Keep your sticky little fingers off Pandora’s Box

The DJ announces the arrival of ‘Pandora’ to the stage and the opening chords of Pandora’s Box by Mary Crowell. The bluesey saxophone notes play out as a trim and muscular leg extends from behind the black velvet curtain. You’re not really sure what you expected of Christine. Maybe a Beth clone, lonely 30-something with the beginnings of gravity’s sag but still beautiful. Possibly a little better in shape since her job calls for activity. You can see the resemblance in the figure that emerges into the soft blue light of the stage to the almost burlesque tune, but it only goes so far. ‘Pandora’ defies all expectations.

Her hair is piled atop her head in an artful mess of curls barely restrained by a bun, dyed silver-white and reflecting the light from the spots and foots. You’re too far away to make out her facial features, but again, there’s a familiar curve to her jaw beneath the silver glitter that dusts her body. The diaphanous gauzy blue top she wears is cut low and the matching shorts show off an ass that you could bounce a quarter off of. At the bottom of this ensemble are a pair of what look like the white version of the ruby slippers from Wizard of Oz except for the fact that they have at least six inch heels. As she goes into her routine you can feel a stirring in your loins and you are led to the stage by what feels like an invisible rope around your cock.

You find a seat, your eyes never leaving her, and gaze in enthralled awe at the spectacle before you. The multitasking part of your brain that always plots and plans begins to compare and contrast the beauty on stage to her twin sister. Her dancing is more akin to the vaudeville cooch performers of the 20’s and 30’s than the jaded bland pole dancing and twerking of the modern ecdysiast, and in fact is far more sensual and erotic than the standard gyrations could ever hope to be. You and the other ‘gentlemen’ watch in awe as she teases at removing her top briefly before smoothly transitioning to an acrobatic walkover that wouldn’t look out of place in an Olympic floor routine, made all the more impressive by those heels.

Her features are tighter than Beth’s, emphasized by the numerous facial piercings that are visible from your vantage just below the footlights. Gauged our ears, septum, both snake- and vampire-bites on her upper and lower lips, a small ring through an artfully arched eyebrow so perfect it must be the result of microblading. Her lips are fuller than Beth’s already plump orifice, evidence of either spectacular makeup or collagen injections, her bust is blatantly larger, again likely surgical. While Beth’s bubble butt is round and soft, ‘Pandora’s’ is firm and tight, but no less large. As the clothing begins to fall other obvious differences are apparent. Her belly is tight, her breasts stand up without much aid, and her back is muscular. The show goes on until those shorts drop revealing a bare mound covered only in a thong about as protective as dental floss. To finish up her act she strikes a pose that exudes pure refined sexuality, her arms spread and held high, one leg crooked. Erotic yet somehow innocent. She strides off the stage with more than a handful of $20 bills, several of them from you (hopefully enough to get her attention).

After the sublime beauty of ‘Pandora’ the next act seems trite. About 15 minutes later the white haired beauty is making her way through the patrons. A burly fellow, likely the owner of the hawg parked outside from the fact that he’s wearing Outlaws colors, gets her attention and, after some brief negotiation, the two head to what could laughingly be called the “Champagne Room”. You follow, still pretending to enjoy your beer, and find a spot fairly close to the entrance to said private room hoping to score then next private block with her.

Two songs later (predictably Something In Your Mouth by Nickleback and Living Dead Girl by White Zombie), you hear a commotion from behind the door and while the cold logical part of you tells you that you should just leave it alone, something in the “No! Stop!” that reaches your ears in a smokey alto scream sets off a memory of your mother’s last words. “Take care of your sisters.”