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There was a pregnant pause as we gazed at each other, suddenly shy. Beyond the curtains, something was finally happening.
Two transgendered men, both black and both outfitted in skirts and flowing, brightly colored wigs, were sitting down on the bed in the middle of the room.
Of course the people I was being watched by were desperate, hungry-looking middle-aged men and a handful of sad-eyed, hair-dyed ladies with too much metallic eyeliner, but hey: I'll take it.
Suddenly a slightly built 50-ish man with glasses, a paunch, and an uncanny resemblance to my parents' accountant came over and offered me a foot massage. He backed off immediately, with a shrug and a wistful grin.
We couldn't hear any sex noises, and, without my glasses and in a darkened room, I could barely see anything.
I stared at him in the dark, wondering what, exactly, he wanted.
Had he been hoping something would happen between us? My own motives were equally murky: I'd told myself and my friends that I was going for the sheer novelty of the experience, and that was definitely part of it, but I'd also been hoping for something a little more…climactic. “Maybe you need to be the one to make something interesting happen,” I said.
When we arrived at the club, it was clear that Sheila was in her element and Mike wasn't that into it.
He's a nice man, but neurotic and a little insecure.
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As much as we've danced around the edges of propriety, there's a line neither of us would cross.