I don't usually respond publicly to one flame. But you know me, I'll make an exception to any rule.
Seems one reader took offense that I don't advocate using condoms in my stories, and that I don't warn readers about the dangers of sex at each and every opportunity. He/she further accused me of being a misogynistic asshole, a charge to which I plead guilty, though only in a most lighthearted way.
So for this reader, and any others who feel the same way, I offer the following disclaimer. I suggest you print it out and hang it over your computer, or "cut and paste" it into the beginning of any story you download. I think it should do the trick.
## DISCLAIMER: ## Sex is dangerous. It can kill you. AIDS is a deadly disease which can be transmitted sexually and is fatal. There are more Sexually Transmitted Diseases including gonorrhea, syphilis, and herpes, among others. Any or all of these diseases can cause pain, suffering, disfigurement, and possibly even death if not treated promptly. See your doctor.
Condoms can reduce the risk of transmission, but they are not 100% effective. The only truly safe sex is no sex at all.
Also, be careful when using sharp instruments near your genitals, do not put your balls in a Vise-Grip, and use caution when inserting your penis into electric sockets. Never go out with a woman named Lorena.
Also, you should not try to insert a pumpkin in your vagina (women only) or in your anus (equal opportunity warning) because your asshole is probably not big enough, except in the case of one particular reader I can think of.
Finally, don't put a hot poker up your butt when tending campfires, and for heaven's sakes don't lie down in the fast lane of the Interstate to get a blowjob.
That should do it. In case you hadn't guessed, I prefer to set my stories in a kinder, gentler world where these dangers are remote, perhaps even non-existent. It's fiction. I'm allowed to do that. Reminding the reader of all the perils of life at every opportunity is kind of like shouting "Watch out for the pipe truck!" while you're still in the driveway, even though you might crash into one later in the day and have a steel tube run through your head.
If you have trouble distinguishing my fictional world from your real one, I have no further advice for you.
Well, perhaps you should get a grip.
I do have one rule you should follow: If you're under 18, don't read what follows.
Hey Pumpkin Ass! Thanks for helping me set such a nice tone for the story.
I walked into the topless club, frustrated and angry. For one thing, I'd had a fight with my wife, June. For another thing, I'd had writer's block. For nearly a week.
Now I've watched writers with Brian Lamb and on Rolanda and those other important TV shows and I've heard authors talk about "block". I had never experienced it. Until last week.
I was used to sitting down at the typewriter, thinking of a sexual experience I'd had sometime somewhere, getting a woodie, and writing the story I was thinking about. But for a week I'd come to a dead end. Again and again. I had 23 stories just one or two paragraphs long. I had a half a forest of crumpled up floppies in the wastebasket. I was mixing my metaphors, dang ling my participles, and even dropping vowls! It was like I had incontinence of the keyboard. Lucky for you there's no "Shit" icon, or your screen would be a mess right now.
My system wasn't working right, and something had to give. That's why I walked into the topless club. I needed a change. I needed a charge. I needed a blowjob. It was the only place I knew of where I could get two out of three for a reasonable price.
I was the only patron in the place; they had just opened a few minutes earlier. The joint didn't get jumping until about 9PM. I'm the schmuck who walked in at 6:00 sharp. I sat down, and a pretty waitress came over and offered me a beer. Well, not offered, exactly. $6 for a Bud, plus tip.
Two girls came out of the dressing room to keep me company. Daisy and Rose. They were always named after flowers. Or jewels. Or months, like April or October. I sniffed the flowers. Nice. Daisy was in a low cut bra top that showed the top half of her breasts. She had on a pair of tight white satin panties, topped by a see-through scarf, also white. Rose was covered from the neck to the knee. She wore a plain one piece black dress which couldn't have camoflaged her enormous tits if the Air Force had designed it at the Skunkworks.
"I'm sorry to put you to work," I said. "I didn't realize you just opened. Now I feel bad. If I weren't here, you could be in back, having a smoke."
"Oh that's fine, sugar, Daisy said. We'll just have a smoke here and keep you company."
We talked for five or ten minutes, and another guy walked in and sat down on the other side of the stage. With that, Daisy nodded her head at the unseen DJ and his voice boomed out of the speaker system. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to the 2-Cute Lounge, home of the world's loveliest girls." He wasn't wrong, at least so far. "And now please welcome Lily!"
"It figures," I thought to myself. Lily stepped up on stage, dressed in a one piece teddy. During the music of the first number she took her arms out of the armholes, but went no further. Her tits bounced but somehow managed to keep the garment up for the duration. The DJ spun another record. Now she pulled down the top, revealing her breasts to us. Like all breasts everywhere, they were lovely. Smooth mounds topped by a pair of cherry tips. A perfect size and shape. I turned to Daisy and said "She has lovely breasts. Just perfect."
"Yes, she's beautiful," Daisy replied. I'm sure she'd had this conversation a thousand times before.
Lily pushed the teddy to the floor. She stood there in a pair of panties, which would never leave. The zoning in our town allows topless but not bottomless. About 40 miles away you can find full nudity. Like it's OK to look at a cunt in Xavier County but not here. Go figure.
I took a dollar out of my wallet. I walked up to the stage and offered it to her. She pulled on her elastic garter, and I slipped the dollar in. She snapped it shut. A dollar for a pretty smile from an almost naked girl. It seemed like a fair exchange.
I talked with the flowers, and even bought them a drink. You know, the lemonade the bar sends them for $6 of your money? What the hell, they deserve it. They work hard. They take off their clothes in front of stupid men (like me) they make useless conversation with stupid men (like me) and they pretend not to notice when you look at their tits. Well, some of them actually like it. I'll bet you wouldn't get the same reaction if you stared at them like that in the mall!
Lily finished her dance. The DJ introduced Flora. Of course. She was a tall girl with a very slim figure. But she knew how to move her pelvis, bumping and grinding, and going through the most explicit sexual motions with her hips. Boom-ba-boom-ba-boom. She was great. I offered her a dollar.
She smiled and accepted it gracefully. She walked over to the table after her number was finished and asked if I wanted a table dance. I declined. I'd just gotten there, and I had a budget to watch. Anyway, if I'm going to pay $20 for a table dance, I want the girl to have decent tits.
The next girl was Rhoda. I expected the DJ to announce her last name as "Dendron." She was a slutty looking girl with hard plastic boobs. Not my type at all. She did a bump and grind through two songs, and even when she took off her clothes, did nothing for me. I like the preppy college girl type, myself. Sweet. Innocent.
I had another beer. Daisy and Rose left for greener pastures. The club was filling up now. A second stage was opened, and more girls appeared as if by magic from some back room that must have been overflowing with pulchritude a half-hour earlier. Now they came in endless procession: Pansy and Pearl, Sunny and Bunny, Holly and Dolly, Ginger and Garnett. On Stage 1 was Kitty. Stage 2 displayed Dixie. A girl named Cherry went to Stage 3 to start her act.
An hour passed, then another. I watched with the wonder that every man must feel as beautiful women walk past, taking off their clothes, showing their tits, smiling, and appearing grateful for the appearance of a single dollar bill. It's amazing to me. Within the confines of this club, the laws of the universe change. Outside these walls women sneer at men, get insulted if you stare, slap you if you get too close. It's like another dimension, the 2-Cute Lounge. That's why they get $6 for a Bud.
Another hour passed. Another two beers for me and a drink for a lady. Another 60 minutes filled with Robin and Storm, Taffy and Tuesday, Velvet and Candy. All lovely. All topless. All got one of my dollars. Another hour came and went, filled with Scarlotte and Willow and Gypsy and Brooke. Chastity was my favorite from the 10PM group. She had jumped to the rafters and hung there while doing chin-ups with her legs spread. Now THAT's talent! The leg spread would have been oh-so-much better without the hard opaque panties, naturally, but the zoning laws required them. I made a mental note to find out who my city councilman was.
>From 11 to 12, I watched Dawn and Jewel, Hazel and Honey, Iris and Jade. Tiffany and Fidelity got on stage at the same time and helped each other undress. As far as the local ordinances would allow, I mean. I offered more dollars. They were accepted. I had another beer. As the hours passed, my wallet felt considerably thinner; I didn't care. Like I said, they work hard for the money. They deserve it. Polly came up on stage. From the "Ester" family, no doubt.
It was now past midnight. One of the girls walked over to me and asked if I wanted a table dance. She had nice tits. I was ready.
"Sure," I said. She smiled.
She had a checkered shirt tied loosely below her breasts. None of the buttons were buttoned. She untied the knot, and prepared to take off the shirt.
"No, leave it on," I said. "I'd prefer that you tease me some." She smiled again, a bigger smile this time.
The two ends of the shirttail hung loose, covering her tits. But I could see their inner slopes and the swell of her breasts before they disappeared behind the cloth. She climbed up on the little cocktail table right in front of me. One of her golden globes popped completely into view.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, covering herself quickly. "That's so embarrassing when your clothes don't fit right." She knew what she was doing.
She began moving to the rhythm of the music. She knelt on the table in front of me, opened her knees, and watched as my eyes bored on in her crotch. I couldn't see anything, of course, but I hoped that my gaze would somehow evaporate the cloth that hid my view and I would be blessed with the ultimate treasure buried beneath. No such luck. She sank down, now doing an almost perfect split on the table. Her breasts were right in front of my eyes.
She picked up one shirttail and began dancing it to the side, a quarter inch at a time. I watched, mesmerized as the pink nipple was slowly revealed. Then the entire tit was bare, inches in front of my nose. She repeated the dance with the other side, then grabbed both shirt tails and brought them together in a fist. The shirt pushed her tits together, like some amazing Wonder-bra, and her jugs stared straight out at me, inviting me to jump in.
Not allowed, naturally. Bruno at the front door makes sure of that. Bruno looks a little like me, only bigger. By about 200 pounds. You don't fuck with Bruno, which means you don't touch the girls. It's an ordinance, I think.
She leaned back, spreading her legs for me, arching her back. Her fingers went to the thin cloth covering her pussy, and she pulled the sides together. It was torture. The triangle had been reduced in size by at least a half. I could just barely see the edges of her cunt lips outside the cloth. With her other hand she pulled the back of the panties taut. I could see the outline of her clitoris against the thin material. A finger appeared from her hand, and she twiddled the cloth directly over her clit. My tongue nearly fell out of my mouth.
She covered herself again, and spun around, facing away. Now she was lying on her back, her head looking up at me from below, her hair hanging in my crotch. The softness of her locks tickled me, even though my pants. Of course I was extra sensitive by this point; I probably would have felt a gnat land, if one were dumb enough to choose my hard-on as a landing pad.
She looked up at me from the table. She brought her arms together and her tits rose up, begging to be held. I remembered Bruno. I bent down and whispered in her ear "You are beautiful. I especially like your tits. And your face." I wanted to add, "and your pussy," but of course I hadn't actually seen it. And you never know. She could have a really ugly pussy. I'm sure there's at least one somewhere. I haven't found it yet, but I'm still looking.
She smiled. She'd heard it before. Then I said, "What's your name?"
She lifted her head a little, as if to get closer to my ear, and said "Margaret."
"Huh?" I gulped.
"Margaret," she repeated. "My friends call me Gretchen."
"I don't understand," I said. "Your name is Margaret?" She looked at me as though I was the stupidest man on the list of stupid men she had ever met. And that's probably a fairly long list. "I," I stumbled. "I, ah, it's just not a name that belongs to, ah," I fumbled again. "I mean, I never met a stripper named Margaret before."
"Well if it makes you uncomfortable," she replied "you can call me Honey. Or Paige. Or just make up a name if you want."
"Oh, no. Margaret is fine. Just fine. And so is Gretchen. It's just unexpected, that's all." She wiggled her head. Her hair danced in my lap. "I like the name Gretchen. A lot."
She spun around and knelt on the table again. This time she was facing directly away from me. Her ass stared me in the face. Her fingers returned to the cloth triangle and she squeezed it together. A quarter inch separated her asshole from my vision. Between her knees I could see her tits hanging down and beyond that her face, smiling at me through the tunnel created by her thighs. It was a picture worth of the Louvre. Her finger twiddled on the surface of the cloth again. I couldn't stand it.
The song would end in another 30 seconds. And with it my $20. I didn't mind, although I wished the DJ had picked some 45 minute tune. I wiggled my finger and motioned for Gretchen to come close to me. She did. I whispered in her ear, "Isn't there somewhere in this town where you can get full nudity? This is making me crazy."
She looked at me and said "I do private shows. I can't do anything here in the club, of course." Of course.
I was panting. "How much for a private show?"
"$100. No negotiating. Firm price. We can talk about extras if you decide you want the show."
"I do. I do. How do I set it up?" The words came in a torrent from my mouth. I guess I might have seemed just a trifle overeager.
"You just call me at the club and leave a message. Ask for Margaret. It's my real name. I'll call you back."
"Uh, that won't work. My wife might answer the phone," I said.
"Well, I get off in 45 minutes. Off work, I mean." She smiled. "We could go someplace then."
"Yeah, sure, great. I'll be here."
The music ended. I gave her the $20 and she left.
I flipped open my wallet under the table and surreptitiously counted my money. $133 left. A couple of singles for the girls, $100 for Gretchen, and a couple bucks left over. Normally I wouldn't have spent this much, I mean I would be almost $200 in by the end of the night. But I couldn't help it. It's that pesky dick again, running my life.
I nursed my beer. I watched Rosemary and Fawn on the stage. A couple more girls came and went. Then Gretchen showed up, dressed, but not for work. "I'm leaving," she said. "I have to meet you outside. I can't leave with a customer. Rules." I nodded.
Outside the club I cauight up with her in the parking lot. "Where do you want to go?" she asked. I knew it couldn't be to my house. I didn't think June would understand. It couldn't be to a motel. I didn't have the dough.
"How about your place?" I asked.
"Oh no," she said quickly. Rejected it out of hand, as they say. "I never bring anyone there. I got kicked out of my last place for doing that. I like where I live. Nope."
I thought quickly. "How about in my van?" It was my only hope. It was the only place I could afford.
"Sure. Fine. Whatever." OK so it wasn't the most impressive offer I've ever made to a woman. She said yes. That's all that I cared about at that moment. We walked around the back of the club to the parking lot. My van was in the first slot. I'd gotten there early.
I opened her door, and she climbed in. I walked around to the driver's side and inserted the key. By that time she had leaned over and yanked on the handle. The door opened. "OK," I said, "want to climb in the back?"
"Don't be silly," she said. "I can't do anything here in the club parking lot. They'd kill me if they caught us. Drive somewhere."
"Yeah, sure," I said. I guess I might have been a little overeager. Again.
It took 10 minutes for me to get away from the club and the little business district nearby. I found a deserted lane and pulled down it a couple hundred feet or so. A yank of the steering wheel and we were off to the side.
"How about this?" I asked.
"This is fine," Gretchen answered. "OK, it's $100 for the show. The show is 30 minutes. It's more for extras."
"Such as..." I said.
"Another $100 for a blow job or for straight sex, $150 for my ass, $50 for a hand job." Gretchen was direct, if nothing else.
I thought about my wallet. I had $130 left. "I only have $130. How about a hand job for the whole thing?"
"No negotiating, remember?" She could see the disappointment in my eyes. She said, "Well, OK. Let's go in the back."
Yowzuh! I climbed out of the bucket seat and sped to the back.
"Do you want to wait for me?" she asked. She ambled between the seats and joined me in the back of the vehicle. I had the center seats out, but the far rear bench seats still in. That way I could haul either people or cargo. Tonight it left me a bench seat for her to play on and a little open area for me to sit in and watch.
She couldn't stand up fully, so she was bent over as she struggled out of her clothes. She slid down her shorts, revealing a thin pair of semi-sheer panties. She went to remove them, but I asked her to keep them on, at least for the moment. She removed her jacket, revealing a large man's thin white undershirt. She had no bra on under it, and her tits bobbled with every move. Her nipples were clearly outlined as they pushed against the fine cotton material. Her large breasts pushed mightily against the fabric, straining for release.
"Leave this on, too?" she asked. I nodded. "OK," she answered. "I remember. You like the tease." I nodded again, more vigorously. "How about some music?"
I jumped up and switched the key to the "accessory" position and turned on the radio. A song sprang from the speaker. She got into it. The song, I mean.
Gretchen twisted sideways to me and pulled down on the armhole of the undershirt. Her entire breast was revealed. She said "This shirt is two sizes to big for me. Look at this. Why my tit could fall right through the side, here."
I nodded, eagerly. I knew, I knew. She turned to face me frontally. "It's the same on the other side, I'm afraid. Look." And she pulled the other armhole down, and squeezed the material together between her breasts. Both tits were sticking straight at me, just a thin strip of cloth separated them, pulling them apart. She let go of the fabric and shimmied her torso. Her tits popped back through the magic holes and were again hidden.
"This isn't too good a shirt to wear, anyway," she said. "Look." She liked to have me look. "If my nipples get hard," she said as she tweaked one of them with her fingertips, "it shows right through." She was right. The tip popped up and the red circle traced its hardness from the back. "Same on the other side," Gretchen said as she pinched that nipple.
"Here, feel." She took my hand and rubbed two of my fingers across the cloth. Her ruby point played Braille to my eager fingertip. I stroked my fingers back and forth across the bumps, trying to divine their message. She leaned away from me. She spoke again.