Tiki Titty Touch

Sidney took the bartending gig at the Hawaiian Tiki Bar for one reason. She needed to get close to London Keyes. The dancer moved like liquid heat onstage, hips rolling beneath coconut shells and a grass skirt that barely hid anything. Every shift, Sidney watched her while polishing glasses, thighs pressed tight behind the bar. London noticed. One humid Friday night she slipped behind the counter, still shiny with sweat. She leaned in, coconut scent clinging to her skin, and took Sidney’s wrist. They slipped into the back corridor past crates of rum and plastic leis. London didn’t wait. She dropped to her knees on the beer-stained floor, pushed Sidney’s cut-offs aside, and pressed her mouth to the heat between her legs. Sidney’s head cracked against the wall. The music outside pulsed through the drywall while London’s tongue worked in slow, deliberate circles, then darted quick and sharp. Her hands gripped Sidney’s hips hard enough to leave prints. Sidney came fast, a sharp cry muffled against her own forearm, her knees threatening to buckle. London stood, licked her lips, and kissed her with the taste still on her tongue. Then she adjusted her skirt, smiled, and walked back out to the stage lights. Sidney stayed behind, breathing hard, fingers trembling around a bottle of rum she never opened.