The Lookalike

Conner had never been to this particular strip club before, connoisseur of such establishments as he was. Often he'd walked these streets, admiring the prostitutes, always looking and never having the courage to ask. So when he happened on the garish lights and enticing posters of scantly clad girls he was sure he had never noticed this club or building before; and he was familiar enough with this area. Inside the club possessed the usual trashy décor. With few customers Conner was able to grab a table near the side of the stage; a great view he hoped. There he sat for over an hour being terribly disappointed and drinking the most expensive of half pints. The promised entertainment on the outside billboard never materialised. He felt cheated. There was no wild exoticism, no wondrous girls, no tantalising extravaganza, and above all no dream to end dreams. Instead was a shallow parade of dull woman who disappeared offstage as soon as anything remotely revealing was promised.

It was a measure of how mind numbingly dull the performances were that Conner found himself reflecting on his marriage. Twenty-two years of claustrophobia with cold frigid Jacky. He wondered why he'd ever became involved with her? Or, indeed, she with him? He had expected her to thaw on their honeymoon – two rainy weeks in Blackpool, even then a holiday resort in decline – but global warming had never reached Jacky's erogenous zones. And today she looked off-puttingly grim, the excess weight, the pitted face, the dank greying mop of hair, and above all the foul scowl of a temper; it was enough to put off the most desperate. Is it any wonder Conner sort the occasional recreation in a discrete club of his choice. Really, what harm could there be in that?
Each act seemed to be worse then the last. Next up was a vicious bulldog of a woman. Conner's tool seemed to shrivel at the very sight of her. She did not strip so much as parade about in her jackboots and quasi over-tight Nazi uniform. She seemed all muscles and venom. Other members of the audience seemed pleased with her appearance, but Conner could not understand why. Finally her clothes were flung off and, before Conner could get a decent look below the overhanging belly, she vanished offstage. But worse was to follow, so much worse.

Why was he even here? He knew his, stay at home, grumpy wife would disapproved, to say the least, and he was likely to get it in the neck the following morning, but he needed some fantasy in his life, just a bit of glamour, no matter how seedy. Yes the wife would know where he'd been, she always knew. How did she? She'd be silent at breakfast the following morning, she'd be grumpy the rest of the week, a cold block of disdain, then she'd let him have it with a torrent of frightful abuse. Conner shuddered at the very thought of it. In some ways this tirade was a relief as finally they'd settle back to their normal vindictiveness. Such was twenty-two years of marriage for Conner and Jacky.

The next act hobbled onto the stage precariously clutching her zimmer frame; not, Conner believed, the most auspicious of entrances. She was a thin stick of a woman and, to Conner's horror, she must have been in her 70s, and he could well believe 80s. All to the incongruousness throb some punk cacophony – but then the act probable not hear this as she appeared to need a deaf aid. Unsteadily she unbuttoned her blouse, fumbling with far too many buttons, and every so often had to grab hold of the zimmer frame to steady herself. Off came the tiny peephole bra to reveal two small wrinkly tits that were hardly worth the wait. They hardly moved when she shook them at the audience. Her skirt slid down and she poked her thermals clad arse at the audience. Conner could just discern a brown vertical skidmark ingrained in the thermals as she waggled her arse in his direction. Conner quickly gulped down his half pint as the thermals were removed. Hang the exorbitant expense, thought Conner, and he ordered another half pint as the naked wrinkly shuffle offstage dragging her zimmer frame. He felt fortunate he'd never glimpsed the greying minge.

That was enough, that really was enough, fed up and disappointed Conner was about to leave, totally despondent with a wasted evening. He would have to face Jacky's terror and all for nothing; and there would be no delicious memories to console him. A loud fanfare shook Conner as he was about to finish his half pint. Onto the stage strode a wobbly fat mass of a woman. Conner slunk back in his chair, mesmerised but wanting to flee, all while stifling a sickening nausea. The act was unbelievably grotesque.

It was like watching an Ann Widdecombe lookalike perform a lap dance dressed only in a g-string and tassels; she danced, if you can call it that, great mounds of fat wobbled provocatively in front of him, tassels flapped about inches from his nose. Conner gagged momentarily as the lookalike's g-string was temporally unhooked from its moorings giving him an unprecedented and disgusting view; a view of a hairy putrefying mound.

“No, please no...” groaned Conner, feeling the desperate need to vomit.

The horrific climax came when the lookalike tore off her wig with a great flourish, waved it about her head, and flung it into the meagre audience, it landed with a almighty sloppy squelch right on top of Conner's manhood.

“Not the wife...” he gasped, clutching his heart, “Jacky how could...” There Conner lay slumped and lifeless in his chair.

Finally relief came for the few remaining members of the audience, they watched, totally sickened, as the wobbly buttocks disappeared offstage. It was something best not remembered and, if possible, scrubbed with industrial strength bleach from their minds.

Poor Conner lay there for over an hour. Then, when a waiter arrived with another obligatory overpriced half pint, Conner's fate was discovered. The disgruntled waiter prodded him demanding payment, and prodded him again and Connor's body slumped to the floor. Moments later and he was quickly bundled out of the club and dumped in a skip. Not before payment was delicately extracted for the wasted half pint and other miscellaneous sundries. Tonight Conner will not be going home to the wife, and Jacky will not be expecting him.