Yes, alright, some of them were attractive. Kurt had admit that. And a handful could even be called hot. But the majority of them were over thirty, with gray hair and a heavy wallet. Most of them were nice, homely guys. While the others seemed to talk dirtier than Howard Stern.

Kurt is all for being naughty, but having his ass pinched by a Bill Clinton look alike isn't exactly a turn on for him.

He was just about to strike a deal with an older, beer-bellied cowboy when he saw a bright pair of pink sunglasses, sitting upon a familiar looking curly Q headed his way. And in that instant, Kurt's true smile began to dance across his lips.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen." Kurt spoke, cutting off whatever Cowboy Fred was about to say. "Your three minutes is up. Enjoy your evening."

Cutting through the crowd of people, Kurt met Blaine halfway. Blaine stopped short, his brown eyes wide as they came into contract with Kurt's ocean greens.

"We meet again." He shines, his pearly whites beaming in the fluoresces.

"I guess so."

"How have you been?"

"Oh, you know. Same old, same old." Kurt shrugged, mentally shooting himself for not having anything interesting to say.

Blaine smiled anyway; taking that was an acceptable answer. "Well, I'm sure there was something worth chatting about. For a taste of familiarity, how about we find a place to talk."

"Of course!" Kurt nods, then stops. "Oh, crap."

"What is it?" Blaine asks.

"I'm sorry, Blaine. I can't."

Blaine cocks his head to the side, his brain registering the words in check. "Why?"

Kurt bit his soft red lip and thought back to the meeting earlier that day in Sylvester's office. She had apparently been watching his progress during the past few weeks and found that he had been doing more talking than actual screwing.

"But it's what the client wants." He states. "And I know the rules: three hours per client per talk. We're making almost two hundred dollars; I don't get what the problem is."

"My problem is sunshine that you could be making fifty dollars in three minutes like that," Sylvester snaps her fingers quickly, her eyes never leaving Kurt's. "All this talking and getting to know one another, it's not good for business, Porcelain. Do you know how much I make off one of my dancers? Forty percent of everything they make that night. So do you know what I make after one of your little talks? A measly little seventy-two dollars. I am losing money off you, Porcelain."

"So what do you want me to do, Sue?" Kurt sighed tiredly, wanting nothing more than to leave and go back to the dressing room to relax before the night began.

"From this point on you are banned from talking." Kurt's eyes flew up at the word "banned". "You're a hot item, string bean. You could be making five to six hundred dollars a night. Instead you're coming back with maybe two or three. I can't have that."

"Fine." Kurt said sharply. "Anything else?"

"Did anyone ever tell you, you look like a young Liza Minnelli in a skirt?" Sylvester questions.

Whether she was mocking him or giving him a compliment, Kurt didn't know (her tone is the same either way). Standing, Kurt ran his hands down the side of his pants before leaving the office.

"My boss," he says, coming back to the present. "She cut me off from all conversations."

"Oh." Was all that came out of Blaine's mouth.

"I'm sorry. I truly did enjoy talking to you, honestly." Kurt tries, hoping to make the string less painful.

"Yeah. Me too." Blaine answers, his smile breaking in half.

Just behind Blaine, Kurt caught sight of Sue as she stood on her upstairs balcony, looking over the club. Her assistant, Becky, beside her with a clip board. Not wanting to be caught, Kurt turned back to Blaine.

"And now our three minutes are over. I'm sorry. I hope to see you around. Bye Blaine." Smiling partly, Kurt turned on his heel and walked away, cutting through several dancers.

Kurt silently cursed Sue Sylvester for forcing him to give up one of the best times of his life. Talking to Blaine . . . it was like nothing he ever experienced while working at club Cheeri-Ohs! It seemed like for the first time since he took the job, somebody actually wanted him for something other than his body.

Catching the eye of a potential client, Kurt sighed heavily, swallowing his sadness. He was about to take a step forward when he felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. He turned, wondering who infact it was that stopped it. And once again he was met with the calm browns.

"How about a dance?" Blaine asked, holding up a folded in half fifty. Kurt's heart nearly began to flip as he took the money and Blaine's hand and lead him onto the dance floor.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Blaine wanted to do back flips. He literally wanted to push everyone away, rip off his jacket, and start flipping and jumping and fist jumping like he had just won the lottery. But he couldn't do that. First off, he was in public and he had to keep his cool. Second, he couldn't do a flip if his life demanded on it. David tried to show him how once and he nearly snapped his neck.

Blaine could hardly contain his excitement when Porcelain took his hand and took him to the dance floor. Part of him was rather shocked by how soft his hands were and pondered if the rest of him was just as soft.

Blaine, who had never set foot on the dance floor while at Club Cheeri-Ohs!, or at any other club for that matter, noticed it was set up almost like the movies. Large hard floor, flashing lights from above, all standing before a large rectangular box where a man – the DJ – stood and played hit and hit while the performers were out entertaining.

When they finally made it to the floor, Porcelain turned to him, his face and chest sparkling as the different colored lights went on and off. And as Britney Spears new single, "Hold It Against Me", began to play, Blaine swallowed hard, hoping his expression didn't show off how nervous he was.

He, as everyone who knows him knows, isn't exactly the best dancer. He danced back while in school, when he was in the Glee club, but that was nothing. They were an all male acapella group who basically swayed and walked to the music. This was different. Much, much different. Now, he was dancing with a professional (or, whatever Porcelain and the others would be considered. Blaine found the word "stripper" or crude and ignorant. They did a lot more than just rip their clothes off.); a hot one for that.

Swaying and walking wasn't gonna cut it!

Still, Blaine does his best to keep his composer as Porcelain began to move. Wrapping his arms around Blaine's next, he brings them closer, his eyes half close and pointing down. Not wanting to just stand their awkwardly, Blaine lifts his hands slowly and places them at Porcelain's sides, holding his waist. After a moment, Blaine begins to get the hang out it and moves his body to the temp of the music. As the song switches, Porcelain releases him and turns quickly, his back nearly touching Blaine's chest. Going for the gold, Blaine lowers his hands, gripping onto Porcelain's hips.

"Give me something good. Don't wanna wait, I want it now."

When there are very little words and a lot of music, Porcelain really starts of move. Pushing back, his pressing his back against Blaine's chest, keeping him close. Blaine bits his tongue as Porcelain's dance begins to graze against his crotch, causing a small burning sensation to start. A piece of him (a very hard piece at the moment) wanted to take hold and have him continue. He was wearing leather short shorts, and if anyone knows anything about leather, it's that they hold nothing to the imagination.

But Blaine was better at that. Instead he ignored the pain/pleasure and threw his arm in the arm, fist pumping as he jumped along with the song, tossing his head to side to side enthusiastically.

And as the very last line of the song was said, the two men stood facing one another, sweat beginning to form at their foreheads as they panted, catching their breathes.

"Yeah, I would." Blaine stated, answering the question Ms. Spears had asked.

Porcelain smiled, doing his best to keep his breathing leveled. "Ditto." He replied.