APH PruCan Dirty Dancer 1

Two young blondes approached the Pink Pony, one of the most prolific strip clubs of the city. The establishment was famed for its exotic dancers, talented specimens of rare and exceptional beauty that could cater to any taste that was legal and some that were barely so to any man, woman, or anyone in between with enough cash in hand. Headliners and acts for this den of sin came from all over the world and took pride in its diversity.

The King of Roses was from the smoky cabarets of Paris. He would let some lucky patron pluck the last rose from his apparel(or lack there of) with a soft smile and a lingering sigh as he sang to the rest in husky French.

The Tomato Fairy whose act consisted of eating the scarlet fruit lavishly slow so that the juices flowed down his tanned skin in sticky rivulets. It was a bidding war to see who got to lick it off of his abs, throat, and hands. He would only let a certain one taste the tangy sweetness of his mouth.

Fire and Ice, an unique act of undress and magic combined, executed by two mysterious Nordic brothers who had glittering eyes of cool tanzanite and uncut sapphire and cold pale hands that could be deliciously cruel upon request.

From the Orient, the Dragon delighted his audience with feats of incredible balance upon poles and tight wire alike. He intrigued them further with his flowing bright robes that parted at the most interesting time to reveal golden flesh, his long blue black hair that flowed like silk down his lean back, and his androgynous looks that made all wonder which gender the dancer actually belonged to.

A trip to the Pink Pony promised a night of intense pleasure, glitter that would not wash off, and addictive regret. It was where lonely people went to feel loved in any way they wanted for a price. Love's not cheap here and is charged for by the hour.

Besides the main attraction of dancers who would take it all off for a price, the Pink Pony had several dance floors, lots of bars, a pool, and even a hotel connected to it where one could meet the love of their life or their love of the moment for an hour or more.

Anything was possible here. All the owner asked was that patrons to keep an open mind and wallet.
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"Well? What do you think, Mattie?", said one of the blondes as he gazed over at the club fondly. He was tall and athletically built, garbed in an expensive dark blue suit that was accented with a bright red tie, the silk highlighting his azure eyes so they gleamed with intense color and made his honey blonde hair sparkle.

His companion and obvious twin looked less than impressed with the whole affair if his expression of miffed distain was any true indication of his inner feelings. "It's a strip club, Al. That has got to be the tackiest shade of pink I have ever seen.", Matthew who was also known as Mattie but only by his brother who had to make up a nickname for anyone he ever met in life. Matthew was paler than Alfred who kept a perpetual tan year round and had eyes that were more shaded an indecisive cool color that lay somewhere between blue and purple. He also had longer hair that just brushed the tops of his shoulders and his blonde was more strawberry than honey with a stubborn curl in the front instead of an equally stubborn cowlick that Alfred was sporting. Matthew was Alfred's gym buddy so the tall man was muscular as well but with leaner muscles. Matthew didn't enjoy weight lifting as much as Alfred, focusing more on cardio and hockey.

"I know. Doesn't it just pop?", Al or more fully Alfred, said giver of nicknames who also went by Alfie, Freddie, and 'that fucking guy over there!'. He looked far too pleased with himself for some reason and it was making Matthew nervous…..very nervous, like 'where is my pants nervous and by the way, how did I get here?' nervous.

"It's making my eyes bleed and it may or may not have given me stigmata.", Matthew said, giving Alfred a half lidded look of exasperation, not just at the color choice of the club. He had been looking forward to a quiet evening of number crunching, nice safe totally predictable number crunching.

Boring? Yes.

Effective for inducing sleep out of sheer boredom? Very much so.

Life of the party he was not and Matthew had come to accept this. After long years of practice, wallflower was a comfortable place for him to be. It involved quietly holding up an expanse of drywall and/or furniture, making awkward conversation with strangers, and eventually driving drunk people, who would not remember his name and/or existence, home. Alfred seemed quite intent on ruining Matthew's perceptions on this life though for some reason. "Al….Why are we here, eh?", Matthew tried once again to find out what his twin intended for them to do this evening. Alfred had been strangely quiet on the matter. Matthew found himself unnerved by it and wishing he was dressed a little better for a night out on the town. Alfred had basically kidnapped him from their apartment, so Matthew was stuck wearing comfortable jeans that had once been black in a former life, dark Sketchers, and an un-tucked bright red dress shirt he hadn't managed to relieve himself of from work.

"Mattie, Mattie, Mattie…..", Alfred chanted, shaking his head in a sad, slow motion that made Matthew want to smack him, "The answer is so simple…..".

Alfred trailed off, leaving Matthew to hang off of the period. "And?", Matthew sighed when it was clear Alfred wasn't going to continue without some sort of prompt.

"To see some dick, dumbass. It's a strip club.", Alfred told him bluntly, flashing his uncomfortable twin a wide grin full of perfect white teeth. The answer effectively staggered the other into a complete stop, fingers already working over his cell to call a cab.

"Fooking hell, I'm going home.", Matthew bit out, attempting to leave as he willed someone to answer his call. He found his escape blocked by a wall of stubborn American and his cell phone stolen.

"Ahhhhh! C'mon! This place is great. Just give it a chance! We don't have to watch the strippers. We can go hit the dance floor.", Alfred tried for diplomacy. When bargaining failed in changing Matthew's resolute expression, Alfred went straight for mental blackmail. "Please!", Alfred whined in what he would claim later was a very manly way, giving Matthew big, glassy puppy dog eyes of begging. It was obscene in its cuteness but effective.

"Fine. Whatever. Let's just get this over with.", Matthew snapped as his will crumbled much too quickly for his own liking. He blamed over exposure and proximity to Alfred for this as he stomped up to the glittering entrance, cursing under his breath in long streams of French. Alfred didn't help matters by fist pumping his victory, running to keep up with the sullen Canadian.

"Bro, this is gonna be one hell of a night!", Alfred laughed, "Say it with me now-Epic."

"Shut the hell up and pay the door fee, hoser."

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"How does it look? Are the wankers gagging for it yet?", a bored and obviously English tone asked. It was voiced by a slim stripper, too busy layering thick kohl around his large emerald eyes to give a fuck about anything else. A black clove cigarette hung off of his pert lips already shaded a very fuckable hue of red. The splash of lip color and the richness of the eye liner accented the milky pallor of his skin and the flawless perfection of it. The stripper ran darkly polished fingertips through his short hair, pale blonde the shade of spun Inca gold and forever in the style of bed head. He was one half of the most popular act at the Pink Pony, his stage name Absinthe which was much more alluring and mysterious than Arthur. The former rolled off of the tongue with a lustful promise. The latter made you think of a mousy librarian or dusty legend. Small wonder to which of the two he preferred to use on stage.

Jägerbomb, the other half of the act, closed the door to their dressing room behind him with a shrug, taking a drag from his own poison of choice, menthol. "Definitely less than awesome. We might actually have to work tonight.", the silver haired man yawned as he took a moment to stretch. Pulling something on stage was not an option. It was the same reason he used Jägerbomb instead of his real name of Gilbert. It just wasn't sexy.

Gilbert and Arthur only had to share a room with each other and for the most part if worked out for them. It was their space with enough area for both of their makeup tables, multiple racks of costumes, a mini fridge full of beers from various regions of Germany and the UK, and even a couch to pass out on in-between sets.

"Some of our regulars are here. That Austrian prick for me and that Japanese perv for you.", Gilbert said as he applied a rich magenta eyeliner to his lids, several shades darker than his own unique eye color. He found the contrast made his crimson orbs look sharper.

"Bugger.", Arthur wrinkled his nose. Honda was quiet and polite on the outside, but inwardly, his carnal tastes ran in oddly depraved directions.

"Kesesese. Ja, He'll do that to.", Gilbert snickered, giving his dance partner the once over. The blonde was lean with fluid muscles, compact and firm as a curled whip. As flexible as one too. Arthur also had a cool demeanor and an acid wit he wasn't afraid to use that drove men and women desperately wild not only for his attention but his approval as well. Couple that with delicate good looks that would make an angel sigh in want and a strong English accent used like a weapon, he was a cool assassin of hearts and heads, and the stage was Arthur's killing ground. Even now, he rolled his eyes with a dry sniff.

"I'm a performer.", Arthur said hotly with an eloquent hand gesture that even royalty would be proud to use.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let's hear you say that when the rent's due.", Gilbert chuckled darkly, poking at one of the Englishman's sore spots with deliberate intent. He was rewarded for his efforts by an instant flush of skin.

"Do you have to keep reminding me about that?! I was drunk. He got lucky. End of story.", Arthur growled out through clenched teeth.

"You still can't eat calamari because of it.", Gilbert pressed with a toothy smirk, enjoying his moment as Arthur's pallor took on a certain green tint whenever anything with tentacles was mentioned in his presence. Gilbert had only heard bits and pieces of the story but it was enough to make him avoid the Japanese businessman. Gilbert took mercy on his coworker, lighting a pair of cigarettes to hand one of them off to Arthur who didn't even complain it wasn't one of his precious cloves.

Gilbert took the moment of silence to study his own reflection. He was taller of the two, leaner as well. He had never been able to keep enough meat on his bones, his corded muscles standing out all the more for it. Gilbert was also scarred from head to toe, random silver lines running over his body. He had only himself to blame for them, having gotten into more than a few fights.

Other than the scars, his skin was colorless, the white of winter's breathe. It was something that he was used to but seemed to fascinate other people. The lack of color made his eyes all the more striking though. Unlike other albinos, his eyes were deep red instead of pink or purple. The condition left him with silver hair as well, but it was thankfully thick considering the rest of his body lacked any.

Not that he minded. Gilbert had watched Arthur struggle with his overly bushy eyebrows for years. The facial hair growths had resisted everything from waxing and threading to tweezing with an almost tangible malice toward their frustrated owner. Gilbert had suggested once that Arthur just shave them off and be done with them. Arthur had staunchly refused, answering back in a near frightened tone that they might grow back in thicker just to spite him. Gilbert felt an odd stab of pity for his partner and gave into it. "Your boy's here too.", he said in way of distraction.

"Which one?", Arthur raised an eyebrow back though his tone was a bit hopeful. Gilbert grinned, knowing the Englishman really wanted only one answer to that question.

"You know, the new one you've been laying it on thick with lately. The blonde with the glasses and the permanently stupid look on his face.", Gilbert answered straight out, deciding not to tease too much for once.

"Really?", Arthur let out breathlessly, biting his lip before he realized what he was doing. He turned his head away to hide the beginnings of a blush. Gilbert snickered loudly to let Arthur know he had already spotted it.

"And it looks like he brought a friend.", Gilbert continued, giving his own appearance the once over before getting up. They really needed to start getting dressed for their next show.

"That's new…..", Arthur mused, not sure if he liked the idea of company with his Alfred.

"So what are you doing tonight?", Gilbert asked, rustling through their costumes, most of which coordinated with each other. Gilbert worked mainly with Arthur, the two dancers so familiar with one another they could learn and execute any new routine with each other within minutes to perfection. Occasionally though for special events, Gilbert would join two other notorious club dancers, the Rose King and the Tomato Fairy, to make the Bad Touch Trio. Those shows were always standing room only, and were near orgy in form and infamously erogenous in reputation.

Gilbert flicked through the garbs of leather, lace, and sequin with a jaded eye, "Pirate again?". He really had no preference. As far as Gilbert was concerned, it all came off in the end so what did it matter?

"Oh bloody hell, no.", Arthur shuddered, "I was thinking bobby or…"

"A what? Speak English, Arschloch.", Gilbert interrupted.

"A cop.", Arthur rolled his eyes, "Or an angel."

Gilbert grimaced at the last suggestion. Arthur got into some pretty weird moods when it came down to his costumes. He personally could not pull off the whole 'ethereal' look. As far as he was concerned, Gilbert thought he looked ghostlike enough. "Cop it is then. Pervs love leather.", Gilbert said as he pulled out the proper attire, tossing as his coworker. "I'll shadow you with something confined looking. Do you wanna team the floor?".

"50/50?", Arthur pursed his lips, slipping into a white dress shirt to lace a leather corset vest over it. Thin crowds meant less money even with some regulars in the mix. By pooling their tips, they could make a hell of a lot more together than separately.

"Just the stage cash. Private dances are in pocket.", Gilbert compromised, "Fishnets or chaps?".

"Deal.", Arthur nodded, "Surprise me."