Before the SOKOL Opens....
The raunchy beat of one Joe Cocker’s seminal songs poured out of the sound system, as Clover practiced on the club’s main stage. The driving beat Joe pounded on the piano keys was the perfect vehicle, as the curvey, lop-eared redhead turned and contorted her body to the rhythm.
Seated near the front of the stage was Randall. He’d only just finished the afternoon prep back in the kitchen, and was only there at Clover’s request. Crossing his arms over his stout chest, the burly sun leopard’s gaze never left Clover’s dancing form while she twisted and turned.
At one point during the song -- when Joe was joined by Brother Clapton’s crying-guitar licks -- Clover planted one foot and arched her body as she held onto the center pole, turning about before she eyed the lone member of her “personal” audience. “You like my new routine so far, cheri?” Clover asked, pitching her voice over the music as she transitioned into a low butterfly-split against the pole.
Randall St. John just nodded, almost robotic with his eyes glazed over with ill-concealed lust.
Clover just grinned as she rose up and curled her fingers around the chrome pole, swinging out in a wide arc out from the stage. Before Randall could react, she swooped out one hand and snatched his fedora -- his favorite white one -- off of his head and whipped it up and away.
Blinking, Randall snapped out of his lust-induced fog and cried out, “Hey?!” Looking up at the lop-eared girl, he watched as she made to put his hat on her own head.
“Yoink!” Clover flirted her eyes, before twirling around the pole twice before she looked down at him. “You were supposed to be observing my new routine, cheri. Not ogling my sexy body . . . not that I wouldn’t mind, but you promised to give me a proper critique. Help me work out the kinks, oui?”
Shaking himself, Randall gave her a meek smile. “Sorry, Amber,” he said, using her given name. “I was . . . well--.”
Plunking his hat on her head, Clover blew him a kiss. “Ne vous en inquiétez pas, l'amant. Do not worry, lover.” She twisted back around the pole, like a sprig of sexy grapevine as she eyed him from crown to lap. “You cannot be expected to not be so . . . distracted, Randall.”
The insides of Randall’s ears darkened as he ducked his head. “Amanda! Don’t say such things, I . . . I mean--!”
A trill of laughter, rich and smooth as good whiskey spilled from Clover’s lips as she uncoiled from the pole. Practice and critique forgotten, she slipped down off the stage and all but poured herself into Randall’s lap like quicksilver. Before he could protest, she pressed a finger to his lips. “Now-now, chere,” she said. “Do not be ashamed. After all, if other men can be permitted to see me on stage -- and I shall be wearing less than I have on now, oui? -- then surely I shall not mind if YOU are seeing me, n'est-ce pas?“
Randall tried to both shake his head and nod at the same time; which made Clover chuckle softly. Blowing out his cheeks with exasperation, he held up both hands and asked, “What did I ever do to get you to like me?”
Clover’s brown eyes turned to dark-chocolate in hue as she smiled. Taking both of his hands in hers, she guided them until Randall had both arms wrapped around her waist, before she curled both of hers around his neck. “Ah, mon amant,” Clover said, leaning in close to touch her nose to his, brushing her plump lips across his now-slack mouth. “You have always been yourself, and that is all you will ever need to be.” She gave him a flirty, gentle peck and pulled back to stare into his deep blue eyes. “Espérez toujours que je vous aime, pour vous . . . and that will never change, Randall.”
Randall sighed -- a tone of acceptance this time. -- and he tightened his embrace around the sensual redhead in his lap. “Why is it when I need assurance, that you can make me feel better by always knowing what to say . . . even though I can NEVER understand what you say in French?” he asked with a lop-sided smile.
Grinning, Clover nuzzled him. “A woman always knows, mon beau. Otherwise, how else could I take care of that heart of yours?” She trailed her hand across his left chest; tracing a heart with her fingertips.
* * *
A birthday gift to myself, drawn by the talented Phillip Jackson (aka JollyJack). Been wanting a piece of art from him for ages, and the advent of my birthday seemed like the best time to do so.
Yes, I know my birthday was back in April, but good things DO come to those who wait.
Be sure to go over to Phillip's gallery and give him some props and love, friends!
Original art by Phillip Jackson / 2013
Characters and Writing are Copyright of Stephen R. Sobotka / 2013