Warning: The following is a sexually explicit story based on purely fictional events and intended for mature audiences only. If you are offended by such stories or too young to be reading them, get your lazy butt off this computer and move it outside where it can get some exercise. All characters are fictional and not intended to resemble real people. Comments welcomed, and always remember to practice safe sex.
It's been a long week. Two lawyers with wedding bands around their fingers tried to hit on me. One client looked down my blouse while his wife stood beside him. And to top it all off, my 45-year old boss casually hinted that his wife was going to be gone to some sort of symposium next weekend. Like I'm going to fool around with a 45-year old man! Dream on! It's been a long week and I am glad for it to be over.
Lucky for me, I have something to look forward to for the weekend: A night on the town with my girlfriend, Stephanie. I stand in front of the law office of Sampson & Langstrum to wait for her.
I hear her little red car squeal around the corner before I see it. It is easy to pick out her Porsche against the headlights of the other cars as it turns the corner, accelerates to about 50 in the first quarter-block, and then squeals to a stop at the curb at my feet. She's late, as usual, but then so am I.
"Hey Sharon!" Stephanie shouts over the sweet whine of the high revving engine. "Are you ready to party it up or what?"
"I'm ready," I hop in. "Every girl needs a good strip joint once in a while."
"You said it!"
A gas guzzling Mercedes comes up from behind and gives us the horn, the driver pissed because Stephanie stopped in a lane of traffic to pick me up.
"Screw you!" She yells out the window and then hits the gas. I am forced into the back of the leather seat before my butt has a chance to sit down.
"We're late," She says. Stephanie is always late. "We gotta get there before eight or they will close the doors behind us."
The car accelerates forward and then squeals to a stop only a few hundred yards further down the street. I've learned Porsches in downtown LA are a waste. With all the people and the traffic, it is difficult for the car to show its true self. Stephanie is either full on the gas or the brake most of the time, but then that's the way she lives her life.
"What did you call this place again?" I ask.
"Shooters!" She reminds me. "It's a male strip joint down in Torrance!"
"Shooters?" I question. "Sure you're not confused with that other place? You know, the one with the tight t-shirts?"
"No way!" She says. "I'm positive. You'll see once we get there."
"Never heard of it," I shrug my shoulders. "But as long as they have cock, it doesn't matter.
Stephanie laughs. "Hard day at the office?"
"Hard week," I tell her. "Especially after the way all those jerk lawyers treat me at work." And then I add under my breath, "Bunch of male chauvinist jerks!"
Stephanie laughs some more. "In that case, you're really going to love this place! Shooters is the best male strip joint in town."
I believe her. When Stephanie says it's the best, it usually is. She's been all over. I've known her for six months and continue to be amazed at the width and breath of her experience.
I met her the first week I moved to California. I was sitting along side the pool at my apartment; clad in a tiny blue bikini and trying to get a tan on my snow white, Midwestern body. Stephanie's first words to me were a question: "Hey, are those tits real or the best boob-job I've ever seen?" I remember her words precisely because they so much amazed me. I couldn't believe a total stranger could be so bold.
Stephanie amazed me many more times since them. One of her more appealing interests was male strip joints. I never went to a strip joint before I met her. I heard rumors about them, of course, but I never seriously considered going to one. I don't think male strip joints existed where I grew up.
The light turns green and we move forward. The traffic, if anything, turns more congested as we try to make our way to the freeway. Stephanie switches lanes one way and then back the other in an attempt to make progress, but I don't think we travel any faster than anybody else.
"We're never going to make it!" She worries.
"Then we'll just be late," I attempt to calm her. Her driving makes me nervous. I would rather be late than in the hospital.
"You don't understand," She shakes her head and switches to another lane. "This isn't your normal male strip joint! It's a very exclusive place. If we're not there before eight, we don't get in."
We reach the freeway, but the freeway isn't much better. As usual, the Harbor Freeway is bumper-to-bumper. Stephanie quickly makes her way over to the left most, fast lane; but it moves no faster than any other.
"Hey hot mommas," I hear someone yell to my right in a heavy Hispanic accent through my open window. "Wanna come to party tonight?"
I see an old Volkswagen bug crawling along side us. By the way it looks, I think it has trouble keeping up to the 20 mile-per-hour traffic. Two young men sit inside. They look like they might be driving home from garbage detail. I can't tell if the driver has a tan or if he just looks dark from all the dirt.
"We would, but you're dicks ain't long enough," Stephanie leans across my lap and yells back at them. "You hombres wouldn't know what to do with us."
The driver yells something back, but I can't make it out over the sweet whine of the engine. The pickup trunk in front of us moves over. Stephanie quickly takes advantage of the opening to move ahead.
"I don't believe you said that!" I feel my face glow red with embarrassment. "You probably just pissed off two gang members with an arsenal of guns in the back seat."
"Oh, don't worry," Stephanie shrugs it off. "They love it. They'll be bragging to their friends later tonight about how they tried to pick up two hot chicks in a Porsche."
I am not nearly as confident and have to check on the Volkswagen to make sure. It already sits several car lengths behind and two lanes to the right. I see the driver's hand out the window trying to motion for someone to let him in.
"We just might make it," Stephanie has already forgotten about the incident. "Looks like it's picking up."
I see the traffic move faster in front of us. We pick up speed, slow down again, and then pick it up once more. Stephanie drives, naturally, in the fast lane the entire way. She quickly leaves the Volkswagen far behind.
I feel funny going to a male strip joint. I used to think only undersexed middle-aged women went to see naked men strut their stuff on stage. Stephanie and me are too young to be doing such a thing, both in our early 20s, and we certainly are not undersexed. I don't mean to brag, but we are both quite attractive and get laid on a regular basis.
I am a short, petite, oriental girl with a pretty face and a well-proportioned body that seems to attract men like flies. Sometimes, in fact, I think I attract a little too much attention, which is the main reason I moved to California. Take my old boyfriend, Jimmy, for instance. I liked him at first, but he eventually turned out to be a real nut case. He was young, good-looking, and a dream date for most girls. He used to play quarterback on the High School football team and was soon going to graduate from the local technical college. Jimmy might not have been all too smart, he looked handsome enough to have any girl he wanted.
It was great, that is, until he got involved with drugs and went a little crazy. His whole personality changed. I didn't know who he was, and I don't think he knew himself. Anyway, I eventually had to break off the relationship, but that only made him go crazier. He started calling me every night and harassing me at work. And then one night in a drunken rage he said he was going to kill me if I didn't come back to him. I could no longer handle it and left!
The last I heard, Jimmy was still alive but in jail for robbing some pizza joint to support his drug habit. Meanwhile, I took advantage of the opportunity to get away. I always wanted to visit Southern California, so that's where I went.
I guess the reason I like strip joints is because it gives me the opportunity to get back at all the old boyfriends and all the horny young men in Volkswagens. I'm constantly getting harassed at work. I don't mind it from the young studs. In fact, I like it when a handsome young man walks up to flirt with me. But my 45-year old married boss makes me sick. He should know better! I mean I'm young enough to be their daughter! Sometimes I think the only reason he hired me as his receptionist was because of my looks. I was born with natural good looks, and I don't say that just to brag or to sound like I'm some stuck-up bitch. My father emigrated from Singapore and my mother from Hawaii. The combination of genes produced a short girl with long, jet black hair; slanted eyes; and a natural tan. I also keep my body in shape by eating healthy and running every night. The result is a trim, 110-pound body with a cute little face on top.
Stephanie has similar problems, but she invites it. I think she even likes it. She's a tall, feisty looking red head with fakes. Her parents - unbelievably - paid for her to get a boob job for her 16th birthday. She told me just after she complimented my own tits at the pool. It never ceases to amaze me at how different Stephanie had it growing up in California than my experience in Iowa. I mean her parents actually paid for her to get a boob job! Unbelievable!
.... There is more of this story ...