Not for Sale, Copyright (c) 2010 by Brent Rand, all rights reserved

     Henry seldom attended the annual meetings of the Texas Library Association.  This year was an exception.

     Anne, the new research librarian for the Tulia Public Library, wanted to go.   Really wanted to be there.  So Henry and Anne on a Thursday morning jumped into a 2002 Ford Taurus city motor pool car and headed north on Interstate 27 to Amarillo, some 48 miles up the road.

     Henry had not been to Amarillo in three years.

     The two librarians checked into separate rooms at the Holiday Inn just off I 40 on the east side of the city.  Soon Henry and Anne would join some 345 other Texas librarians and book sellers for discussions and workshops about the printed page, the Internet, privacy, banned books and the Patriot Act.

     Anne was a moving machine of intellectual energy as she walked through the hotel lobby.  Henry eyed the four-story sandy stucco façade with skepticism – the Amarillo Holiday Inn, another example of Texas taste.   An aged endorsement of progress, money and limited class.  The Texas panhandle on a shoestring, Henry knew he would feel right at home.

     There were times when Henry craved the urban smell and confusion of this Panhandle city.  The Amarillo Symphony one night…..the regional Cheerleading Championships at the Civic Center……..professional wrestling combined with the Nutcracker Ball…..and the Polar Bear Hike in Palo Duro Canyon.   Then there was Father Bill’s, one of the finer skin houses in Texas.   Yes, it would be a good conference.   

     Friday morning Henry made his way from his room to the hotel atrium near the video games and a steamy waterslide area for family good times.  Coffee, donuts and bagels greeted the librarians and the conference speakers.

     “Henry, over here.”  Anne waved her hand.   She was balancing a bagel, coffee and  conversation with three other librarians.   Henry joined the small group.  Introductions were made.

     The morning session featured a representative from the Governor’s Office discussing the threat of terrorism, potentially dangerous books, and the role librarians should play to help the FBI, the Texas Rangers, and others  track down library users who could be reading books concerning homemade bombs, dangerous chemicals, and handguns.  Then there was the Internet.

     Henry had played this game before.   About two years ago two FBI agents out of Houston showed up at his desk, inquiring about a high school teacher in Tulia.  They wanted to know what books he was reading, and the teacher’s use of the public computers at the library.   The teacher, Enche Malik, had taught math for four years in the local high school.   He was a quiet bachelor.  Henry really didn’t know the young Iraqi-American.

     Initially, Henry objected telling the FBI agents they had no right to ask for information about the reading habits of library users.   The agents left.  Henry thought the problem had gone away.

     Six days later the FBI agents returned to Henry’s desk with Marge Clement, the director of the library, and two of her board members.   Clement said the FBI would get the information they wanted.  In fact she had already done the research herself.  The records and reading history of Enche Malik were now in the hands of the FBI for their personal, official review.

     The nodding library board members and librarian Marge Clement informed Henry there would be no need for him to have conversations with the FBI or any other law enforcement agencies.   Such requests would immediately go to the mayor’s office or the city’s police chief.

     From that day forward, Henry lost his love for the Tulia Public Library.  But he still cherished the smell and paper feel of books.

     Later, through the grapevine, Henry found out the investigation of Enche Malik, the teacher, brought the FBI little satisfaction.   Apparently the math teacher had a love for East Indian curry and a website that posted sales prices for used Mazdas.  The educator was not researching bomb factories and ways to bring Evangelical Christians to their knees.

     Life returned to normal for the Tulia City Library, Enche Malik and Henry.  A year later the high school math teacher moved to a new school system some 500 miles away.

         Sitting with 300-plus librarians in a hotel meeting room was not Henry’s exact idea of a good time.   The morning session was well underway.  Introductions had been made.   Changes to the three-day meeting agenda noted.   And information provided about which meals were included in the conference registration fee.

        Lunch was good, the salad bar adequate and Henry walked through the trade show.   Everything from publisher tables to new library software packages and capital campaign fundraising consultants were there to sell their wares.    Following the morning session about reading habits and the implications of the Patriot Act, and a recorded video message from the Governor of Texas, Henry – the librarian—decided to take a walk.   The late afternoon would be his.

     Leaving the hotel lobby, Henry knew exactly where he was going.   Father Bill’s was about three blocks away on the frontage road, next to the Holiday Inn and I40.   Henry was ready for some fiction.

     It didn’t take long to reach Father Bill’s.   The homespun marquee said, Come In and Play.   In bold, blocks letters – Girls, Girls, Gils.  Spelling was not their forte.

     Music at strip clubs was not a work of art.   Henry adjusted his glasses as he entered the dark room, the living room at Father Bill’s.  A five dollar cover charge was paid and Henry found his way to a single table about fifty feet from the main stage.  

    An African American dancer worked away through her second song, there would be three hip hop selections in her act.   By that time she was wearing only a g-string.   Stiletto heels kept her thigh and calf muscles tight, taut.  Her ass was nice.

     She was working her fingers over her pubic area.   Teasing but not touching.   In this part of Texas, booze could be served if the dancers were not totally nude.  Hence the g-strings.   No touching at least on stage.

     The woman was working the pole, her long legs wrapping the chrome.   Her reflection clear in the stage mirrors about six feet from the pole.   About 25 men and maybe six women were in the crowd that afternoon.   The music was loud.   The beer was good.  Most everyone seemed to know why they were there.

     It took Henry about three beers before he moved up front, near the stage.   The bar maid had converted his twenty dollar bills into singles with a couple of fives.

     He placed one, then two single dollar bills on the side of the stage.   The dancer on stage saw the money on the soft edge of the main show stage.   By that time Henry had seen three strippers. This one was his fourth.

     Her breasts were wonderful.   Henry knew she would come his way.   Into her final song, the woman was on her hands and knees in front of the Tulia librarian.   She smiled and told him to lean forward.   He did.

     She took  two of his dollar bills and placed them in his mouth.   Then with her hands, the stripper brought her breasts together, the dollar bills went from Henry’s mouth to the wet sweat on her tits.   The dancer laughed and Henry brought his tongue to her nipple.  She backed away, smiling, saying “not now”.

      As the afternoon became early evening Henry had switched from beer to Diet Coke.  He had taken advantage of the afternoon Happy Hour and barbecue chicken wings, a specialty of Father Bill’s.

    He was returning to his table from the men’s room when a voice came from the bar.

    “Remember me?” a woman asked.  It was the dancer from an hour before.  Now, she was wearing a tank top, no bra, and tight running shorts.   Her red heels made her seem taller as she stepped toward Henry.

   “My name is Trish,” she said without hesitation.  “For sixty dollars I’ll show you some things at a table over there.”  Trish motioned to a dark part of the room with maybe six or seven tables, each with two or three chairs.  

    “Let’s go over there.”

     For some reason Henry followed.   His fresh Diet Coke in one hand

     Music, quieter than the show stage, drifted in from overhead speakers.   Trish was sitting in one chair, inviting Henry to sit next to her.  He did.

     “I enjoyed dancing for you,” Trish looked him in the eye.   “Here’s what I want to do for you.   For $60. I can stroke your cock, do a lap dance for you, feel you, and you can cum if you want.”

     “Is that something you would like?”  she asked.

     Henry nodded and put three twenty dollar bills on the table.   Trish pushed the cash into her purse.

    Looking around the dark room, Henry knew they were not alone.   Across the table tops, he could see another dark figure, a man at a table nearby.   He was looking down, his body moved almost as if he was dancing.  A woman’s head of hair bobbed gently between his legs.  

     Trish followed Henry’s new interest.  “He’s getting a blow job.  You want one? “ Trish said.  “It’s $200. The house keeps half.”

     “I don’t have that kind of cash with me.”

      “We take plastic.  You want to do it?  It’s fun.”

     Henry reached into his back pocket.  A credit card was placed on the table.   Trish raised her hand almost like she was in a classroom.   In less than a minute, a barkeep was at the table.   Henry was told his card would be with Father Bill’s customer service guy when Henry was ready to leave.  

     Back to business, Trish removed her tank top.  Her breasts and nipples were eye-level.  Henry was excited.   She brought her tits close to his face.

     “To do this right, we need to do some arranging,” Trish gave Henry a nod.  “Stand up.  We’ll be on our way.”

     In the dark space, Henry soon felt his belt loosened, his khakis dropped to the floor, and Trish took his boxer shorts  down to Henry’s knees.

     Her fingers were warm and gentle as she stroked his cock.   Up, down, up, down the shaft.  Henry was hard.   Trish used the palm of her right hand to cup his balls.  All of this was wonderful.   Her client, her new friend breathed deeper.

     Trish pushed her tongue toward his penis.  For Henry, everything was so fine.   Soon her tongue worked the shaft; her lips touched then took the head of his cock into her mouth.

     Her eyes met Henry’s.  He reached down and touched her breast.  Then her nipples were between his fingers.   Trish was sucking now with energy.   She worked her thong down to her red heels.

     “You can finger fuck me if you want,” she said.   Henry motioned for her to sit on his lap.  Now nude, his cock worked to find a comfortable place as Trish placed her ass on his lap.   Henry brought his hands to her tits, kissing the back of her shoulders, then her neck.

     Trish encouraged Henry to put some lubricant on his fingers.   Soon, his right index finger found the wet pinkness of Trish’s pussy.

     “Be gentle,” she said.

     “I will, I will,” was his reply.

     The change of music on the PA system brought both back to the booth, to Father Bill’s special VIP room.   Her ass was rubbing his cock.  The water-based lubricant was so nice, so smooth.  Trish moved again to bring his penis to her mouth.  Sucking noises brought Henry near climax.    

     “Don’t cum in my mouth,”  Trish made eye contact.  “You have a choice…my tits or ass.  Choose your shot cowboy.”

     Trish moved quickly bringing her ass near his cock.   Her anus wanted a friend.  

     With a thrust, Henry was cuming.    He groaned as his sperm and semen spread across the crevice of her ass.    She kept her cheeks close to his cock.

     Then Trish turned and kissed him on his cheek.   “Thank you Henry, I had a good time.”

     Trish brought a smooth towel and dried herself, then used the towel to clean Henry’s cock and legs.  She picked up her purse.   Her tank top was on.   Trish was moving for the dressing room.  Her time on the main stage was five minutes away.

     Before Henry left, he collected his credit card and receipt from the customer service desk.   By the time Henry was in the parking lot, the evening neon was taking over the strip mall.

     At the librarian conference, Anne was having a glass of chardonnay in the bar.   Henry stopped by to say hello.

     “What happened?  Where have you been?” she asked.   

     “I’ve been reading a book, it was a quiet afternoon, Anne,” Henry said.  “You up for the evening session?”

     “Let’s do it,” Anne replied.   The two Texas librarians walked  to meeting room A and discussion about banned books and how to deal with community censorship.

     “This is my kind of subject,” Anne said.   “People should be able to read what they want and do anything that brings pleasure to their life.   We are so up-tight in this country.”

     “I agree,” Henry said.   “I agree.”   He reached in his pocket.  Trish’s cell phone number was on her business card.