping the cane around the girl, I pulled her in close, breast to breast, belly to belly, stomach to stomach, muscle to muscle, and backed off the stage, behind the curtains. The applause and cheers were thunderous. Behind the stage, I said, "Stay," to her, and ran out to take my bows. On my way back behind the curtains, I said to my waiter in almost flawless Egyptian, "Please collect my tips," as the money showered the now-vacant stage. I would really have to reward that waiter for this. Another day, I would have gone out and done a couple more bars of dancing as an encore. But not today. It had taken almost all my self-control to go out there that one time. My body ached for hers, to see it, to feel it, to smell it. Returning to her, I pulled her behind the second, background set of curtains. Back there, there was a set of mats, used for sleeping during festivals, when the cabaret closed late and opened early. I pushed her backward, down on the mats. She didn't resist. Having no self-control, I pounced on her, not worrying that I would hurt her, not caring that I would hurt myself. I landed flat on her, my hard belly slamming into her harder belly, my breasts crushing against hers. Pushing and supporting myself off her with one hand, I ran my other hand over her hard, slick stomach, feeling that which I had been denied, that which my cane had felt in all its glory, that which it had denied me, keeping it just out of reach, tauntingly out of reach, laughingly out of reach. Her stomach was as hard as it looked. I tried to dig my fingertips into her muscles, but failed. I could only bend them in a little. It was easier to dig into the interstices between the muscles, where the hard cords of muscle met, where one hard sheet of muscle collided with another hard sheet. She was softest there, but not by much. Sitting back on her legs, I reached up and stripped away my sheer top, revealing my small but firm breasts. Without stopping, I reached down and pulled her bra above her head, removing it too. I didn't ask, I didn't need to. I knew that if she didn't want me to, she could stop me, would stop me. She didn't stop me. Her breasts were larger, but smaller than I thought they would be. They, of course, stood out. With all the training she had obviously done, they would be hard, supported by the muscles underneath. They were, but I knew that from my initial "splat" on her body. I ran my hands all up and down her slippery, slick body, up her stomach to her ribs on either side, back over her breasts, circling her rapidly hardening nipples, digging my fingertips deep into the hard mounds of muscle, over her upper stomach, tracing back and forth the outlines of her ribs, back to the center of her stomach. I ran my hands up and down her stomach, tracing the mountain ridges of muscles, retracing the valleys between the mountains, digging deep wherever I felt weakness, sliding over her flat lower stomach. I ran my hands over her lower belly, softer but still firm, from one side of her pelvis to the other side, pressing inward with the flat of my hand. I ran my hands down from her lower stomach. She didn't flinch when I slid my hand under her pants, over the slickness that was not sweat. She flinched only a little when I ran it lower, poking, prodding, rubbing. She seemed a little disappointed when I withdrew it to explore her stomach again. Her stomach was hard. For no reason, I punched it in a playful punch. She gasped and moaned and groaned and shuddered, but not from pain. That punch had crossed a threshold in her, one I had crossed many times in the past, a threshold that was an explosion of pain, joy, ecstasy. She started to moan, to cry out, but I put my finger to my lips to stop her. The thin curtains were all that separated us from the rest of the cabaret, from the men there, from the wives there, from the three girls there. So, she bit her lip, closed mouth, and whimpered, as she jerked, bucked, writhed beneath my exploring hands, my probing fingers, by hard fists. Her stomach was hard. I began to punch it in earnest, raining blows down into her navel in the center, her abs in the upper part, her abs in the lower part, her obliques on either side. And all the time, she bucked, bolted, writhed in agony, ecstasy, maybe even pain. Her stomach was hard, hard enough that my punches didn't seem to affect it, at least not like they should have. My punches became less and less frequent, with more time between. And between punches, I massaged her stomach, harder, deeper, stronger, pushing my fists deep into her more relaxed, more softened stomach, sliding my knuckles back and forth, up and down, in and out, over her slick, sweaty, slippery skin, deeper into her stomach, her muscles, her internal organs. I massaged her stomach, running my hands flat over her stomach, my fingertips digging into her stomach, digging deeper than I was able to only a few short minutes before. Her stomach was soft. It was pliable. It was kneadable. It had been drained of its hardness by a conscious effort on her part. She was willing it to be soft, to allow my hands to push themselves deep into her, to allow my fingertips to penetrate, to dig down into her muscles, to separate them, to grab a handful of muscle, to squeeze with all my might. And to take my increasingly infrequent, but much stronger punches deep into her, gasping in pain that was real, that was harsh, that was not ecstasy. She bucked and writhed, bucking me off. Or more precisely, she rolled me off, ending on top of me in the same position I had been on her for the past few minutes. Somehow, over the last few minutes, we had both lost our pants and panties. I realized that when she sat astride me, feeling her nakedness on mine, looking up at her. Maybe she knew how it had happened, but I most certainly didn't. She started giving me the same torment, the same pain, the same excruciating ecstasy I had her. She started out as I had, massaging, digging, grabbing, probing my body, my hard stomach. I was fascinated by the feel of each dig, grab, probe, comparing the feeling of being on the receiving end with the feeling of being on the giving end, imagining it was my hands, my fingers digging into my own stomach. She was heavier than I was. She had the muscle bulk, while I had the muscle strength. So I was a little surprised that her ministrations didn't do much more than mine had to her. It was not that hard to keep her hard fingers and hands at bay, not allowing them to penetrate, not allowing her weight to push them into me. I only had to use a little of my strength to ward them off. I wondered if it had been the same for her, my probes, my digs, my thrusts only a little annoyance to her hard, trained muscles, as hers were to mine. I folded my arms and slid them under me, behind me, trapping them there, letting her have complete, free, unfettered access to my body. She took advantage of it, sliding her hands all over my slick body, my slick stomach, my slick breasts, up, down, left side, right side. She grabbed my stomach on either side, pressing her thumbs deep into the separation between my obliques and my abs, using her weight to enforce the point, squeezing either side of my stomach like twin vices, massaging, squeezing, stroking, my stomach muscles warding off her attempted advances. I closed my eyes, lost in sensations, feelings, emotions. I let the sensations, feelings, emotions wash over me, like lying on the sand in the surf, being thrust roughly up the beach by a breathtaking wave, being only slightly more gently pulled back down to the sea by the backwash, only to be thrust crushingly up again by the next wave. And then she stopped. Frantically, I waited for her to continue, to knead me, to stroke me, to grasp me. It was almost a relief when she punched me. I hadn't been expecting it. She punched me in the natural target, the bull's-eye, my navel. A wave of emotions washed over me, and this time stayed, drowning me, choking me, caressing me, holding me in their embrace. Now it was my turn to buck, to writhe. I didn't understand how she could stay atop me, my whole body trying to buck, to throw her off. And then another punch came, either on purpose or accidentally catching me at the peak of a spasm, adding exponentially to my pain, my joy, my ecstasy. And then another, harder. And then another, harder. Adding to the waves of emotions were waves of memories. Strong memories, long suppressed, or long forgotten, rushed back to me. The last time I had been in this situation was, again, in high school. The cheerleader games had included ones to see who was tougher, usually meaning who could take the most punches, to the stomach, of course. After more than one game, I had to use some good body makeup to cover up the bruises, my parents having given up on trying to make me stop, given up on even trying to understand. I may even have to use some body makeup before tomorrow's show. Her punches got harder and harder. I was pretty sure she was using her full strength, her punches hard, my stomach laughing at them. I knew what her stomach had thought when she was able to take my best punches. I knew I could take hers forever. But of course, why? It would get boring. So I started to soften, letting them penetrate, dig in, crush me. The pain exploded deep inside me, or it may have been rapture, they felt the same. I let loose in a series of spasms. And she changed the timing of her punches to match the spasms, catching me at the fraction of a second where my muscles were relaxed, before they spasmed into rock hardness, right when my stomach was softest, most vulnerable, digging her hard fists into my relaxed, vulnerable stomach with all her considerable strength. And then she did it again, timing it to do the most damage, pain, ecstasy. I don't how long she worked me over with her hard, loving punches. I lost track of time. I didn't want it to end, and it didn't, not for a long time. I can only remember the feeling, that peak of an orgasm, but one that lasted forever, each punch adding to it, keeping the pendulum swinging with not-too-gentle pushes. I don't know but I think I eventually collapsed into a shivering mass of joy, having lost all control of my body, at least that's how I found myself when I realized where I was again. She was still kneeling over me, stroking me, kneading me, caressing me. I never saw her again. We got up, my body still trembling, hers trembling a little too I think, grabbed our clothes and went to the shower. On the way, I saw my waiter, standing next to a table with my baton, my Hula-hoop, and the biggest pile of coins and bills I had ever seen. I literally ran over to him, dropping my clothes, grabbed him and gave him the biggest warm, wet, naked, sensuous kiss I had ever given anyone. To my surprise, she gave him one too. We grabbed a quick shower to shower off our slickness and got back into our dirty, sweaty clothes. I joined them at their table, and stayed with them, laughing, reminiscing, until the cabaret closed, until they left. I never saw her again. I never even got her name.