Free Sixty-Nine by Pynk

Rebe and leaned in toward her as Rebe
     completed a complicated pole trick. “You’re a natural. I can see it already.”
    “Natural what?”
    “You’ve danced before. That much I know.”
    “Oh, yes. I have. Years ago.”
    “It shows.”
    One of the other students overheard, a butterican, toasted-pecan-looking young girl who turned up her nose and walked away.
    Rebe said softly, “Thanks. Just trying to get in shape. I think a few more times doing that move and it’s gonna hurt right
     around here.” Rebe rubbed the inside of her right thigh.
    “Oh it will. And every other place too. You will have bruises. It’s no joke.”
    “I can tell.”
    The instructor said in an even more private tone, “Listen, if you ever think about doing this to make some money, let me know.
     As you can imagine, I get a lot of calls from strip club managers looking for dancers.”
    Rebe’s thought was that this was too easy. “I’ll bet you do. I need a whole lot more work, even if I did decide to try it
     out.”
    “What are you, like, thirty-two?” the instructor asked.
    “Ahh, close.” Rebe realized that indirect dishonesty was in order.
    “Nice,” she said, walking away to speak to the group, grabbing on to the pole again herself. “Okay ladies, next we’ll do what’s
     called the martini spin. You stand beside the pole, like this, with your inside arm up high and your inside hand at chest
     level. Bring your outside leg in front of the pole. Now extend your leg straight out while spinning and hook it around while
     shifting your body weight forward. Make sure to bring your leg up quickly, shoot it straight out, and slide down slowly. Then
     tuck your leg to bring yourself back up. Now try it.”
    The ladies went through about another forty-five minutes of learning that and other moves, and then headed to the locker room
     to get dressed. As Rebe sat down, her dance instructor approached.
    “You’ve got a lot of strength. I have this friend who owns a place in Fort Lauderdale. I’ll tell him about you. If you want
     to do this on the side of your normal job, he just might be willing to hire you.”
    “Oh, I don’t work,” Rebe said, trying not to sound like a millionaire with issues.
    “Really? Are you married?”
    “No.”
    “Single is better if you think you might try this out.”
    “I might be interested.”
    “I’ll see you in a couple days for the next class. I’ll tell him about you.”
    “Okay.”
    When the instructor walked away, Rebe glanced up at the ceiling and said in her head, Lord, my mother would beat my ass for even thinking about doing something like this. And dammit, that’s all the more reason
     to give it a try.

Six

     
     
“Computer Love”
    Magnolia
    INT.—MAGNOLIA’S BEDROOM—MIAMI BEACH— LATE EVENING
    January 26, 2009
    N eal still called.
    Magnolia still didn’t answer.
    He still sent text messages.
    Magnolia still ignored them.
    He found excuses to get in touch. Like asking if she’d watched the historical Presidential Inauguration six days before.
    She didn’t reply.
    She had, but was determined to not act like they were simply old friends.
    Though she ignored his repeated initiated contact, she still checked his online account balance, trying to figure out his
     spending habits, just as she did when they were together.
    Magnolia took a sip of Pinot Noir from her leopard wine glass and then talked to herself.
    Why is this man still in my head? I haven’t slept with him in months. Maybe it’s my ego. Maybe I just like the attention.
     Maybe I’m a hopeless romantic. A dumb, foolish, hopeless ass romantic.
    Magnolia spoke to her confused self after midnight, up way too late for a Monday. While sitting in the executive chair at
     her large desk in her pale-purple bedroom, walls adorned with pricey floral abstract artwork, she searched the web on her
     laptop.
    She lived in a sprawling, twenty-eight-hundred-square-foot, three-bedroom ranch in the Miami Shores area of