Summary:Posse visits an exotic dance club trying to make some private arrangements for a special birthday party. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
Related LogsTheme SongNone |
  |
If one asks around New York City, looking for some of the best exotic dancers around, one usually gets basically two club names: the Hellfire Club, and the Obsidian Club. The Hellfire Club has an exceptionally exclusive membership list, and costs in the millions of dollars. The Obsidian Club is on the Lower East Side, and while it may be a very clean, moderately upscale establishment, it by no means requires one to be a million- or billionaire to get in. The cover is not exceptionally steep, but it is not cheap either, and does then require a two-drink minimum. Not hard to guess where they make some of their money.
The place is classy. The bouncers and staff are respectful. They don't tolerate exceedingly rowdy or rough crowds. They also do not water down their drinks, and their dancers are as clean and well-respected here as any profesional entertainer should be, but often are not. No underage girls here, no trafficking victims, no drugs, and no overt blind-eyed prostitution.
And the headliner here, though she is not around nearly as much as she was months ago, is the mystical, the magical, Voodoo. And according to the staff, Voodoo is going to be on tonight.
Voodoo's appearances always draw a varied crowd. She's a star name at the Obsidian Club and one regulars know to look for. By sheer luck she's also performing the night a complete stranger walks in. Maybe that albino is rubbing off on her…
Dressed in a cut-down version of her Spring fashion, Posse's white scruff in on display in all its untamable shortness and the black stretch-sleeves covering her to her wrists have prompted a slight change of colors. Tan cargo pants and a forest-green shirt make the woman look like she just walked out of a hunting lodge - or off a military base. There's no jewelry to help accent her look but instead a sandy and black-patterned shemagh tied around her neck and billowing past the front of her shirt collar. Ava… might still be learning how to dress casual.
Skipping the buffet area entirely, the cyborg snatches up a stool with an empty solo pole in front of it, out of the way from the front row crowd hovering around the stage. Her green eyes glint as she makes eye contact with a waitress and inwardly debates how best to fill her two-drink minimum while crossing one metallic ankle upon her knee.
One of many nice things about the Obsidian Club is that they take all comers without really much prejudice. They would frown at someone homeless-looking and unkempt, but clothing style is not a deciding factor.
The waitstaff appear to be, by and large, dancers not currently on stage. This is not in fact true; some only do waiting tables; but their slinky boudoir attire certainly aims for that impression. An adorable and curvy young black woman dressed in a stark white teddy and high heels approaches, a round tray on one hip. "Evenin', hon. What can I get you?" She doesn't make any googly eyes at Posse's oddities; either she doesn't realize she's a cyborg (it is much more subtle like this) or she is paid not to care.
Meanwhile, up on the main stage the vivacious blonde going by the moniker of 'Blaze' is currently starting her set with a remix of 'I Wanna be a Cowgirl', complete with shiny fake six-shooters and gold-fringed white chaps.
Ava smiles up at the waitress who approaches, appreciating her aesthetic. "I'll take a lager, whatever's on the cheap side," she asks without trying to be tactful about it. The cyborg isn't here to drink. "Does anyone here do performances outside the club? I'm thinkin' to surprise a friend."
Flitting her gaze back at the stage, the white-haired vet curls her smile as she suppresses a small laugh.
"Did you want two of those, hon?" the waitress asks. She doesn't seem terribly offended by the ask for the cheapest lager they have. She just makes a note of it, and once she has Ava's answer she will head back to the bar to put that order in and bring it back.
When she returns, the waitress smiles and slides the glass with the foaming head across the little table to Ava. "Several of the dancers do take outside gigs. Not sure what your friend's preferences are. But the best for my buck would be Voodoo, if you can make the scheduling work out. Anything else?"
"Yes," Ava affirms then watches the curvy woman leave for more than a few steps before turning her attention back to the stage. After only a few seconds her green gaze returns to scanning the room, not abandoning Blaze completely but keeping appraised of the other occupants - waitstaff and not. And so when her waitress returns it's without any need to call Ava's attention, green eyes have already spotted her black-and-white aesthetic.
"She likes me so… 'someone bigger than her', I think. Tall, full chest… or just does a bold performance," the cyborg guesses. "That's all f'r now."
The waitress considers, grinning. "You want tall, stacked, and bold? Honey, I'd say you definitely want Voodoo, if you can." She hands Ava a little slip of paper - her tab thus far - and then leans over, not quite nuzzling her ear. "I'll make sure to send her your way." And then she's gone.
Blaze's set is four songs, following I Wanna be a Cowgirl with Pony, Don'tcha, and then Dirrty. She's talented, she's hot, she's sexy and stacked. But she's also shorter than Ava. And while she's anything but shy, she's not quite as bold as can be, either.
But while Ava is watching that play out on stage, and maybe looking over the rest of the club, she will become aware of something - someone - else. Six feet tall, and perched on platform heels that add another six inches to all of that, moving with a strutting, sensual walk that both commands others to watch and dares them to try to look away. Mocha skinned with an incredulous mane of ebony hair, this beauty is one thing above all others: striking. Curves like that cause cars to careen off cliffs into the sea. Danger ahead. Warning. Warning.
Ava's eyes slit lightly as her waitress walks off and she grins to herself while shifting in her chair. "You're good at that. Too bad you're not on the menu," she murmurs to herself before sipping her drink and returning most of her attention to the stage. It's a good show and one the cyborg seems to be enjoying but just as before it fails to hook her like it does the front row audience. Maybe buxom cowgirls aren't her style.
A beer and a half in, Ava's periodic sweep takes on a different character from before, more narrowed and suspicious as something sets her on edge. The cyborg's nostrils flare and ever so subtly her elbow brushes the left side of her pants, feeling the hard content still secured within. Then she spots the Amazonian beauty.
Oh. /That's/ what caught her attention.
The whole tenor of the audience shifts when Voodoo comes strolling through from backstage. Unlike most of the waitresses and dancers, she's not - yet - dressed in just lingerie. Instead she seems to be wearing some kind of sultrily slinky clubwear, and the expression 'knows how to use it' comes immediately to mind. She moves with easy grace, and her sway is nigh-hypnotic. She's not even purposefully putting on a show or focusing on any particular patron, but even so there's a ripple through the audience as she passes, like a gravity field pulling their attention away from Blaze's performance for a while as she passes.
The mocha-skinned dancer moves around the crowd, and eventually winds her way over to Ava. "Hi there, stranger." she murmurs in that multi-lingual accent in a voice that drips like molten molasses. "My friend Candy said you wanted to talk about a gig?" She extends her hand towards the other woman. "I'm Voodoo. She said you missed my last set. If you want to talk after a seat, I'm two sets from now. But if you have questions, I can try to answer them." There's just something about this woman that is … compelling. Interesting. Calming, too, sanding the edges off of tension and concern without outright eliminating them.
Ava stands to accept and shake the offered hand. Sure it makes her a bigger target but it also puts both feet on the ground and something in the white-haired vet doesn't want to fake a blas%<233> detachment. Her grip is naturally taut and firm without trying to squeeze and there's an ever so slight brush of a callus - and not in a common spot. Whether or not it's half from Voodoo's heels, she looks up a near foot of height different to make eye contact. "I'm Ava. The gig's for a friend I'm hopin' to surprise; just us. Do you make house calls?"
Voodoo points to the seat Ava emptied, and then walks around to sit across from her, smiling confidently. "Hi, Ava. Welcome to the Obsidian. I hope you're enjoying yourself." she offers first; her tone implies she knows Ava is enjoying herself somewhat, but does not imply that Ava is somehow lost in it all and having the time of her life. Her hands are soft but very strong; there's no clear sign of callous, normal or not normal. SHe seems to respect Ava's build and power, neither turned off by it nor intimidated.
"I do outside gigs." Voodoo admits, nodding. "There will be a few rules. Nothing too bad, I hope, but I stick by them. I will arrive with a driver. My driver will stay outside and wait for me. If I leave on time, we're all good. If I don't send the safe code at the right times during the evening, the driver will come in to make sure I am OK. And if I'm not, well, there will be consequences." A lone woman working alone on a job like this? That should sound like a really good plan.
Voodoo continues. "Beyond that, my other rule is: I'm not a prostitute. Nothing wrong with that line of work, but that is not who I am. You don't pay me to have sex with you, your friend, or the both of you. You may me to put on a show, be sexy, and turn everything on. A private gig, the no-touching rule we have here is loosened up. But touching is not f**king. You OK with that?" Priscilla inquires. "Any questions? Requests? Concerns?"
Ava takes her seat again and listens. Most of the terms are expected and there's a glint of approval for the stripper's precautions - not in her face but in the surface thoughts of her mind. Far from hoping to take advantage of the willowy dancer, the prudence is a mark in Voodoo's favor, making her just slightly more appealing and relatable. As to the other condition…
"If I could find a prostitute like you I wouldn't be at a strip club. Last I checked that wasn't legal 'round here," the tawny woman admits as blunt as ever. Maybe it's a ham-handed compliment, or a simple statement of fact. There's a hint of interest there but it's probably less than most. Ava's shopping for a friend after all, not herself. "What's your price and schedule?" she continues.
Voodoo quotes an hourly rate, and then offers a discount for an 'evening' rate. The advantage is that the hourly rate begins the moment she climbs into the car with her driver on her way, and doesn't end until she gets home, so one ends up paying for time she is spending in traffic, likely as a means to cover the cost of said driver. The evening rate is more than a mere two-hour minimum - closer to three and a half - but covers up to six hours of time, depending on what folks want.
"I will point out, though, for most folks for a one-on-one or two-on-one show, a two or three hour slot is all they really need in my experience." Voodoo is helpful, reassuring, doing her best to help Ava make the right decision for Ava, not for Voodoo. "As for my schedule, when is your friend's birthday? Let's just pull up my phone, and then look at when would work well for you around then and see how that works out for me."
Somewhere in the conversation Ava produces a notepad and pen to take notes of the numbers and times, not trusting all of it to her own memory. There's no glove tonight and no attempt made to hide her metal hand, but there's also no change in her thoughts when it's exposed; it's 'just her hand' as much as the other one is.
The tawny vet has the good grace to smile apologetically as she reveals the one surprise: "Yesterday. She sprung it on me."
Priscilla ohs softly, rising up just a bit. "Oh. Whoops." Then she smiles understandingly. "OK. So, we want to do this as soon as possible, I guess?" She brings up her calendar, and rattles off some options within the next two weeks. "We should also discuss what kinds of music your friend likes, any fantasies you think they might have. That can help with musical selections and with costume choices."
Ava jots a few dates and times on her page without taking her eyes from the dancer, only to pause when more decisions are presented. "Costumes?!" The cyborg's bewilderment is clearer in her thoughts than it is in her voice. Who knew getting naked was so complicated?
Folding her arms and setting her jaw, the bionic vet sighs as she wracks her brain. "I can think of three things to /not/ do. What are the choices?"