Free Commencement by Alexis Adare Page A

ladies.” I smiled at them. “Okay, here’s what we are going to do…”
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    A house full of rowdy customers, a mix of the visiting Canadian businessmen and a dozen or so locals, drank and ate and hooted and cheered as the Special K’s and I danced our routines for the night. At midnight, we performed our feature presentation, prancing onstage to Diana Krall’s sexy cover of “Frim-Fram Sauce”. As the chef, I chased my culinary conquests down the stage and into the audience, whacking off bits of their costumes playfully whenever I caught up with them.
    I captured Kaia by the drumstick across a customer’s lap, and revealed a healthy chunk of her backside to his entire table.
    “Mmmm, so tender,” I quipped as I smacked her on the ass.
    Krystal, our sassy ear of corn, was shucked to her pasties when I cornered her by the bar.
    “Tasty niblets!”
    Kandy received a raucous chorus of approval when I sliced off her costume and mimed taking a big bite of her pie.
    “So juicy!”
    Once defrocked, I gathered up my delicious morsels, and dragged them back to the stage, where a pile of their discarded costumes lay like a heap of garbage ready for the kitchen disposal. There they turned the tables on me, wrestling the knife from my grasp and chasing me back into the audience as DJ Mandy switched from “Frim-Fram Sauce” to the Benny Hill theme song. I flailed and squealed as I ran, darting around customers and leaping over laps, shedding bits of my own costume as I went, like a naughty culinary-themed keystone cop routine.
    As I wove through another set of tables, I saw a foot dodge out, and too late to redirect my course, I tripped, falling over into the lap of the offender, a large bald man with a deep red nose and breath that reeked of whiskey.
    “Hey! Look what I got here!” He leered.
    “Absolutely no touching, sir!” I said as sternly and as loudly as I could. I tried to pry his fingers off of my ass as my eyes scanned the room for some sign of rescue. I could manage this creep if I absolutely needed to, but our club policy is to let our bouncer, Parker, handle the “wet work”. Six foot five and nearly four hundred pounds, Parker is a former cop, fiercely protective of us girls and usually, very much on the ball. Right now he was nowhere to be seen. The club was so dark, crowded and loud, I figured he was having trouble finding me in the chaos. Hell, most of the throng didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss—music continued to play and the other girls carried on entertaining the rest of our customers with some impromptu lap dancing.
    “Alright now, you’ve had your fun, let me go so I can finish my dance, honey,” I said, hating the syrup I’d poured into my tone for the purpose of appeasing some jack-off with self-control issues. He didn’t let go. I pushed up on his shoulders, ready to actually shout for Parker’s late ass when the spotlight raced, arcing around the room and back to my location.
    This spotlight wasn’t for ambiance—it was a specific protocol that signaled a floor disturbance to our security staff. DJ Mandy sees all from her vantage point in the DJ booth and she had sent the blue light circling and landing on me repeatedly, a signal to Parker to get his burly bulk out on the floor. The spotlight spun wide, and caught the edge of a table in the back, illuminating a face for a split second. I squinted into the bright light, and saw a flicker, just a flash of the Professor’s face staring back at me from that shadowed corner. It was so fast I hardly believed what I’d seen. I certainly hadn’t expected him at the club tonight, and my heart sank at the thought of him watching me dance for all these men. At the thought of him watching me now.
    “Stop struggling, you wildcat,” Whiskey Breath croaked at me. “I’m just trying to have a little fun.”
    “Not with me you’re not. Now let go of me.” I kneed the big guy in the crotch and managed to get one high-heeled foot