Hot In Here. Susan Lyons
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a thoroughly modern Jenny—race, culture and religion were irrelevant. She wanted a guy who was smart and sexy. And, while some of the family-approved Chinese boys had turned out to be stimulating conversationalists, not a single one had ever turned her crank.
And her crank was getting rusty from a month’s disuse. Being in this room was both heaven and hell for a sexually frustrated girl.
Because, no two ways about it, sexy was what tonight was all about. The people in this room were on a mission: to choose the men who would grace the next Greater Vancouver firefighters calendar. Civic pride was at stake. Vancouver simply had to have the hottest guys on their calendar.
Besides, the hotter the guys, the more people who’d buy the calendar, and the more money raised for charities like the Burn Fund and Cancer Lodge.
Music began again, calling Jenny’s attention back to the stage as the next competitor sauntered out. He was dressed in full turnout gear, the way most of the others had started. When this one peeled off his helmet, she saw he had silver in his close-cropped hair. No question he was handsome, though. She snapped a shot.
“This is more like it,” Ann said, leaning forward.
“Too old,” Jenny shouted.
“Old enough to know how to handle his hose,” Suzanne chimed in, and they all laughed.
The man was gyrating to a classic rock number with a sexy, throbbing beat. He peeled off his bulky jacket, revealing a white tank top stretched over taut muscles.
“Oh, yeah,” Ann said. “No steroids here, and I bet this guy’s package is fully functional.” She fanned herself with her hand.
“What’s this thing you’ve got for older men?” Jenny asked.
“It’s not age, it’s about appreciating quality,” Ann shot back.
Jenny studied the man who filled her camera lens. Nah. Had to be damn near forty. To a twenty-three-year-old like her, that was definitely old.
Still, she had to admit the silver fox was more attractive than the limp-dick steroid guy. And he did know how to move. Watching him, Jenny felt her whole body throb in time with the sexy beat. She pressed her thighs together, squeezing against the burn of arousal between them.
Okay, so maybe she wouldn’t kick this fox out of bed just for having silver hair.
When he finished his number, she leaped to her feet and joined her friends in cheering loudly. “My vibrator’s going to get a workout tonight!” she shouted to them.
“I know exactly what you mean!” Ann called back.
Then Jenny climbed up on her chair, tugged down her denim mini and turned to take some crowd shots. The club was packed. Most of the women and some of the guys wore bright, fun clothing, and the lighting should make for interesting effects. Beyond the superficial, though, she hoped she was a skilled enough photographer to convey the throb of sexual energy in the air, the buzz of excited conversation, the musk of sweat and hundreds of different perfumes, colognes and assorted toiletries.
Young women had turned out in droves, but there were lots of men, too. Funny to see the trendily dressed West End gays shoulder to shoulder with burly dudes who could only be firefighters, come to cheer—or jeer—the competitors.
Music started up and she slipped back into her seat. Ooh, this was different. Same old, same old on the music, but this competitor had on a Zorro mask as well as the standard helmet.
A little shorter than most of the guys—a couple of inches under six feet?—and slender, this man sauntered slowly to center stage and then began to move to the bump-and-grind music in a mesmerizing, hip-swaying motion. Hands went up, the helmet came off.
A head shake, and—
“Oh, my God!” Jenny shrieked. “It’s a woman!”
Long, gleaming red hair tossed every which way.
“Woohoo!” the crowd shrieked, with the women yelling variations of “Go, sister!” and the guys—the straight guys—beginning to chant, “Take it off!”
The woman on stage gave a wide, sultry smile as she made a sexy production of slipping off her turnout coat. Like the silver-haired guy, she was wearing a tank, but hers was hot pink, almost the same shade as the crop top Jenny was wearing.
“Wow,” Rina said admiringly, “she’s sure toned.”
“Of course she is,” Ann said. “Firefighters have to be strong, to drag people out of burning buildings. I love it, that women do that job.”
“Gotta envy those boobs,” Suze said. She, like Jenny, was barely a B in a good bra.
The performer, her nipples erect under the skintight top, was definitely a braless C.
Jenny clicked away, knowing one of these shots would make it into the Georgia Straight for sure. The woman peeled off her giant boots and baggy turnout pants to reveal black tights, slung low on her hip bones.
As she did, two men in navy firefighter uniforms toted something onto the stage and then disappeared behind the curtain.
It was a pole, mounted on a platform.
“A fire pole,” Jenny yelled. “Now, that beats an axe or a hose.”
The audience howled approvingly, drowning her out.
The volume increased as the masked woman twisted and twined her way around the pole. Man, that looked sexy.
Hmm. Hadn’t Jenny heard that pole-dancing lessons were a new craze for bachelorette parties?
Cool. Another story idea, and the research would be a blast.
The woman finished her act and the audience was on its feet, cheering, stomping the floor, wolf-whistling loud enough to burst eardrums.
“Good for her!” Ann yelled, clapping furiously. “She’s definitely going to win a slot on the calendar. Gotta love how she busted the all-male stereotype.”
The crowd was still applauding when the lights went off and the woman on stage was gone. Gradually the noise died down but the place was buzzing, even more energized than before.
“A tough act to follow,” Suze commented.
“Yeah. Pity the next guy,” Jenny said.
The stage remained dark.
“He chickened out,” Rina said.
Music started up, but it wasn’t the kind they’d been listening to all evening, with a pounding, fast-driving beat. Instead it was a single instrument, its voice somehow combining husky and pure. Was that a—
“Saxophone.” Rina didn’t have to yell, the room had gone so quiet even her whisper carried. “Also known as sultry, sensual, seductive.” A musician herself, she knew all about instruments.
“Sexy,” Suzanne sighed on a slow breath of air.
“You can say that again,” Jenny agreed as the music threaded through the still air. Familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
“Summertime,” Rina said. “Gershwin. And a beautiful rendition. I think it might—”
She broke off as, after the first couple of bars, a light came on. Rather than the floodlights used in the previous acts, this was one blue spotlight, and the stage was…smoking. Wisps of smoke twined through the air, the same way the music did.
“Dry ice?” Ann murmured. “Effective.”
Into the smoky blue spot walked a man clad in turnout gear. No hose, no axe, no props at all. He stood quietly, lifting his head as if the music were seeping through him. Then, with minimal movements, he removed his helmet, turnout coat, boots and then finally his pants.
The audience sighed and murmured.
No in-your-face undies on