zhampagne | for Jamie | i'm a pink pony girl, and I dance at the club

[ David, as a general rule, doesn't do strip clubs. Either of the straight or the gay variety; he's just never been the kind of confident and cocky to feel comfortable with someone throwing ass in his face in public.

But tonight, another night out in London in a long line of nights out in London, his friends ply him with exactly enough wine and coke to be like, fuck it, whatever, let's go to the strip club. He'll definitely, definitely regret it in the morning, but that's nothing new at this stage in his life.

So that's how he finds himself sitting at the edge of the stage, arms crossed and a very expensive bottle sitting at the table while his friends hoot and holler and stuff banknotes into the dancers' tiny little Speedos. Meanwhile, David can barely make himself look at the guys' faces. Their bodies are...very nice to witness, he can't deny it, but he's terrified he might accidentally make eye contact and invite unintended consequences. So he focuses firmly on strong backs, muscular thighs and calves, gyrating hips and asses sculpted from marble. Surely nobody will look twice at him in a place like this. ]

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[Jamie, as a general rule, does strip clubs. Because he works at one. Because he's confident and cocky enough to throw his ass in faces in public. And because it pays well, and he needs money.

He doesn't notice David immediately, because he's centre stage and being playful with other dancers. He laughs brightly and loudly, seemingly enjoying himself before he decides to peel away. Sometimes the loners who sit awkwardly are the ones who pay up big time, 'cause nobody else wants to waste time warming them up.

Jamie plays the long game, though. It's how he gets regulars. Rich ones. He knows the tells. The booze, the clothes, the cologne. It's not always obvious, not always suits and ties.

Plus, whoever this guy is, he's cute. Cute and unoccupied. Jamie sidles closer, swinging his legs over the edge of the stage so he can lean in conspiratorially.]

You're supposed to clap, baby.

[He has glitter on his cheekbones. He smells like vanilla and axe. He has little, cheeky, pink football shorts on, pink arm sleeves and pink boots.]

[ David isn't prepared for the contents of those little pink shorts to suddenly drop from their lofty height atop the stage to eye-level, and even less prepared for the very cute face attached to the accompanying torso, leaning towards him in a way that gets his heart beating immediately faster. Caught off-guard, he makes a small noise of surprise before he recovers and his brow furrows in a quizzical expression. ]

Umm, pretty sure making it clap falls under your jurisdiction, so... [ He moves his finger in a playful circle in Jamie's direction, indicating that he ought to get to it. ] Give me something to clap for.

[ It's not his natural inclination to flirt with the dancers, but when in Rome...]

Say no more, mad lad.

[Jamie plants a foot on the seat alongside David's thigh, gracefully using it to steady him as he swings forward off the stage and onto David's lap. He fits very nicely there, he thinks. He rests his hands on his own thighs as he studies David's face.]

You're American, yeah?

[ David lets out a squawk that is thankfully mostly-drowned out by the thudding house music infusing every square inch of this room, finding himself with a lapful of gorgeous go-go boy, their faces suddenly much closer. He swallows heavily, shifting slightly under Jamie's weight, and fights hard against the impulse to be insulted. ]

Um, no. Canadian, actually. Just here visiting some friends.

[ 'Visiting' as in a months-long stretch of escaping his cushy lifestyle in his family's huge mansion and drowning his ennui in gin and prosecco. ]

So...do you like working here?

[ He has no idea if you're supposed to make small talk with strippers or not, but instinct is winning out. ]

[Jamie, happily an inconvenience, shifts with David as his legs move under him. It prompts his thighs to spread wider over his lap and, since David isn't pushing him away, he rests his hands on the lower half of his chest.]

Well, welcome to London. Interesting choice of tourist attraction. [Jamie pokes gently at David, peering up through his lashes at him while he teases.]

Some shifts are better than others. [He shrugs his shoulders and smiles.]

Depending on the clientele, of course-- you want a dance or not, love?

Um—it was my mates' idea, not mine, [ David says quickly, casually peppering in the Brit slang the way wealthy North Americans do to sound worldly and well-traveled. But, God, this guy is gorgeous, all masculine good looks and puppy-dog eyes. It makes him feel a bit dizzy, actually, and so his answer comes out a bit breathless and all in a rush. ]

Yes, I'd love one. [ He chews on his lower lip as his eyes take Jamie in like he's a pastry David is about to devour. ] While you're here.

[Because Jamie is cute, he's allowed to be a little bit mean to the customers. As such, he does not hide the fact that he thinks it's funny to hear David use Brit slang.]

That does not sound right with your accent. [He remarks, gleefully. He pushes himself up to half-turn toward David. He's matching the energy of David's expression, though he's smiling sweetly like any self-respecting pastry should. Then he gives his hips a practiced shimmy as he fully turns away.

It's a slow song, which isn't his usual preference. In this context, though, it feels right. His movements are slow, showing restraint until he can't resist looking over his shoulder at David.]

Where are you and your mates staying?

[ Annoyingly, David feels his cheeks grow warm as Jamie points out the incongruity in his speech. He recovers by arching an eyebrow and sniping back, ] You wanna talk about accents?

[ It's all spark and no smoke, though, and his capability for speech starts to dry up as soon as Jamie turns with a shimmy and begins dancing on him. Almost without meaning to, he finds his hands resting on Jamie's hips, just barely grazing the tiny pink dance shorts doing their level best to contain his ass cheeks. He freezes a bit when he realizes what he's doing, though. ]

Sorry, I shouldn't—

[ He's being asked a question, though, and he dredges up his answer from the drunken recesses of his brain. ]

It's, um...an AirBnB. In SoHo.

[Jamie's hands settle over David's invitingly. His hands brace on the arms of the chair so he can arch back and look at David upside down. Hair flopping down off his face, he studies David for a long moment with bright, curious eyes. He smiles like he's had a funny thought, but he doesn't say anything else.]

How long you doing that for? [He slides back up to his feet, turning and putting one of them between David's legs. Pushing them further apart.]

You gonna have time to see me again before you go?

[ He's never been sure what he's supposed to do with his hands during a lap dance, but thankfully it seems like his instincts were correct, as his dancer's hands press over his as if to keep them right where they were. Then he's arching back in a rather impressive move to someone of David's level of back pain, giving him an adorably curious look before he's turning back around to the music. ]

Until I get bored and fuck off back to New York, I guess.

[ He swallows heavily as that foot encourages his knees to press open wider, and there's no hiding that Jamie's sexy slow-dance is doing its job, not when David favors a loose-fitting trouser to begin with. He blinks a few times at the question— is he going to come back to this particular strip club? He certainly hadn't planned on it. ]

I'm not usually much of a strip club guy, [ he murmurs apologetically, giving Jamie's hip a little squeeze. He's not going to even suggest that this nice erotic dancer might want to see him in the light of day. That's just pathetic. ]

I'm David, by the way, [ he adds, as if it matters. ]

for Jamie | i'm a pink pony girl, and I dance at the club

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