Short Story: A Square Picture

[Weak2ndAct]

A SQUARE PICTURE

   Over Pinot Noir and Miller Lites, my father told me about the Polaroid.  
   Before I was born, meaning when he had a social life, my old man would go out and get into trouble with his friends.  There was a lot of drinking, and more often than not, the guy with the highest blood alcohol content would end up being the designated driver.  There were always close calls with the police, loose women, and some jerk who wanted a fight just for looking at him.
   On a chilly Cleveland night, my father and his friend Jim decided to visit a 'go-go' club.  I've met Jim, and he essentially is just like my dad, except for maybe the fact that he's got a bizarre compulsion to buy copious amounts of lottery tickets and save all of the losers in shoeboxes.  They liked to have fun (i.e. drink, eat, go out) and they avoided serious trouble (i.e. fights, drugs, jail).  
   There was a steep cover charge at the club that night, moreso than the usual steep charges they ask for at clubs that have naked women.  The bouncer said they had a celebrity there for one night only, and oh yeah, she's really sexy.  Already tipsy and horny, my father and Jim conceded and forked over the cash.
   The place was not your typical strip club with poles and booths and loud music, this place was essentially a movie theater.  You had your rows of seats, and up front was a stage where the girls danced, colored lights and patterns played on the screen behind them.  There was one who worked with a snake.
   After a few acts and many over-priced, watered-down drinks, the celebrity in question finally came to the stage.  It was a woman of some Latin descent, and to hear it from my father, the woman was a goddess.  Apparently, she was in Penthouse.
   The show was filled with writhing, feathered outfits, and some nudity (read: she kept her drawers on).  Once the main attraction had ended, my father and Jim decided it was time to retreat home to their earthly wives.  
   Both a little buzzed, then staggered into the club's lobby, only to find a crowd has gathered.  There was the Goddess, now wearing just a paper-thin bathrobe that didn't leave much to the imagination.  And with the Goddess was her boyfriend, a hulking, linebacker type.  He wore a Polaroid camera around his neck and carried a fistful of cash.
   Want a picture with the lady?  Only eight bucks.
   Considering the decade, this price was a little steep.  The Goddess explained that she doesn't make any money doing the shows, that the pictures is where she makes out.  Obviously.
   My father and Jim shared collective scoffs and decided to leave.  Though before their decision could be put to action, the Goddess took off her robe, and this time she was sans drawers.
   A guy had paid for a picture, and as my father and Jim watched what happened, they both looked at each other, each knowing what was about to happen, though there was a stand-off to see who would make the first move.
   Do it, Jim said.
   That's all it took.  
   After handing over his eight dollars, my father took a seat in the chair.  The Goddess followed, she planted herself right on his lap, spread her legs wide, and then leaned back and wrapped her right arm around my father's neck, his face now only inches away from her perfect breasts.
   Say cheese.
   Jim got a picture too.
   On the way home, they both admired each other's pictures.  But once that car door shut upon arriving at home, what happened that night was going to be a closely guarded secret.  
   The picture was hidden in what was called simply, 'Dad's drawer.' It's location changed over the years: a dresser, a large jewelry box, a side table in the bedroom, but it's contents essentially remained the same.  Name tags from various jobs, insurance cards, change, pens, matchbooks, none of these things terribly exciting upon first glance.
   The picture traveled from my parents' first apartment, all the way across the city to their first home, and after the divorce, it traveled to his friend's apartment for a month, before finally settling in what would be his future ex-girlfriend's house.
   Dad's drawer was the bottom one of the three in the bedside dresser.  I went in there once or twice to retrieve car keys or the occasional match, but never did see the picture, as I was unaware of its existence.
   One day when my father was at work, she found it.  And her first instinct was to get incredibly upset, tear it up, and then pick a fight once he got home.  It was fights like these that finally prompted the move to Florida.
   The story about the picture was one of a thousand sad stories that were a result of the relationship with that woman.  But now that my father was single and living alone, he didn't have to worry about those things anymore.
   He finished off his wine and I opened another Miller as we waited for my cousin to arrive.  He's a thirty year old frat boy who never grew up or got married.  But that party streak is offset by good taste in movies, music, and art.  He's the closest thing I have to a brother.  
   Since the move to Florida (the weather, the lack of a state tax, and it being the location of his immediate family prompted the change of location), my cousin and my father would often go to the strip club.  They often called with stories of the place, for twenty bucks you got a killer lap dance: the girls grinded all over your body, and you could touch them anyway except their inputs.  It seemed preposterous.  I had been taught all my life to sit on my hands at strip clubs, just on the off-chance that I was stupid/drunk enough to consider touching the girl on my lap, which was constitute having the door opened with my face.
   But indeed, this place did exist, and I was going to visit it with family.  I couldn't believe what I saw when I walked in the door.  There was groping of all sorts happening around me.  There was a stage in the center of the place, it had three poles and six girls.  There were girls giving lapdances in the booths that lined the walls.  There were girls walking the floor, courting men for dances.  There were girls everywhere.
   The least attractive woman present was the one working the door, and after she took my money for the cover, I was handed a token with the club's name on it.  The blue poker chip was worth one free drink, but considering that the club didn't serve booze, I deemed it to be worthless and shoved it in my wallet with the change.
   The three of us found a spot to camp out, and spent a good amount of time just taking it all in.  After a while, my father leaned over and asked if I saw a girl I wanted to get a dance from.  I hadn't seen the right one yet, but I said I wanted one with big, fake tits.  I had to know what they felt like.
   I made up my mind when I saw the tall blonde in black leather.  The fraudulent chest was blatant and bulging.  When we made eye contact I knew what was about to happen.
   The dance was everything it was hyped to be, and then some.  It was the most intense physical contact I've had with a female who wasn't my girlfriend.  As for the breasts, I found them to be like sporting equipment, a dodgeball, or something you'd find in a gym class.  But still, it was a good time.  We each had several dances that night.
   Once in a while, the club's drink token will fall from my wallet.  One of these days, I'm going to have to find a place for it.

EDITED for typos (and I'm sure there are more).

[Thrindle]

You are still my favorite writer on the board.  

My one criticism:  There are a few parts of the story that don't feel like they mesh with the rest.  A few bits need to be shaped.

Overall... Love it.