Do You Wanna Touch?

We've Been Here Too Long, Tryin' to Get Along, Pretending That You're Oh So Shy

John stood patiently at the end of the stage's jutting apron, feeling more awkward than he thought he had ever felt in his life.  He had one eye on Harry, who was being suspiciously well-behaved, and the other eye politely on the stage, which was the setting of a queer burlesque he'd been sent to as Harry's chaperone.

The presenter was out onstage at the moment—a rather large, if shapely, woman clad in a pink plunging neckline and a long, flowing skirt that started at either hip and trailed after her (there was probably a name for it, but John certainly didn't know it). She wasn't at all John's type, but he had to admit she had a certain grace about her.

But she was gay. As was everyone else in the club. And John... preferred women. He wouldn't say that he had never been attracted to men before, and he'd even fallen into bed—or, more accurately, army-bunk—with a few, but he'd never considered himself "queer," as the kids say.

The portly presenter was introducing a man with a strange name whose "vaguely tubercular, Romantic beauty is known to cause men and women with PhDs in comparative literature to scream aloud."

John snorted with amusement.

"No, no," an unfamiliar woman standing next to him, who had obviously had a few drinks already, said loudly into his ear. She put her arm around him and gave him a sloppy smile. "I've seen him before," she confided, a dreamy look on her face, "He's good. Almost makes me want to turn straight just to fuck him."

John nodded and smiled noncommittally.

"No, no, you'll see," she persisted, smacking him on the shoulder as she withdrew her arm, "He could use a good fucking."

The curtains parted shortly to reveal an empty stage with a chair in the middle of it and a close-by cord dangling from the ceiling. The back wall was lit up, only showing the silhouette of the exotic dancer sliding out onstage. All John could see was short, curly hair, a slim figure hidden in a sleek pantsuit, and a pair of heels.

As the music started, John wasn't quite sure they hadn't gotten it wrong, because the tall, lissome creature that walked out on stage moved with a feline grace that John, at least, usually associated with women. A harsh drum beat accompanied slow, deep slides as the dancer used those long legs to their full advantage.

For every step, the dancer would sink deep down into a hip and stretch their front foot forward. This continued until one last step placed the dancer precisely in the middle of the stage.

And then they paused, standing perfectly still for several counts.

"Prepare to have your mind blown," the woman murmured in his ear, "By Sherlock Holmes."

As if on cue, the music changed, and the lights came up, revealing the suit as somehow having been on a rack the whole time. The dancer, with one sharp move, pushed it neatly off into the wings.

Oh, he was male all right, if the Adam's apple was any indication. But John wasn't looking at that. Nor at the glittery, unearthly makeup that adorned the dancer's skin—Sherlock. That was his name. Somehow it suited him. No, John barely even noticed the black clinging outfit, and the bulge it emphasized between Sherlock's legs.

We've been here too long tryin' to get along
Pretendin' that you're oh, so shy
I'm a natural ma'am doin' all I can
My temperature is runnin' high

It was the legs themselves that had John's undivided attention, as Sherlock leisurely stalked toward the chair. He pointed at it sharply, sat down, and proceeded to stretch his body into one long, maddening arch for a tantalizing second, before pulling his limbs in, leaning his elbows on his knees. In the midst of the cheers that followed, Sherlock turned his head toward the audience, making the glitter that artfully adorned his face flash in the lights. And the smirk he wore on his lips seemed to communicate perfectly everything already written in his body—the disdain, the confidence, the allurement, and the desire—as he turned to look around. As those eyes seemed to meet his for a second, John got the impression that with one look, this man would know exactly how to destroy you.