I first saw her at my friend’s bachelor party. Strip clubs weren’t my thing, but I went because I felt obligated. I figured I’d show up, have a couple of beers, then claim I had work in the morning and duck out early. That was before Krisztina.

I watched the dancers before her, but none of them did anything for me. Nothing against them, but tattoos and fake parts aren’t for me. I’m into a more natural kind of beauty, one that just is and doesn’t scream for attention. It’s my only conservative streak, so let me have it.

I like to pretend I was about to leave right before Krisztina came on stage, so I’ll stretch the truth and say I’d already stood up. The second I saw her, though, I sat right back down. She caught my eye right away. Slim, blond, natural boobs, no ink, no crazy piercings. The announcer said she was from Hungary.

She didn’t just look different. She was different. All the others did some version of the same thing. Loud, flashy, stripper-gymnastics set to something like Cardi B. Krisztina slowed things down. The lights dimmed. The laser lights went away. She came out to “Two Weeks” by FKA twigs, and followed that up with a second dance to Portishead’s “Glory Box”. More than half the room lost interest. My friends headed for cigarettes or private rooms. But for the first time all night, I was interested in the stage.

I couldn’t look away. Krisztina was graceful. Every hand gesture or head tilt had a purpose. She wasn’t just dancing to a song. She was interpreting it through movement. It didn’t seem to matter to her how much of the crowd she lost. She was doing something special for people who wanted something different. People like me.

I felt a connection to her, almost immediately, and I’m not even sure why. It was more than just the way she looked. It was how she moved and how unafraid she was to do her own thing. I’m not going to say it was love, but it was something. It felt like I already knew her, even though I didn’t.

For the next few days, she haunted me. When I least expected it, I’d get little flashes of her. The way her hips swayed when she walked, how she turned her shoulders, or the slow sweep of her arm like she still had the muscle memory from ballet lessons.

I couldn’t let it end after that one night. And for the first time in my life, I went to a strip joint on my own. I didn’t want company. I just needed to know if I'd feel the same thing if I saw her again.

I did. One visit became another, and after a couple of weeks, I was a regular. Before she came on, I’d mostly stay away from the stage area. If they had a game on the TV, I’d watch that. If not, I’d talk to the bartender Vince or kill time on the pinball machine if he was busy.

When the lights dimmed, I knew that was her cue. That’s when I’d move as close to the stage as I could get without making it look too obvious. Eventually, she started to notice. She’d scan the crowd until she found me, smile, and at the end of her set she’d throw a glance over her shoulder just long enough to make eye contact. It felt like her way of saying, “I see you.”

For all the time I was spending at the club, I still hadn’t spoken to her. Not a word. The other dancers would walk the floor after their sets. They’d mingle, fake-flirt and try to lure guys into one of the VIP rooms where they could make even more money.

Krisztina never did that. She’d come out, dance for a couple of songs, then disappear somewhere behind the scenes until it was her time to take the stage again. As much as I wanted to talk to her, I kind of liked that about her. And if I’m being honest, I don’t know how I would have handled seeing her pull guys into a champagne room night after night. That idea scared me. I was jealous of something that wasn’t even happening, and I had no right to feel that way, but there it was.

That became our routine. I’d show up just for her, watch her dance, then leave. I had no other reason to be there. Nothing else about the place interested me. I’m not sure how long it could have gone on like that, months probably, maybe longer, but things changed when I made a stupid mistake.

I didn’t usually drink much when I went to see her. A couple of beers, maybe three, never more than that. One night after about two months of being a regular, something in me broke. It was a Friday night, no work the next morning, and when I started drinking, I didn’t stop. I didn’t have a wife or a girlfriend waiting for me at home, and all the time I was spending in a strip club finally got to me.

I lost track of how many beers I had, and there were more than a few shots on top of that. After Krisztina’s third set, I was pretty wasted, and weeks of sexual frustration boiled over. I grabbed one of the girls off the floor. I don’t even remember her name. Coco or Chocolate. Maybe Sugar. Something like that. I told her that I wanted to go VIP. She looked surprised. Usually the girls have to butter a guy up before they talk him into spending that kind of money. I barely had to say anything. She saw the look on my face.

When we got into the room, she started into some friendly chat, trying to feel me out and figure out what I was looking for. I was too drunk, and my mind was too full of every movement Krisztina made that night to be anything other than direct.

“I want to fuck,” I said.

She gave me a nervous look. “You a cop or something?”

“No. I just want to fuck.”

“It’s entrapment if I ask you and you—”

“I’m not a fucking cop,” I said it louder than I meant to. “I’m not a cop. I swear. I just need to… I need this. Please.”

“Ok honey. I hear you.” I could still see the doubt on her face, but she was there to make some money. “What you’re asking for comes at a price. You have cash?”

“How much?”

“Fifteen hundred.”

I had five hundred in my wallet.

“How much for a blow job?”

“Six hundred.”

“I have five.”

“This isn’t a negotiation honey.”

“What about a hand job?”

“Three hundred.”

“Deal.”

I pulled my wallet out and started counting twenties.

“Hold up.” She looked panicked now. “That’s not how we do things.”

“How then?”

She leaned out the door and called down the hallway. “Stacey!”

A few seconds later a new woman appeared in the doorway.

“This one,” the stripper said. “Three hundred.”

Stacey nodded.

“Mister, when you leave you give three hundred to Miss Stacey here, you understand?”

“Yes, three hundred to the blond. Got it.”

“And just so we’re clear, if you try to walk out without paying, your hospital bill is going to be a lot more than three hundred. Understood?” Stacey stared at me, waiting.

“Absolutely. Three hundred in your hand as soon as I leave the room.”

The two women looked at each other and shrugged at the same time. Stacey walked off, and the stripper stepped back inside.

She sat on my lap, straddling me.

“Before we start, listen. I touch you, you don’t touch me. Ok?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll just stay here for a bit, on your lap. Rubbing. Let me know when you’re hard.”

“I’m hard right now.”

She reached down to touch me like she didn’t believe me.

“You certainly are,” she confirmed. “Here’s how this goes. The door has to stay open for my safety. No one comes down this way except for the other dancers. They know not to look into the rooms.”

“Ok.” I didn’t care about the rules. I just wanted to get off.

“Now, I’m going over to the camera to pull a wire out. That gives us ten minutes. That’s how long you have.”

“Fine,” I said, knowing I probably only needed five.

“All right,” she said, patting my chest as she stood up. “You get your pants down, and I’ll be right back.”

After adjusting the camera, she turned around and saw me sitting there, pants around my knees, boxer shorts halfway down my thighs, cock standing straight up begging to be touched.

She sat down beside me, pressing her tits into my arm. She brought her head in close to mine, so her chin was almost resting on my shoulder. I could feel the warmth of her breath against my neck as she took me into her hand.

“You’ve got a nice cock,” she said as her fingers tightened around it and began stroking slowly.

I closed my eyes. I didn’t need to see her, didn’t need to hear her. All I wanted to think about was Krisztina.

“Does that feel good honey? You like the way that feels?” She’d already picked up the pace, maybe worried I was too drunk to finish in ten minutes.

It wasn’t going to be a problem. I had a scene from earlier burned into my mind. Krisztina on all fours, crawling away from me, swaying her ass from side to side as she crept forward. She stopped, looked over her shoulder at me, and arched her back. She moved her left hand between her legs and spread her pussy open while she took the index finger of her other hand into her mouth and sucked. It felt like she was doing it just for me. I think she was.

“You’re throbbing now, honey. Think about me sucking your cock next time –“

“Stop talking,” I blurted out. I didn’t want to think about her. I didn’t know what Krisztina sounded like, but I knew it wasn’t like this.

She stopped stroking for a second. Shocked, or maybe offended.

“Sorry, I’m just…” I trailed off and closed my eyes again, hoping she’d continue.

Instead of talking, she made soft moans in my ear. That helped. In my head, that scene on stage was happening in my bed. I was behind Krisztina, my hands on her hips as I slid my cock into her. I saw myself pushing into her, the look in her eyes, nodding in approval, wanting more. Then…

“Jesus Christ!” the stripper shouted.

I shot a giant load. What didn’t land on her hand fell onto my legs and shirt.

She stood up, holding her hand as far away from her as she could, and looked around the room. Beside the bench there was a roll of paper towels. She tore some off and tossed the roll beside me.

“Clean yourself up. The camera is back on in two minutes.”

I wiped myself off. I’m sure I missed most of it. I kept looking at the damp spot on my shirt, knowing exactly what that was going to look like under the black lights of the club.

I stood up to pull my pants up and as I was bending over, Krisztina walked by the door.

“Krisztina!” I said loudly. I didn’t have time to think. I just said it. And my stomach dropped the moment her name left my mouth.

She stopped, took a few steps back and saw me standing there, pants around my ankles, trying to pull up my underwear, my limp dick hanging out while the stripper wiped my jizz from her hand. It was the most humiliating moment of my life.

For a second, she looked shocked. Then something else. It wasn’t anger. It was worse. Her face quickly turned to disappointment, then hurt. She bit her lip and shook her head, then kept walking down the hallway.

I knew Krisztina was different, and I think she let herself believe that I wasn’t like all the others either. For all the times I wondered how a woman like her ended up in a place like this, maybe she wondered the same about me. Whatever we had, I threw it away in one drunk, horny moment.

I couldn’t face her after that. Weeks went by. I thought about her every day. I tried to tell myself it was all fake, that everything she did was for money. That it was her job. That our connection was all in my head. But I knew that wasn’t true. I saw the look in her eyes when I called her name. The hurt I caused was real.

I did everything I could to forget her, but the truth is I didn’t want to. I needed to see her, but I was terrified of how she might react if she saw me. Not that she’d cause a scene, but that I might see that look of disappointment again.

It took two months. There were so many failed attempts, driving halfway to the club and then turning around and heading home. But I reached a point where the emptiness of not seeing her felt worse than the embarrassment I’d feel when I did. I was going to let her decide how this went. I’d know right away how she felt. I was sure of it. I’d see it in her eyes. I told myself that was all I needed.

I finally found the courage on a Wednesday. It seemed like a good night. Not too busy, and her first set was usually around seven. If things went bad, I’d still have time to meet a friend for a drink and confess how I’d somehow fallen in love with a stripper I’d never even spoken to. Hearing that thought run through my head was the first time I realized that this might be way more serious than I’d been willing to admit.

I got to the club at 6:30 and grabbed a beer to calm my nerves. I knew better than to look for her on the floor. She wouldn’t be there. She never was. I just kept checking my watch every five minutes until 7 rolled around.

When it did, the lights didn’t dim. No Massive Attack song came over the PA. Some girl with blue hair covered in tattoos came out and started spinning around to something by Metro Boomin.

I gave it another hour. Still no Krisztina.

I went to the bar figuring Vince might know something. Maybe her shifts changed.

He saw me coming and spoke before I had the chance to ask him anything.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s… ah… it’s been awhile. Been busy.”

“Oh ok,” he said. “I thought you stopped coming because Krisztina left.”

“She left?”

“Quit. Two months ago. Right around the time you stopped coming.”

A panic set in. All I could think about was that I’d lost my chance and I’d never see her again.

Vince kept talking. “We joked about it. She used to call you her boyfriend. When she quit and you stopped coming, we all laughed about how the two of you ran off together.”

I’d never forgive myself if I let her walk out of my life because I was too chicken to suffer some embarrassment.

“Vince, you’ve got to help me here. Do you have her number?”

He’d been laughing and smiling up until that point, but his expression changed. “You really like her, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I think so. Yes.”

“I can’t give you her number,” he said, then paused, leaving me hanging. “But, she’s working at Starbucks now. The one over on 4th and Samuel.”

“Really?”

“She was working nights last time I talked to her.” He checked his watch. “They close at 9:30. If she’s in tonight, you’ve got maybe ten minutes.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

I pulled into the Starbucks parking lot with a few minutes to spare. I saw her inside, wiping down the counter, with her back to the wall of glass between us. I didn’t see anyone else inside.

There was no way of making this look like a coincidence, and I didn’t want to scare her either. For all I knew, she wanted nothing to do with me.

I walked to the door, tapped on the glass, and stood there like an idiot.

She turned. She looked shocked at first. Then her shoulders dropped a little, and I saw her sigh.

I pulled the door open a crack. “Are you still open?”

She didn’t answer right away. I could only imagine what thoughts she was sorting through. Probably the same ones I was.

She waved me in. A small smile showed up for a second. She looked away at the far wall, then up at the ceiling, like she needed a moment to ground herself before she looked at me.

“Coffee?” she asked.

I spent a lot of time wondering what her first words to me would be. ‘Coffee’ never made the list.

“Please. Medium. Two cream, two sugar.”

“Coming right up.”

It wasn’t until then that I realized she didn’t have an accent. None at all.

She made the coffee, smiling back at me here and there. Her eyes moved between me and the cup the whole time. When she put the lid on, she grabbed a Sharpie.

“What’s your name, sir?” she asked with a sly look.

“Mark.”

She wrote it on the cup.

“I’ve got a Grande here for a Mister Mark,” she called out, loud enough to echo in the empty store.

“That’s me,” I said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sharon,” she said, tapping her nametag.

“Sharon,” I repeated. Not Hungarian, and not Krisztina.

“Were you expecting something else?” I guess that was my introduction to her mischievous side.

“No,” I said. “Not at all. Sharon.”

She stepped away from the counter and locked the front door, flipping the sign so the “Sorry, we’re closed” side faced out.

When she came back, she grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and nodded toward a table.

“Have a seat.”

On her way over, she stopped at a bank of light switches. Her hand reached for the panel, then stopped. She took a moment before dimming them. “I hope you don’t mind. I don’t want it to look like we’re still open.”

She started flipping through her phone. “They make us play soft jazz at night, but we can listen to whatever we want while we’re closing up.” She stared at her phone, scrolling. Then smiled when she stopped. She tapped her screen emphatically. The jazz faded from the store’s speakers, and something else came on.

“Sneaker Pimps. 6 Underground,” I said. It was one of Krisztina’s favourites.

“I’m impressed. You know this one.”

“I’ve heard it before.”

Sharon sat across from me. And I saw it in her eyes, just like I knew I would. I couldn’t say that everything was forgiven, but this felt like a new start. We were talking for real for the first time, maybe under circumstances that gave us a chance.

“So, Mark,” she said. “Tell me about yourself.”