God, you're so nervous.

It's ridiculous, really. You're a grown man. You can do whatever the hell you want.

What if Mary found out?

Mary's not going to find out. Don't be absurd. She's safe and sound at home, with that nice nurse with the peachy little ass you hired for the night.

Does she know where I am?

It's none of her business where you are. You don't pay her a hundred dollars a night to speculate about your whereabouts.

It's so dark in here. It hides your embarrassment. Flushed face and sweaty palms. Maybe your favorite girl will come out tonight. Maybe you'll work up the courage to talk to her this time.

Maybe she'll give you a lap dance.

You can dream, right?

In the meantime though, before the show begins, you're content to just sit here and feel like a fucking creep, sitting at your little table, strategically situated as far as possible from every other customer, because you think they're all perverts, hypocrite you are.

And you'll have plenty of time to survey the furniture before the show begins, which appears to be the very best that money circa 1970 could buy. It's all garish and neon, cobbled together from a thousand seedy establishments past. Your uncomfortable chair with the fuzzy pink seat is decorated by little matted splotches of what you fervently pray are long gone spilled drinks. The lights are low, with good reason—you're not here to look at the other patrons. All you can see is the stage, lit up like a Christmas tree.

You know—if Christmas trees were covered in tits.

You're getting impatient. It's eleven pm, and there's no girls out yet. This isn't a rock concert, it's a peep show.

But, you can wait. You always wait, after all.

It's worth it, to see her.

When you were a little boy, you used to go to church. And they told you that when you lust, you commit adultery in your heart.

You've been very unfaithful.

The music starts at 11:07, according to your very nice little utilitarian watch that Mary bought you for your first anniversary. It's some crass hair metal song.

Pour some sugar on me...

If you didn't already feel like a creepy piece of shit, you do now.

There's some young girl on stage—too young. Jesus, she could still be in high school for all you know. She's got black hair and a waifish figure, the whole faux-goth deal. A Playboy bunny with daddy issues and eyeliner. Not your type.

Gentlemen prefer blondes.

Hair color aside, she's shaking her cute tits around on stage, bumping her hips in time with the music, and you feel the first signs of shameful arousal between your thighs.

What would Mary think?

Mary's not here right now. Mary's barely anywhere.

So you're just going to sit in your nice little seat and not throw any bills on stage or whoop and holler. You're just going to be respectable and discrete and enjoy the show, with one hand over the fly of your jeans, willing yourself to not get your money's worth tonight.

The girl goes for the money maker move, sliding her thong-clad ass up against the stage pole. There's all kinds of cheering and fanfare, wads of cash land on stage.

You wish there was an offering plate instead. They even look like some sort of primitive sacrifices to you, up there on stage. Surrendering their bodies for the good of mankind. To alleviate the despair of the lonely.

Now you're really going crazy, you decide. Thinking shit like that, like you're some kind of washed up philosophy professor or something. The only thing they're going to alleviate is the cash from your wallet.

She bends over, ass spread for the mob to nearly cum themselves over. You almost feel embarrassed for them. They're like a pack of wild dogs.

You won't scream or shout though.

You internalize your affection, your guilt, your lust.

And you wouldn't waste any of it on this little girl.

No, your feelings are saved for her.

She's a fucking vision, with her golden blonde hair, her sweet curving hips, that clever twist to her lips, like she knows all the secrets you've been keeping. Fingers sliding between the buttons of the white men's dress shirt she's got on—the only thing she's got on, save a pair of underwear. You'd kill to take it off for her, slow and gentle, taking your time to drink in every little inch of creamy exposed flesh...

You're a married fucking man, James, in case you forgot.

You feel a lump begin to form in your throat; normally, the thought of Mary languishing away at home is enough to extinguish the throbbing between your legs with the efficiency of a guillotine. If only she didn't look so much like Mary, Mary pumped up with silicone and saline, Mary with a hint of pink in her hair, Mary with a cocktease smile and DD tits.

Not-Mary slides the shirt off her perfect little shoulders, draping down past her perky ass, exposing herself bare, save for a pink pushup bra and a thong with a butterfly peaking out the waistband. She moves herself in time with the music, slinking her waist, hips, breasts.

It is without a doubt the most erotic thing you have ever seen, and you're just about dying thinking about putting your hands around her waist, what her skin might feel like. Warm and soft, but not wet, not too hot.

Not-Mary.

You are going to hell.

She wraps two legs around the pole and does her best to hang on, raising the one up high above the ground. The crowd shouts, but you don't hear them. There's nothing but her.

And when she's offstage, there's nothing for you to stay for, so with your shameful, sticky hands shoved deep into the pockets of your jeans—one's got a hole in the lining—you shuffle out the backdoor, hoping to go relatively unseen. What if you knew someone here, after all, what would they say?

There goes James Sunderland, getting his rocks off at titty bars while his wife dies at home.

No, you can't let that happen. So, with your head down, and your eyes to the floor, you push the door open with your shoulder and feel the cut of the cold night air into your skin, the crunch of the parking lot gravel under your feet. And then you hear a voice.

"Why do you look so sad, handsome?"

She's dressed now, if you could call it that, in a tight pink skirt and a little fuchsia cardigan that looks like something Mary might own, but this is Not-Mary, so it cuts off at the waist, leaving her toned stomach exposed. You're not sure if you're going to be able to breathe, with her standing so close to you, it feels like all the air is being sucked out of your lungs.

A cigarette burns low between her fingers.

"You lonely?" she asks.

And all you can do is nod.

You follow her up the rickety stairs, over moldy carpet and under a low ceiling, ducking your head down to avoid hitting the rafters. When you get to the top, she produces a key out of her bra and slips it into the door.

"Don't worry, all the other girls have gone home by now," she says, in that syrup sweet voice that flows over your sense, inebriating you.

"You don't talk much, do you?" she observes.

"Sorry," you squeak out.

"That's okay, sweetie. I see you out there a lot. You always leave after my set, don't cha?" She smiles a Cheshire grin.

She knows just how fucking creepy you are.

"Uh, yeah. There's no one else worth seeing."

"That's nice of you to say." She pushes the ancient door open, leading into a cramped dressing room. There's a vanity in the corner, and a collection of underwear tossed on the floor. She sits herself down on the vanity seat, spreads her legs wide.

"So, let's say a hundred and fifty even, how's that sound?"

Of course that's what this is. You didn't think she was interested in you, did you?

And you know you should run the hell out of there, but what you find yourself saying is, "yes," and what you find yourself doing is reaching for your wallet, pulling out the wrinkled twenties, and dropping your pants.

You're going to hell.

And she takes the money and smiles, shoves it down her bra, cozy beside her lovely full breasts, the ones that are obviously fake upon a closer look.

"What's your name?" you ask, shaky voice, dry throat.

And she looks up at you, curious expression. Like she doesn't understand why you'd want to know.

"Hmm. Tonight... you can call me Maria."