Café Risqué, A short story

Café Risqué

By: S.S Carter

Along North Carolina’s stretch of I 95 there is a small whorehouse left over from the roaring 80’s called Café Risqué. No matter which direction you are traveling on 95 you will see billboards letting you know that at that exit they “Dare to Bare,” incase of a long frustrating drive.  As I drove past a few times I would joke with those with me about how if we only had more time we would stop there and see what this barn side trucker stop/restaurant/ whore house was all about.

It wasn’t until the spring of 2010 that I had that extra time while traveling back to Maryland. Let me explain how I dared to see them bare. My partner and I, who happened to be my girlfriend at the time, had been driving since Savannah Georgia, our last stop point. We were smoking cigarillos to pass the time, and we lit our last one crossing South of the Border on our way north up 95. Knowing we had to go all the way to Maryland I started to think of creative ways to get more of that sweet substance that made my cigarillos so flavorful.

When I saw the first billboard for Café Risqué it hit me, if there was any place sketchy enough to score weed on that whole God forsaken highway that would be the place. I brought the idea up.

“What do you wanna bet we can get some bud right at that place.”  I pointed to the passing red and yellow billboard advertising the place.  The billboard said something about a sex shop.

“It’s a sex shop!” The girl with me exclaimed. She was into pornos and sex shops and basically anything freaky like that she thought a man would be into. Perfect, I thought.

As we approached I kept having thoughts of how awkward it could be with my girlfriend sitting there while a weird, ugly, North Carolinian, danced with her manicured muffin top right in my face.  As the exit neared I looked at the brown haired girl next to me, she seemed completely cool. I couldn’t back out. I took the exit. We pulled the Isuzu Trooper that was towing the 18 ft. Sea Ray off the paved road and into the gravel parking lot of Café Risqué.

The parking lot seemed empty, just a few cars and two tractor-trailers.  At the door there was a sliding tinted window that you paid through. The girl was free, I had to pay twelve dollars to get in because I was not intending on eating.

Café Risqué consisted of one large main room that was dark with small with a few tables, a few private dancing booths, a dildo room, and a tiny area that was their kitchen. Along the far wall there was a stage with a topless blonde woman, dancing to an Usher song. She seemed in her mid thirties, but the tragedies of life had left her worn. In the back left corner sat a man who looked like a trucker. I say that because of his mesh ball cap and jean outfit. He may have just been a North Carolinian. He was eating and didn’t seem to pay the naked girl any mind. The other man sat alone on a bar stole at the stages end. We made our way to bar stoles at the stage. The woman eye fucked me and smiled, almost laughed. That was her job, of course. Stephanie grabbed my hand to make it clear I was taken, but it didn’t matter to the woman who started bending over and showing all her assets, clearly outlined through the tight panties. She was trying to see if I was going to be loose with my bills.

We sat and a waitress came. She had black hair and was wearing a t-shirt with no bra. We both ordered waters. The transaction was welcoming and the girl was probably about my age, which at the time was 22. The waters came, the girl danced, I threw a few ones. She saw I wasn’t a big spender and made her way back to the bearded twenty something year old who seemed to be interested in getting a private dance. I know this because he asked the waitress the price. I had Stephanie leave and go look at the dildos so I could approach the waitress alone. She came back to check on me.

“How is everything?”

I told her it was fabulous, but I quickly changed subjects and with a very matter of fact way tone and asked,

“The problem is I am driving all the way back to D.C. tonight and we just smoked the last of our weed. Is there any way at all you might know anyone who could help me?”

She leaned over towards me and asked,

“You ain’t no police are you?”

I pointed to my red Florida Southern Lacrosse shooting shirt that I was wearing and explained I was one of the team captains. Very quickly she closed the deal by telling me that she had a quarter in her purse and that if I went to the men’s bathroom in five minutes there would be a baggy in the spare roll of toilet paper. She told me to leave her twenty dollars.

I went to check out the dildos with Stephanie while the time passed. When I found her she was holding a veiny double-sided black dildo.  We had some good laughs, but we didn’t want to waste money on any of that. After the time was up I went back and there was a fat bag of weed right where she said it would be, more than twenty dollars worth. While I was in here I wondered over the years how many hoes had been slammed in these bathroom stalls. There was ink all over the pink painted walls, a sexual hell. I left her twenty-five in its place, five dollars more than she asked for trying to be nice and walked back out to the main room. We paid our bill as a new girl was taking the stage. This one, a brunette, had a C-Section scare extending vertically out of her panty line. Her fakes tits wear ridden with stretch marks. I originally thought the girl Stephanie and I watched dance was bad, but this showed me that there was probably no standard. It was then that my mind made the connection that the only other business on this side of the exit was a small motel behind the café, a sexual hot spot for a mainly trucker based clientele.

Out in the parking lot Stephanie and I laughed as we walked to the truck. The hoes, the little barn, the dildo’s, the food menu, it was surreal world. What impressed me was their willingness to provide hospitality at so many levels. I know not many places have staff so down to earth that they will boldly accommodate a random travel. We had actually scored the smoke, with ease. What are the odds?

We rolled up in the parking lot, but before it was lit we gave way to kissing. In some sick way the experience had turned us on. We took our time. It was not classy. When we pulled out of the parking lot I lit the smoke and the strength of the weed impressed me. It was the only thing high quality about Café Risqué.

 

-S. S. Carter Feb, 2012