A slight mist covers the stage, flowing over the edges like water. A lone spotlight falls on center stage as the first notes of the music filters out. The first bass beat shakes your glass a bit as Nine Inch Nails oozes out of the sound system:
And there he stands. The brown robe is nowhere in sight, as is the lightsaber. Clad in tan tunics and leggings, feet bare, Obi-Wan stands, hips swaying slightly to the heavy beat. He starts the walk, shifting his hips suggestively at this patron and that, smiling that naughty smile he knows drives them wild. You swig your drink quickly, then swallow hard as he makes eye contact, winking at you with a leer. He stops, feet apart then thrusts his perfectly beautiful ass out, making a wide circle with his hips, then moves his feet turning around, giving you a great view of said ass. He starts his walk back, hips still swaying, moving back to center stage. He's still smiling as the brown leather belt hits the floor. Kicking it out of the way, he unties the sash, but then moves to one side of the stage and holds the end out to one of the lovely ladies standing there. She pulls, sending him into a spin back to center stage, tunics loose now, hanging off his shoulders.
He slowly removes the first outer tunic, shaking his ass, thrusting his pelvis in time with the music as the mood of the crowd gets a little more intense. The tunic goes flying into the room, quickly snatched and torn to pieces by a group of ladies wearing polo shirts with OR/JH monogrammed on them. He smiles to them, blows them kisses as they scream and promptly faint.
The inner tunic is thinner, more like a v-necked shift. He moves to the other end of the stage and falls to his knees, prowling the stage, searching for his next mark. He spots her then, crawling slowly, edging closer to her table.
Once there, he raises his eyebrow and slowly reaches for her drink, a Cape Cod. She nods and hands it to him, feeling the heat from his fingertips. He smiles then, takes a sip then slowly pours the rest of it down the front of him, soaking the material and plastering it to his body. He gets back on his hands and knees and moves back to center stage, crawling down the stage, braid swinging in time with his hips.
At the end of the stage, he tears the soaked tunic off and drops the shredded pieces on two of the tables flanking the stage. His chest is wet from the drink and glistens in the floodlights. He raises three fingers to his lips, then trails them down his chest, down his stomach, dipping dangerously into his leggings. The crowd screams.
He's on his feet again, gyrating to the music, thrusting his hips forward then rolling his hips, teasing the audience. He turns and bends over, showing his ass off again, then rips the leggings off, and turns again. Clad in a black g-string, he struts down the stage and into the audience, stopping in front of your host. You smile as the ladies at the table chant "Go Kayla! Go Kayla!" as he straddles her chair and gives her a personal lapdance, his braid tickling her nose. He leans down and gives her a quick kiss, then retreats to the stage as the music winds down. Gathering the remainder of his clothing, he blows another kiss to the crowd and struts off stage, smiling at the sound of the screaming crowd.
You grab your drink again, downing several gulps as the MC announces the next dancer. This is the best damn fundraiser the council has come up with, you decide, as a certain Master moves center stage as En Vogue sings:
DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of fiction written in appreciation of Star Wars; to promote the franchise and to keep it alive. All characters and settings original to Star Wars are copyright to Lucasfilm, Ltd. The rest is copyright to the author.