Our little town had many names. First, she was called the Queen City of the Plains, then the Queen City of the West. More recently, she’s worn the Wall Street of the West or Broncoville monikers.

But most people have always called her The Mile-High City.

Yes, Sam and I are from Denver, Colorado. My husband, Sam, has always been a womanizer, a ladies’ man. He loves them young, our age, and he loves older women as well. He’s an auteur in the art of picking up women or girls. In fact, he is charismatic, handsome, and a constant flirt, with charm and looks that draw women to him.

Even with me present, he makes passes, dances with women, perhaps more, and I love him for it. His sexual appetites know no bounds. As for me, I’m always up for a good threesome or a more-some.

To be totally truthful, no one woman could ever satisfy his sexual appetites.

I can’t tell you how many women hit on him right in front of me, ignoring me altogether. Many times, he’d trot off with them and fuck the living shit out of the horny slut. Often, he’d fuck me later the same night, telling me all about it while we fucked our brains out.

I often join in the titillation, the foreplay, and sexual adventure with them.

It was 1978; he was only 23, I turned 19, and we were married, in love, and shared many other lovers. In fact, it was my birthday, and he treated me to a strip club, known for women who liked women, for a special night. And to be honest, it was the most incredible birthday. Well, until my next birthday, the one after that, so on, and so forth.

I wore tight cut-offs and a plaid blouse tied under my breast, like Mary Ann on Gilligan’s Island. My husband said I could’ve played Mary Ann if they wanted a Raquel Welch lookalike. I took it as a compliment.

We watched the girls dance about for an hour. Too many sexy bodies swayed and undulated, too many dancer’s on too many elevated dance floors, to concentrate on a single choice. The waitress was one of those plump girls who wasn’t hot enough to be a dancer, with a nasally uninteresting voice, fattish hands, and giant fat girl tits. We ruled her out from the get-go.

Once we spotted two dancers who stayed close to one another, Sam zoned in on one of them right off the bat.

“Do you like that one?”

“Which?” I asked.

He pointed the girl out with a discrete gesture.

“The black girl?”

“No, the redhead next to her,” Sam said.

“Oh, yeah, ya think they are natural?”

“Not sure. They sag a bit, so maybe they’re natural.”

“Bigger than mine, don’t you agree?”

“Not as nice,” Sam said. It may be obligatory for him to tell me that. However, he always tells me I’m the sexiest woman alive. And you know something? He always makes me believe he means it.

However, the black girl beside her was far more what I had an itch for that night.

“I like the skinny, little-titted black better,” I said.

“Oh, a young one. Eighteen, maybe 19. Yeah, I like her as well. How about getting a VIP room with both of them?”

“Yes, we can. I’ll have to talk with both girls and ensure they are open to more than dancing.”

“Baby, it’s 7:45, and new girls are coming in. Maybe we can take them to our hotel room if they get off work at eight. What you think?”

“I’ll go find out right now.” Sam kissed me, stood, and strutted over to the two women.

They chatted for a few minutes. The girls stroked his arms and chest while he pointed to me. They nodded, and Sam slipped each of them a few fives. The black then headed to the raised dance floor and did a striptease on stage, and the redhead came and gave me a lap dance.

The girl on stage danced until eight and left for the dressing room.

Erstwhile, miss flaming hair shook her assets on me, undulated against my chest and lap legs, and teased me for 12 minutes. At the end, touching my large bobbies, caressing them through my silky blouse, she whispered in my ear.

“See you in five minutes, Kimberly. Bet you taste as good as you look.”

Sam and I made our way out of the bar a few minutes later, and with my emotions stirred from my lap dance, visions of what lay ahead danced in my head.

The black girl was already outside. She looked like a dessert course. She wore skin-tight, white ribbed T, which she’d torn away every under her breast. A pair of bell bottom, psychedelic, yoga pants, which clung to her cunt, exposing the most delicious camel-toe.

The girl had small, perfect mounds, nothing more, with hard nipples poking out proudly, like headlights to guide you. She had short, nappy hair and lovely, almond-shaped, hazel eyes. Her skin was the color of chocolate syrup, and her lips were full, firm, and bright ruby red.

The woman’s ass was on the small side, with round cheeks begging to be slapped. She clutched a large purse and seemed to be posing for a camera.

When the girl saw me, her eyes twinkled with devilish charm. She sashayed toward me, her hips swaying seductively. Putting her hands on my face, she lowered her lips to mine and kissed m, with her warm tongue invading my mouth. While we embraced, our hands caressed, explored, pinched, or massaged various parts.

“Happy birthday,” she said. Stepping back, she scrutinized my body. “Oh, yeah, Miss Kim, you put together right well.”

“So are you. What’s your name?”

“Kizzy, ma’am. Amanda will be out here right soon, I promise you, and we can go have some fun. But first, I have to have a word with your oh, very handsome husband. Mister Sam,” Kizzy said, holding her hand out to my husband, “I take care of the money for both of us.”

Sam pulled a thick, round wad of money from his pocket, peeled off four 100-dollar bills, and handed them to her.