Obsidian
**Obsidian will start updating in the summer, but please enjoy this Sneak Peek for now!
Theo
I lifted my head from my steering wheel and glared at Obsidian's flashing neon lights. The club's name alone should’ve warned me that I was somewhere I didn’t belong, immersing myself with those I wished to remain segregated from as the good Lord intended.
I fought to roll down the window of my ’78 Ford F-250 that had seen better days. “WD-40 ain’t cuttin’ it no more,” I said, sighing as I thought of the extensive work that needed to be done on the rust bucket. It was only by sheer luck that it’d gotten me here. I prayed my luck didn’t run out before I returned home. Ricky, from the garage, quoted me $4,000.00 to make all the repairs, but that wasn’t an option. Money was tight, and I barely had a pot to piss in.
The window squeaked and squealed in protest, but I finally got that stubborn son of a bitch to open wide enough to let in the balmy May breeze and the sultry beats that thrummed from Obsidian.
Obsidian.
I drew my attention from one addiction to exchange it for another and fished a cigarette pack from the front pocket of my jeans. The rattle from the pack of Marlboros reminded me I was on my last few cigarettes until I received my unemployment check at the beginning of the month.
“Three and a half cigarettes…that’s just fucking great,” I mumbled as I pulled out the half cigarette.
Typically, I smoked several cigarettes a day, but my financial woes had forced me to ration. Lately, I was irritable more times than I wasn’t. The half cigs were only enough to briefly take away the edge and shit had to be bad when you started calculating your budget by the cost of cigarettes like an inmate. Cigarettes were $9.00 a pack, which equated to almost three gallons of gas, bread and eggs, a 24-pack of ramen noodles, a matinee movie ticket, a monthly video streaming subscription, and a large carry-out two-topping pizza from Domino's. It didn’t seem worth it once you did the math. Not to mention, I was paying billion-dollar corporations to give me cancer. I fully expected to contact the 1-800 number from the Mesothelioma lawsuit commercials in a few years from all my years in construction.
McGowan Construction is the bane of my troubled existence. If it weren’t for the company's sudden shutdown, I wouldn’t be sitting in the parking lot trying to rob Peter to pay Paul just for one more hit.
To ease the pain of suddenly receiving our pink slips, a coworker insisted we lick our wounds with nearly naked women and beer. It was a foolish idea, but the promise of a year of unemployment lessened the worry of where my next meal would come from. My brows furrowed in confusion when we left our side of town. I was hushed when I voiced my concerns and was promised the best experience of my life with “exotic” women. We pulled into the parking lot of Obsidian, a place I had yet to realize would be my ultimate undoing. I couldn’t help the disgusted curl of my upper lip at the sight of the cars with rims that were worth more than the vehicles themselves that littered the parking lot. Even with the windows up, we could hear almost every word of the rap song that blared through the speakers and escaped the strip club. We did not belong there, but their lust for women of the…darker variety…propelled my coworkers out of the truck. Despite my reservations, I followed suit.
I stood in the back of the line, nerves threatening to overtake me. My stomach flip-flopped and my heart sped up the closer I inched up the line. By the time I had to show ID and pay the cover, my hands were slippery from the sweat that gathered in my calloused palms. The bouncer gave me an extra-long pat down after commenting about how squirrely I was acting. Moments later, I was given the all-clear and was allowed access to a prison I didn’t mind being locked in.
Give me a life sentence and toss away the fucking key.
I felt a buzz almost immediately when I stepped foot into Obsidian. It started from my scalp and slowly traveled through my body, penetrating every cell down to the mitochondria. The buzz finally settled at my fingertips and toes. My heart was beating to the steady strum of the bass as my eyes roved the sea of supple breasts, curvy hips, and juicy asses. We found seats, and the flirty waitress convinced us to throw caution to the wind and order bottle service. Between the five of us, we could afford it with our final paychecks swaddled snuggly in our wallets like newborn babies. I sank into the plush black leather couch, lit a cigarette, and waited to be mesmerized as promised.
Five minutes had barely passed when the fantasy I never wanted to wake up from strolled past our section. Physically, she was utter perfection in her black long sleeve off-the-shoulder fishnet bodysuit. Rhinestones generously decorated the teddy bodysuit and twinkled under the hazy strobe lights like a constellation in the pitch-black sky. I craned my neck to watch her hips swing as she approached the bar. I was blessed with an amazing view of her ass cheeks on full display courtesy of the thong design of her bodysuit.
Every movement she made felt like poetry, and I had yet to see her dance. The bartender slid her a shot of tequila. Her pink tongue darted out and licked the salted rim of the glass. That was all it took for my dick to harden against the zipper of my jeans. I subtly adjusted myself once she tipped her head back, loose curls tickling her lower back, and downed her shot. She sucked on a wedge of lime, and never had I wanted to be a piece of fruit so badly.
I was grateful the guys had found their distractions for the evening so that I could be left alone with mine.
But she’s not mine.
She didn’t take the stage during our enslavement to Obsidian but offered $50.00 lap dances to eager patrons. I lived vicariously through the men as she straddled their laps. She whispered in their ears, and I imagined what it felt like to have her warm breath tickling my lobe, whispering sinful words of seduction. I wondered how she’d react if she felt me pressing against her core as she grinded in my lap. Would her body react at all? Would her breath stutter when her body ignited in lustful heat? Would the crotch of her suit dampen from her arousal? Or would she be dead inside, completely numb to the stimuli thanks to the multiple shots she took at the bar?
I left the strip club that night and promised I’d never return. I didn’t belong there, especially not with her. But I was a liar. A dirty, filthy liar at that. It was Week Eight of telling myself I wouldn’t be back, but she swam through my consciousness like a siren in the sea, enchanting me out of my hovel.
I stayed up many nights wondering if she was not of the world. Those smoldering cat-like eyes would catch mine through the low purple lights almost as soon as I walked through the door, and I was enchanted. Her eyes would trail me through the club as I made my way to my nook that was out of reach from the stage. I didn’t want to give the wrong impression that I could afford anything other than the $.00 cover. I was a shameless voyeur, stealing what I could get from her in a two-minute stage dance. But oddly, she didn’t seem to mind. She’d subtly nod at me no matter what she was doing, or whose lap she was grinding on. Once, she winked at me, and I considered forgoing paying my light bill in order to buy a little piece of Heaven in the form of a backroom dance, but rationality grabbed me by the throat and choked me until I started thinking straight again.
But as I drifted to sleep with a cigarette dangling from my mouth, I wondered what was so special about that woman that I’d risk my livelihood?
I entered Obsidian like every week—eyes scanning the club like a hawk—looking for the object of my desires. I panicked when I didn’t see her but was relieved when she came from the private rooms with a happy customer in tow. My relief quickly morphed to bitter jealousy as my intrusive thoughts overpowered sensible thoughts. I couldn’t help but wonder if all she did was dance for the man. Did she get on her knees for him and suck his dick until he came down her throat? Or had she fucked him for a quick buck?
There was no way of knowing, but I knew I was treading dangerous waters. I was becoming irrationally jealous over a black woman who didn’t even know me. Truthfully, I didn’t know her either. She was probably just a hoodrat from the projects with three children and a dead-beat baby daddy who made her strip to get his rap career off the ground. She was nothing to get jealous over.
But even as the negative thoughts plagued me, I still sought her attention.
She exchanged a few words with two dancers I knew she was friendly with at the bar. Our eyes met, and her beautiful plump lips dipped into a frown. She pointed at me from across the room and wagged a finger, beckoning me to come to her.
I stayed rooted in place—disbelief and anxiety anchoring me to the chair like I was a mouse on a glue trap.
My hands dampened and my mouth dried when she abandoned the bar and strutted across the room to me. She stopped before me, and although her assets were on display, I couldn’t pull my gaze away from her eyes. She reached a hand out and said, “Let’s get to know each other better.”
“I—” I paused to clear my throat, and managed to speak through my embarrassment, “I can’t pay you.”
“Getting to know someone doesn’t cost a thing. Let’s go.”
