Velour
🎯 Field Report
I knocked out my chores early. The apartment was clean, quiet, handled.
First free weekend without Nina. The kind of empty that actually lets you catch up.
I hadn’t eaten, so I headed to Velour. The original spot had a reputation—regional rappers, loose rules, and every kind of woman moving through the room: Black, White, Latina, Asian. Nobody out of place. You could light a blunt inside and nobody blinked.
This one was still new, which meant it probably wouldn’t be packed on Saturday night. Fresh out of the shower, I hit my chest, neck, and collarbone with Spicebomb. Maroon long-sleeve, grey sweatpants, black Chelsea boots, navy topcoat — formal enough on the exterior to stay a tier above the clientele. Two 5 mg edibles. Uber.
Velour was calm. A few dancers lounging. Not many customers. Exactly as predicted.
I took a seat at the bar. Starving. Football on the screens gave the place some background noise. I ordered the smash burger, fries, and a Red Bull. I’d already hit my one-drink limit for the day.
A Black dancer asked if she could sit next to me while I waited. I said sure. She introduced herself as Raven. Something felt off immediately, and I already knew I was going to pass. She got called to the stage a minute later. Relief.
A few minutes after that, a slender Latina slid into the empty seat. Much prettier. Bright energy. She introduced herself as Luna. You could tell she was good at her job before she even opened her mouth.
We talked while I waited for my food. I mentioned my rooftop pool, even though it was winter. Planting seeds early. Building the summer roster. She told me she was a single mom. I said I was a single dad. That always drops the guard a notch. Her mom watches her four-year-old while she works nights. She asked what I liked to do. I asked the same. She mentioned an after-hours spot called Athena. Told me what she drank. Crown Royal. Jägerbombs. No straight tequila. She showed me her tattoos.
Everything about her said she was looking for an exit.
I joked about taking her to Athena sometime. She offered her number. I took it.
She asked me to guess her age. I said twenty-six. No. Twenty-three. Still no.
Twenty-one.
Food arrived. Steam hit my face when I opened the box. Fries were fresh, still too hot to touch. I told her she could dance while I waited for it to cool.
She checked once. “You sure?”
I nodded.
She did what she came over to do. Precise. Confident. Fully in control of the moment. I tipped her, finished my food, let the noise and motion pass.
I was about to head out when she came back around. I told her I was waiting on an Uber. Six minutes. She stayed.
When the car arrived, I paid, told her to text me, and left.
Clean. Simple. Efficient.
PS
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