Me and the Shadow Queen

I'm not sure when she came inside. I just got here myself; I'm standing by the curtains to the dressing room waiting for the other girl to finish her pole dance. From here I can see everyone, starting at the bar then to the small circular tables in front of the stage then to the red velvet cushioned seats along the far wall.

That's where I spot her, having entered the club and sat down in the time it takes for me to glance down at my phone and fire off a text message to Cheryl.

It's not uncommon to see women in this club but it is rare to see them alone. We're a busy, downtown Philly club so most of our traffic consists of businessmen and yuppies and construction workers. Women usually come late, with their boyfriends, or in groups during bachelorette parties visiting as a gag.

But as I take the stage I see this woman is lethally serious. Under the silver-gray fog of cigarette smoke I can make out her bright emerald eyes. She's got long black hair, dressed in all black, juxtaposed with porcelain skin and lips the color of murder.

As I start my routine and the dollar bills start hitting the stage, I see that it's difficult to tell where the woman ends and the shadows start, as if she's bled out of that darkened corner. A shadow queen.

One of my coworkers sits beside her hunting for tips but the Shadow Queen's green eyes are on me as I work the pole. I try to not to stare back and wait until I turn my back to the crowd, my gaze settling on the mirror behind the stage, and I see her, ignoring my coworker, her moonlight-pale face blazing red as she lights a cigarette.

My song ends and that's my cue to start working the room. Since we're a small, busy club, the owner prefers we stick to the script; exit the stage, work the bar, then make your way around the room.

Tonight, I decide to break protocol. I have no choice, not after the green-eyed sorceress beckons to me with a slight, almost imperceptible nod. I shift my eyes briefly to the girl next to her, implying that it's bad form to step on another girl's toes. The Queen understands this and waves off my coworker.

She gets more beautiful the closer I get, emanating a dark radiance, an ageless perfection. As I sit down next to her, I think that she could only exist in dark places. I try to imagine her on a beach, bikini-clad, and cannot.

She lights another cigarette and sips a cocktail and doesn't look my way. I try to judge her age. She's got at least fifteen years on me, perhaps early-to-mid forties, but her age only shows in her posture, her gaze. Her milk-white skin is unblemished.

"I'm Isabella," I say as I scoot my chair closer to hers. "What's your name?"

The Shadow Queen exhales and plumes of smoke snake up from her nostrils. "Your coworker told me there are rooms here where anything goes."

I stutter as I try to answer. The woman's right, of course. Normal lap dances are thirty. VIP rooms run at a hundred and twenty-five bucks. But the big rooms, the back rooms, those were different. Back there you got, as they say, what you paid for.

I stay away from those rooms and customers who inquire about them. Not that I judge the girls who go back there, far from it; I tried it once and found it depressing. The men who ask for that aren't necessarily creepy, but they tend to have an air of desperation about them.

The Queen finally looks at me and she laughs, though her red lips remain taught. "You're one of the clean ones."

I shrug. "Those back rooms aren't really my style."

"How much to change your mind?"

Before I can answer, she reaches over and runs her fingers down my cheek, the way you might touch a new car in a showroom. I see that her nails are painted black as well. I break out in goosebumps the moment she touches me.

"I, um..."

"Maybe we can work it out once we're back there," the woman says. She promptly stands up, gathers her drink, and turns her stern eyes toward me. "Well? Let's go."

And so, I follow her.

#

The back room we take is reserved, 'officially', for bed dances, it even says so on a big neon sign. A nice cover-your-ass strategy on the owner's part if the vice squad ever comes in to investigate.

It's got a queen-sized bed with silk sheets, changed as needed, and a plush leather sofa on the opposite side of the room with an oak table before it. I follow the woman, slightly nervously, inside.

She's tall, confident. She takes a long look around the room and lights another cigarette. She almost looks like a businesswoman in her attire; coat, knee-length skirt beneath, high boots, all black.

When she looks back at me, suddenly, with those shimmering, cutting eyes, I jump a little. I laugh to mask my nervousness but she doesn't even smirk.

"Sit," she says.

I instinctively head toward the bed.

"On the couch," she says with a touch of impatience.

And so, I sit. Suddenly I'm embarrassed to have tried her patience. I'm embarrassed of my one-piece fishnet outfit, my neon pink heels, my tattoos, my plain brown hair. I'm even embarrassed that she is unequivocally smarter than me.

I wrap my arms around my midsection, afraid to look her in the eyes, yet aching to gaze upon her beauty.

She sits next to me, crosses on leg over the other, and sips her cocktail while she stares at me.

"My name's Isabella," I blurt out stupidly.

The Shadow Queen says nothing. When I raise my eyes to hers, I half-expect a black halo, outlined white, to suddenly glow over her head, that I'd fall into her pulsing green eyes, into her depths.

"Shall we start?" the Shadow Queen asks.

I get up on two wobbly legs, nearly stumbling, and gyrate toward her.

"Stop," she says.

I do.

She dwells in a long, pitiless silence then pats her lap. "Sit on my lap, Isabella."

I sit on her thighs and she puts a hand on my back, I feel her flesh on mine through the fishnet and I quiver at her cold, delicate touch.

"You're very beautiful," I say.

She says nothing but then she sets her cocktail down, her eyes boring into me, her red lips parting slightly, and I'm mesmerized by a glimpse of her soft pink tongue beyond. The Shadow Queen exhales sharply as she walks her fingers up my belly, eyes closed, as if she were touching the softest silk for the very first time.

She massages my lower back, fingers creeping farther down with each motion, until she cups my ass cheek. Her other hand moves toward my breasts, but she's in no hurry, and I feel the warmth of her breath on my chest as she pulls me closer.

My chest rises and falls quickly. I run my fingers through her infinitely dark hair, surprised that she lets me, and I lick my lips as I stare at her mouth, and finally her eyes open and she looks into my eyes.

I can't help it, I move to kiss her, but she grabs a handful of my hair and jerks me back then shakes her head.

But I like the way I feel as she holds me there, and I nod, breathing heavier as I watch her free hand move toward my left nipple. She circles my areola with a black-tipped fingernail with a quiet patience, biting her bottom lip as my nipple stiffens, before she cups my breast in her hand and puts her soft red mouth on it.

She holds me firm as I moan. She sucks me, flicks her tongue, then kissed my chest, up to my neck, while her hand drifts down. I'm vaguely aware that I'm digging my fingers into her thigh but she doesn't seem to mind. She only kisses me, sucks at the flesh of my neck, and if she suddenly sprung fangs and tore into my throat, I don't think I'd pull away.

When her hand arrives between my thighs, she finds me more than ready for her. She makes one slow circle around my clitoris before slipping her forefinger inside me.

In the distant lands in the back of my mind, I know that this is breaking the one rule Cheryl and I have regarding my line of work, but in the clutches of the Shadow Queen, such things seem meaningless.

She takes her finger out and stares into my eyes. She raises that finger to her mouth, closes her lips around it, and sucks off my dew. Then she palms the back of my head and pulls me in for a long kiss. Her mouth is sweet. I taste myself on her. Our tongues come together briefly and, as we part, she sucks gently on my bottom lip.

Then she pushes me off her lap, back onto the cushion, and stands up. She drains her cocktail. "Alright then," she says.

Shocked back into reality, I sit there, stunned. "We still have twenty minutes," I say, almost begging her to stay.

She glares at me, as if I questioned her intelligence. Of course she knows how much time she has left. She's simply done with me.

Even so, the Shadow Queen produces a small flip phone and hands it to me. "I'll call you."

A rush of excitement, a fluttering in my chest. "You will?"

"My number isn't programmed in there yet," she says. "But even so, when I do call, never call me back."

I nod and clutch the phone to my chest.

"Alright then," she repeats and heads to the door. She pauses before leaving, digs into her coat pocket, and pulls out a big roll of money.

She tosses it to me before she leaves. I hadn't thought to ask her for any money. When I count it, I see that it's more than double what I normally made on a night like this.

Yet the money doesn't concern me as much as the phone. I check it often for the rest of the night, praying to hear from my Queen.

#

I hide both the phone and the money in the trunk of my car before I go home. Cheryl is still awake, as always; she works from home and makes her own hours so she makes an effort to stay up late on the weekends.

Cheryl's a few years older than me but I already share her aversion to clubs and bars. We prefer a quiet Friday night on the couch, curled up in PJs and sipping wine and eating late-night takeout. And we've been together long enough to comfortably sit in silence.

Yet, she knows my silence is different.

She comments that I seem distant. Just a little tired, I assure her.

But I can't stop thinking about my Shadow Queen. My fearsome woman in black, the one who devours souls. I've concluded that she must be an artist of some sort. She's got that air about her, ethereal and almost haunting. A writer? Painter? Poet?

Cheryl asks if I'm even listening. Of course I am, I assure her, just a little tired.

Before we end up in a fight, I kiss her. Some wine sloshes over the rim of her glass as she puts it on the coffee table. Cheryl takes me by the hips, kisses my neck, but before she can lay me down I stop her.

I want to try something different, I tell her, and I slide onto her lap. As I guide her hand to my sex, I close my eyes and imagine black halos, red lips, and a warm darkness.

#

A few days later, I'm pushing a shopping cart down the cereal aisle at Whole Foods when the phone rings. I instinctively check my normal cell phone first, but I nearly faint with excitement when I realize it's not the right ringtone.

I scramble to answer. "Hello?"

"We're going to have dinner tonight," the Shadow Queen says.

"I have work at seven," I respond.

She sighs sharply, as if she's trying to explain a simple concept to a stupid child. "Then tell them you aren't coming in," she says.

"Okay," I say.

"I'll text you the details," she says. "Wear a short dress."

She hangs up before I can reply.

#

We meet at Del Frisco's, downtown. She's already inside when I get there. A pretty hostess leads me to the rear end of the establishment where the Shadow Queen sits, wine glass in hand, at booth table lit by dim candlelight.

She regards me with her chilly green eyes as her red lips tighten into a thin, judgmental line as she looks over my tight beige dress. It wasn't easy getting dressed. Cheryl thought I was going to work and, well, this wasn't exactly strip club attire; I had to get changed in a gas station bathroom stall.

But the Queen doesn't know this nor would she care. I wait until she raises her eyebrow, just by a hair, before I sit.

"Very nice," the woman says.

"Thank you," I say, near a whisper. Even that terse compliment turns my face red, raises my pulse, makes me squirm.

I consider how to compliment her, as she is stunning. Her dark radiance is on display once more, although now draped white; an elegant, angelic dress flows down from her shoulders. It makes her red lips deeper, her black hair a darker shade of midnight.

"This place is nice," I say, referring to the high vaulted ceilings, marble walls, an opulence punctuated with a handsome, low-voiced money crowd. I look around the table for a menu just as our waitress arrives with a bottle of Cabernet.

She pours the Queen a fresh glass and another for me before departing.

"I already ordered for you," the Queen says.

A long silence follows, broken only by the chitchat of nearby tables, the clanking of utensils and glasses, an occasional metallic whine of a knife cutting through meat then down to the porcelain plate.

These sounds remind me of Cheryl. She was washing the dishes as I left. Before I walked out the door, she whistled to me. I went to her. She told me she loved me and kissed me on the cheek.

Guilt and shame wash over me but the Queen senses this and she folds her hands on the table. I see now that she wears a wedding band.

I smile, as if our mutual betrayals cancel each other out.

"Tell me about yourself," the Queen says.

I'm intimidated initially, giving out these tiny morsels from an unimpressive life. She asks why I started dancing. I explain that I never felt compatible with a 9-to-5 life.

"I mean, I know I can't dance forever," I tell her. "But I make good money. I have freedom and I like that. I can travel and take time off whenever I want because if one club fires me, I can always find another," then I stop because I feel as though I'm blabbing.

Yet the Shadow Queen leans in, intently, and tells me to go on.

And this makes me feel beautiful. Her attention is just as electric as her touch. Again, I think of Cheryl. We've been together for over five years. We don't pay attention to each other, not like this, and haven't for some time.

"Just so you know," I tell her. "This isn't what I do. You know. I'm not...you know."

She sips her wine, studies me. "You're not an escort."

I shake my head.

"That's one of the reasons why I picked you," the Shadow Queen says. "Because you're not. Then again, you're here."

I nod. "Yes."

"I'm not a woman who pays for sex," she says. She cocks an eyebrow and the candlelight hits her eye and I think that no one has ever been so beautiful. "Then again, I'm here."

We eat and we drink half the bottle when the Queen pauses, looks at the crowded dining room, and slips her arm around my waist. "Come closer," she says.

And so, I do.

I'm right up against her trim body, inhaling her intoxicating aroma, I even feel her long black hair brush against my ear.

"Spread your legs for me, Isabella," she says.

Her free hand creeps over my thigh, between my thighs, and I tremble as she closes in. Waitresses come and go, dinner parties file past us. They're all oblivious to the devious curiosity of her fingers under the table, how they pull my panties aside, how her black fingernail teases me until my clitoris swells.

I squeeze her thigh in return, harder than I mean to, but I don't want to cry out, though I'm very close. She pulls me closer and I shift my thigh up and over her leg, giving her more room to explore.

Across the room, a wealthy couple in their sixties happens to look our way. From their vantage point, they can perfectly see the spectacle under our table. I lean back against the Shadow Queen, breathing heavily, and sneer at the couple as she fucks me with her hand.

They turn away, shaking their heads, but stop short of making a complaint. I consider how many wandering eyes might stumble upon us but this only makes me writhe under her touch, makes my heart pound harder, as she teases me toward climax.

She strokes me, slips in me, spreads me and smears my nectar. Her breath is warm on my neck. Her other hand, firm on my hip.

I shudder, hit the table, and knock over my wine glass when I come. A bead of sweat runs from my hairline, over my cheek, then down my neck. A busboy rushes over to clean up the mess while the waitress appears with a new glass and fills it for me.

I chug the red wine down as my heart rate returns to normal, and I look at the Shadow Queen and laugh, but she just cuts into her steak, spears a chunk, and chews it thoughtfully.

"We'll go to my hotel room when we're finished," she says.

#

She's got a room at the Ritz Carlton. We go to her room. There's more wine and an impressive view of the city but I can't take my eyes off the Queen. Her movement is fluid yet strong. She pours herself a glass, smokes, and stares out at the glittering skyline.

I come up behind her, as if in a trance, and put my arms around her. I kiss the back of her neck.

"Will you stay the night?" she asks.

In her reflection in the window I catch, very briefly, a quick shift in her lips, a momentary flutter in her eyes. I realize that she's worried I might say no.

"I'd love to stay," I answer instead. I look back at my purse. My phone's inside. "I just have to..."

She kisses my forehead. "Take your time," she says then walks into the next room.

After easing my nerves with another glass of wine, I concoct a lie and text it to Cheryl. Gonna be a late night, I write. Big bachelor party coming in.

I shut my phone off before Cheryl can reply. She's used to me not answering during work hours—it's hard to keep your cell phone on your person while in a fishnet one-piece—but I feel safer leaving it off. As if she might suspect something otherwise.

But covering my tracks and shaking off my guilt are secondary to my growing hunger, as I remember my Queen, and I look toward the bed and dream about what we'll do there.

She emerges in a red nightgown and I quickly squirm out of my dress, drop it to the floor, and crawl after her onto the bed.

Yet she stops me when I attempt to kiss her. She holds my face in her hands, as if she's framing a photo, and I catch a trace of a smile on her lips. The Shadow Queen instead pulls me close, lays my head on her chest, and strokes my hair.

I'm suddenly warm and tired and comfortable. My eyelids grow heavy.

I sleep.

#

And when I wake up, she's gone. A thick envelope sits on the night table next to me, yet I care less about the money inside and more about the note written on it. I'll be in touch, it says.

Then I turn on my cell phone. I'm greeted by several angry messages from Cheryl, though I pay them little mind. Instead, I lay in that bed staring at her handwriting. I press the letters to my chest.

Cheryl isn't there when I get home. This bothers me less than it should. My thoughts are with the Queen. I can't shake her, nor am I sure that I want to. My heart feels both heavy and overwhelmed, as if it might burst. It's the way I felt when I first met Cheryl. A way I haven't felt in a long time.

Eventually Cheryl comes home and we fight. It's not my first all-nighter, I tell her. She says I've been distant. I ask, what the fuck do you want from me? We eat dinner in silence and she goes to bed early.

I sleep on the couch and dream about the Queen. It's a fitful sleep; I wake up a bunch, feeling strangely and acutely guilty but alive. I'm not a cheater, I tell myself.

Then again, whenever I close my eyes, she's there. And I'm too proud to lie to myself, to say that I even wanted money for that dinner, for the climax she gave me. I didn't want a thing but her and now, in the dark silence as I lay on the couch, I want to be in her arms again. Not fucking, not kissing, but just to lay there as we did in that hotel room.