I was installing MacTeX via terminal. Slow as hell. Two hours in, still crawling.

It was 2:14 p.m. on a Saturday. I thought, Why not hit the strip club to kill the downtime?

In the elevator down to the garage, I saw her.
White polka-dot bikini top. Jean shorts.
Not stunning, but the first sign that summer was near.

I asked if the pool was open. She lit up — said it was buzzing, grills fired up too.

“I might need to drop by later,” I said.

I hit the car — 5mg edible starting to come up.

$10 parking. $10 cover. I walked in feeling floaty, like I’d wandered into some lucid dream.

Most of the action was downstairs — dancers, noise, energy. Upstairs was empty. Bar deserted. No bartender. No music. Just silence and shadows.

From the top floor, I spotted her — a Latina beauty below.
We locked eyes. Held it. Broke it. Then again.

It felt like purgatory — dreamlike, glitchy. Most men would be spiraling at this point in a divorce. I wasn’t.

I walked downstairs, slow. Groups of men scattered in booths. More dancers actually grinding. I made my way toward the bar. Not her — not yet. First, I needed a Corona.

The first ice-cold sip tasted like bliss.

Back upstairs, I sipped it solo. I felt like a glitch in the matrix — fully visible, fully invisible.

We locked eyes again. Time to test something.

I curled my index finger — a small, silent come here.
She started up the stairs.

White bra. White thong. Stripper uniform in full display. Each step deliberate — like she already knew the outcome.

She curled up next to me, said her name was Yanet. Nine out of ten Cuban.

“The next song, I’ll start dancing,” she said.

I cupped her right ass cheek — edible peaking — felt like a shortcut to heaven.
I joked, “Would you ever come to my apartment pool?”

She laughed. “I don’t know you.”
A clean reminder — this was still a transaction.

The song hit.
She climbed onto my lap. Grinding. Slow at first, then harder.
She guided my hands to both tits.
I damn near finished in under a minute.

$20 — tip included.
Needs met. No drama. No guesswork.

Why do men tolerate the emotional ransom of modern relationships when this exists?

I drove home. MacTeX was still crawling.

Threw on my trunks, grabbed the laptop, and headed to the rooftop pool.
Took the other half of the edible.

She was there — the elevator girl. Bikini on now, lounging with friends under the shaded chairs.

I claimed a chair under the sun, let the rays hit while I watched the terminal still churn.
Scanned her body through my aviators.

She started packing up to leave. We caught eyes again.

She waved. I waved back — headphones still in.