StripperwithSpice (4 page)

Suddenly it’s too loud and crowded in here and I want to
escape to my hotel room. After Dorothy’s shoot, I’m out of here.

“More! More! Give it to him. Show Rolf what you’ve got.”
Zena yells encouraging comments to her while shooting pictures as fast as the
photographer.

In what seems mere seconds, Dorothy walks off the stage and
retrieves her glasses. I blink. How could her shoot be so short when mine felt
like hours of bliss? Stowing her phone, Zena grabs Dorothy’s arm and then mine.

“Th-that was amazing,” Dorothy stammers. “My glasses are
fogging up.”

Zena turns to me. “What about you? Was he hard?”

I stop in my tracks. “What?”

“Everybody could see your pelvis glued to his up there.
Please tell me he felt big and hard as a rock.”

“I don’t know if he was or not. I forgot to check.” Or, more
likely, I hadn’t noticed because he wasn’t.

The parts of me that could get hard, such as my nipples and
clit, stood at full attention up there. Obviously I didn’t affect him the same
way. I was only one out of a long line of women. What did I expect?

“Have you all had lunch?” Dorothy asks. “I’m starved.”

“Sure. I could use a drink,” Zena replies. “What about you,
Janice?”

“Thanks but some other time.”

Dorothy glances at me with motherly concern. “You look pale,
dear. Are you all right?”

“Rest up for the dance tonight.” Zena points a finger at me.
“The men are going to perform dances onstage for us.”

I don’t care if they run around naked and masturbate in
front of us. The day is only half over and I’ve already had more than enough of
Crave-a-thon.

* * * * *

After reading in my room for a couple of hours, someone
shoves a brown envelope under the door.
What the hell?
I carry it to the
desk. Bracing myself in case it’s a nasty surprise, I ease it open with the
delicacy of a surgeon. It’s a photo envelope. I flip it open to find a handful
of photos of me with Carlos at today’s photo shoot.

Wow, that was fast.
I plop into the nearby chair and
forget to blink as I examine each one. In fact I’m studying these photos harder
than I’ve studied for any test. At first I focus on me.

I’m definitely not the world’s most photogenic person. To my
surprise, some of the shots turned out pretty good. Others should be burned
immediately. My profile is definitely not my best feature.

The most arresting poses show me surrendered to passion. My
head is tipped back and my eyes are half-lidded as if I’m drugged. Blood drains
from my face.
Good God.
Is that wanton woman really me? The glossy paper
proves it is. I think about my past relationships. Has any man ever made me
look or feel that way? I can’t recall anyone who has.

Then I focus on him. My mouth literally waters at the sight
of him. He’s definitely photogenic. The lens captured his glossy hair, flawless
skin and the subtle tension in the carved muscles of his arms as he holds my
weight. Even his hands, splayed under my thighs and butt, look masculine and
sexy.

I peer closely at a small scar near his eye, wondering how
he got it. This is also the best opportunity to study his tattoos, which
suggest mystery and movement even in a still picture. I’ll have to ask him
about that eagle story he mentioned. There’s more to him than a nice body, I
just know it. Something has to explain this mysterious attraction.

During the shot, my senses were overloaded with the women’s
yelling, flashing cameras and the novelty of being lifted in the air. Not to
mention being plastered against Carlos’ half-naked body. Now the impact of our
passionate embrace hits me full force. These photos captured magic. We truly
look as if we can’t wait to jump into bed together.

I hold one up closer. What is the magic? My eyes analyze the
details but can’t find the answer. I remind myself it’s just a photo. This
fantasy stuff can be pretty convincing. It takes effort to slide the photos
back into the envelope and close the flap. For some reason, I want to stare at
them for hours.

Have I lost my mind? Is there love potion in the water here?
This is not the normal behavior of a professional businesswoman. It’s not
normal, period. Hopefully I’ll regain my senses when I go home and back to
work.

Unable to stop thinking about him, I pull up Facebook on my
phone and look him up. Before I can stop myself, I send a friend request. I
take in the scant information in his public profile. Let’s see, he’s male.
Obviously. Then I read the birth year.

Crap.
He’s only thirty. The proof kicks me in the
chest. It could be worse, I tell myself. He could be twenty-five or even
twenty. I’m not realistically old enough to be his mother. Still, thirteen
years is nothing to sneeze at.

No wonder he didn’t get hard.

I take a shower and put on evening makeup, including some
glittery eye shadow I’d bought years ago. The only reason I’m going to the
dance tonight is because Zena and Dorothy expect me to. Who am I kidding, I ask
myself as I put on my sexiest shimmering lipstick. I want to see Carlos dance.
I
need
to see him dance.

I’m in total lust with the man.

Shit.

How and when it happened, I don’t exactly know. I shouldn’t
have done the photo shoot. The magic in those pictures has taken over my mind
and body.

My brain is too fuddled to figure out what to wear yet, so I
pick up my phone again. To my surprise, Carlos has accepted my friend request
already. If he’d spent the afternoon calling or texting a girlfriend, he
probably wouldn’t have had time. That’s somewhat comforting, anyway. Maybe he’s
in his room thinking about me too as he gets ready for tonight.

A girl can hope, can’t she?

I return my attention to the Facebook screen. Now I have
access to a lot more information. Geez, I feel as though I’m a stalker. I read
his recent posts and peruse the photos of himself he’s posted. Some are of him
in a black satin thong. Well, he definitely appears hard there. I prefer the
pictures of him in jeans. They leave more to my imagination, which is working
double time this weekend.

Distracted, I struggle to put on hoop earrings. One misses
my ear and pricks me in the nose. With trembling fingers, I finally attach both
of them in the right place.

My eyebrows fly into my hairline when I read he works at a
strip club about an hour away from where I live. That explains the thong
pictures. I don’t know what surprises me more, the fact he lives so close or
that he’s a professional stripper.

A stripper…
Wow.
I’ve never dated one of those
before. Do they undress as provocatively in private as they do onstage?

Inspired by the visual image of a slow striptease, I ease on
a black lace blouse—something else I blew hard-earned money on for this
convention—and black cords over the sexy lingerie I’ve worn most all weekend.
After I’m dressed, I give my hips a wild swivel that almost makes me lose my
balance.

Wait a minute, Janice.
STRIPPER. To get through to
myself, I spell it in all caps in my mind. My conservative financial employer
would surely not approve if I had a stripper boyfriend and hung out at strip
clubs. Could I even lose my job over it? Didn’t the lengthy employment
agreement I had to sign include something about how I must conduct myself
professionally and personally? The thought flips my stomach over. Cool, clammy
sweat blooms under my lace blouse.

He’s all wrong for me on paper—too young, too muscular and
too damn sexy. Then what explains the magic that feels so right?

I slide my feet into my black high-heeled sandals and head
to the door, deciding to find out. If I can uncover some reason not to like him
tonight, maybe I can get this craziness out of my head once and for all.

In the ballroom, I barely taste dinner before the dance,
which is a shame because the beef with burgundy mushroom sauce is cooked to
perfection. It’s several steps above the TV dinners I always eat because I’m
too busy working extra hours to cook real food.

Cooking…
I still wonder if I should have stayed home
this weekend and indulged my cooking hobby instead. It was a safer passion than
this.

Fake palm trees decorate the stage, and even the tablecloths
are in the familiar leopard print. Looking at it makes me wonder if I’ll see
spots forever.

Zena scrapes the last bits of crumbs of chocolate cake from
her plate. When Dorothy and I shake our heads at her, she asks, “What?”

“We’re wondering how you eat so much and stay so thin,”
Dorothy says.

I clear my throat. “Actually I wondered if you had an orgasm
while you ate that cake. It sure sounded like it.”

“Nope. I’m saving that for the men’s dance.” She snatches a
coconut from the centerpiece, knocks on it and hands it to me. “Speaking of
men, this is what a hard-on should feel like, Janice.”

Frowning, I stuff the brown globe back into the centerpiece.
“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I remember what a hard-on feels like.”

A member of the banquet staff clears some of our plates. The
restrained smile on her face tells me she probably heard every word of my
reply. I never should have done that photo shoot!

Zena pulls out her phone. “Oh, I almost forgot. I took
pictures of you ladies during the photo shoot.”

I grab the phone before Dorothy does and see a picture of me
with Carlos that’s even more arresting than what the photographer shot. Without
the bright flash of the photographer’s camera, the lighting is darker and more
seductive. It looks as if he’s carrying me to the bedroom in a dimly lit house.

“Email it to me,” I say. “I’ve got to have it.”

Dorothy peers at my face. “Are you sure you’re all right?
You look strange again.”

When Zena leans even closer to study me, I want to hide
under the table.

“She’s not sick, Dorothy. Janice is in love!”

“I am not.” Yes, I am. I am I am I am. “I just got carried
away by the photo shoot.”

“Maybe you can dance with him tonight after they perform,”
Zena adds. “I plan to dance with each of them at least once.”

“Sorry, Rolf is all mine.” Dorothy sips her coffee. “You
know, I expected these men to be arrogant but they’re so nice.”

That’s it. If I catch Carlos acting the least bit arrogant,
I won’t be interested in him anymore. That should be easy enough. Someone that
gorgeous is bound to act arrogant sometime.

The announcer, a lady in a tiger-striped cave outfit with a
jagged hem, takes the microphone. She makes the usual announcements, hoping
everyone is having a good time and thanking the organizers for their hard work.
Then she gives out some gift baskets to audience members. My hands clap on
autopilot. Just bring out Carlos before I go into withdrawal.

“As you know, tomorrow is the final day of our event,” the
woman continues. “We’re thrilled to give away a grand prize. Two of our men
will have a two-hour fantasy date with two lucky ladies!”

The ballroom erupts with such loud shouting I almost fly out
of my chair with surprise.

“Who’s it going to be?” someone yells.

The announcer tilts her head toward backstage. “Guys? Come
on out.”

My heart skips a beat when Rolf and Carlos walk onstage
wearing brown head-to-foot hooded robes. With their hair covered, it’s hard to
recognize them at a distance, but I’d know Carlos anywhere. His eyes, walk and
stance are already burned into my memory.

The announcer minces around them with gesturing arms as if
she’s a game show hostess. “The winners will enjoy some one-on-one time with
these charming guys. They might take a walk or have drinks. All the rules still
apply, of course. No hanky-panky.”

Someone in the audience groans with disappointment.

Zena grabs one of my hands and one of Dorothy’s. “We’ve got
to win! We’ve just got to win!”

My entire body goes numb in my chair. A two-hour fantasy
date with Carlos? Just thinking about it blows my mind to shreds. I pull my
hand away and sink my nails into it. There’s no point thinking about something
I probably won’t get. I never win a thing. Even worse, some other woman will
win the date with him. I definitely can’t handle thinking about that.

When the first blast of jungle music pierces the room along
with a red strobe light, I focus on them to get my mind off the grand prize I
won’t win. The other two men—also wearing long brown robes—join Carlos and
Rolf. What are they supposed to be, monks?

“Those robes sure aren’t very sexy,” Dorothy remarks.

Zena giggles. “That’s because they’re coming off.”

A gong sounds and the men circle around each other in a
swirling pattern that makes the robes billow around them. Then I realize the
robes aren’t fastened in front. Bare pectorals peek out, teasing the audience.
Women’s screams shatter the room, giving the loud music serious competition. If
I ever attend another one of these, I’m bringing heavy-duty earplugs.

Then, one after the other, a man dances to the front of the stage,
pulls back his hood and flings off the entire robe, revealing a snug,
tiger-striped loincloth.

Dorothy snorts. “Men. Why do they always throw their clothes
on the floor?”

Rolf takes his turn, wiggling his lean hips from side to
side while flinging his long blond locks.

“Oh. Oh. Oh.”

My head turns to see who at my table is so sick or in pain.
Of all times. I don’t want to miss Carlos’ solo dance.

“What is it?” I hiss.

“I think Zena just had an orgasm,” Dorothy mutters.

Our friend’s head is bent back and she’s taking big gulps of
air, but she looks healthy otherwise.

My fingernails dig into the tablecloth until my cuticles
ache when it’s Carlos’ turn. Seeing him dance is a new thrill to add to the
others. If only I could share the stage with him now as I did at the photo
shoot.

Pick me up, honey, and wrap my legs around that
loincloth.

When Zena laughs and growls, I realize I said that aloud. I
put my hand over my mouth while every cell inside my body melts at the sight of
his performance. He’s so good. How can a mere man be so damn good? He’s going
to have to be pretty arrogant to turn me off now.

All too soon, the performance is over. The stage darkens and
the men sashay out of sight. Then new lights come up and some party dance tunes
play.

Zena grabs my arm along with Dorothy’s. “Let’s dance. I need
to air out my wet crotch.”

So do I.

“Where are the men?” Dorothy frowns. “I thought they were
going to dance with us.”

“They will,” Zena promises. “They have to change first.”

When a half hour passes, I’m ready to return to my room and
call it a night. Dancing with a bunch of women isn’t fun for long, but the men
do reappear and insert themselves into the dancing crowd. Instead of robes and
loincloths, they wear tight pinstriped black pants, red suspenders and white
collars with red bow ties.

For a while, I just watch them while my body goes through
the motions.

As Carlos dances with one woman after another, I wonder if
he’ll ever dance with me. Finally I realize he never will. Why is this so hard
for me? In school I accepted that some guys weren’t interested in me and never
would be. Plenty of other cute ones were.

Now my life is filled with work and available men are few
and far between. Maybe that’s why I cling to some young stranger who’s just not
that into me as a kid clings to an old teddy bear she’s long outgrown.

Zena shoves me in his direction. “Go dance with him.”

I shake my head. Being aggressive might be her style but it
isn’t mine.

“Fine,” I say when she makes chicken noises. “One dance.”

What better way to prove he’s an arrogant jerk than get
myself rudely rejected by him? Even though a short, heavyset woman is in the
middle of doing the bump with him, I cut in on their space and make eye contact
with him. He gives the woman one last bump and turns toward me with another one
of those cryptic, hesitant smiles.

He can’t smile for me or get hard for me. Why is he dancing
with me at all? And why am I putting myself through this? His touch on my arms
as I turn around is warm enough to make me want to throw myself into his
embrace. But something’s missing. The photographer might have captured magic in
our pictures but there’s none happening now.

So much for fantasies.

“Are you enjoying the conference?” he asks loud enough to be
heard over the music.

“Yes. I enjoyed the photo shoot with you too.”
I drooled
over the pictures in my room afterward. How about you?

“Okay, ladies, grab your nearest partner. It’s time for the
lap dances.”

Huh?
When I glance toward the announcer, I notice
four chairs in a neat row across the front of the stage.

“What’s going on?” I ask Carlos.

Where’s Zena when I need her? She’s supposed to warn me
about this stuff.

He looks at me with smoky, dark eyes and takes my hand.
“You’re going to do a sexy lap dance for me.”

“I-I don’t know how.” Then I remember the dancing workshop
from this morning, a million years ago.

The realest smile yet warms his face. “I’ll teach you.”

He sits on one of the chairs and I stand facing him with
wobbly knees. Why did I have to wear these damn high-heeled sandals? What if I
fall headfirst onto his crotch? Slow, sultry music replaces the fast-paced
dance song. Feeling like an utter fool, I observe what the women beside me do
to their men. I can’t help laughing when I see Zena and Dorothy both dancing
for Rolf with Zena giving constant instructions.

Carlos’ voice pulls my attention back to him. “Relax. This
is supposed to be fun.”

How can I dance, much less move, when my body is a block of
ice? All I can do is stare at him and study the way his eyes smolder…and his
smile. It starts slow and spreads over his face as the sun does across a dawn
sky. Forget every complaint I made about his previous half-assed smiles. This
one makes up for them all.

The smile must have thawed the ice because my hips rock of
their own accord. My hands drift to his shoulders as if powerful magnets lay
hidden under the muscles. My fingertips feast on the smooth familiar skin I
touched during the photo shoot. I have to have that smile—kiss it, taste it,
devour it.

His mouth is shaped like a majestic bird in flight. When my
lips are an inch from his, I remember one of the lessons from this morning.
Tease
your subject.
Just before my mouth touches him, I drift back out of reach
and raise my arms over my head, swaying them in a serpentine motion. The music
has found a hole in my armor and crept inside my body, filling it and moving
it. Remembering I’m not supposed to touch him now, I let go.

God, I must look like a hooker.
Am I really doing this?
I hope no one is watching except him.

He slouches in the chair a little, getting more comfortable.
Another flashback from this morning’s stripping lesson hits me.
Check for
eye contact.
Bubbles of delight fill me when I notice his gaze glued to my
body. So far so good…

Then I remember to emphasize my body angles. I haven’t been
this focused on my appearance since I was a teenager. First the exotic
lingerie, then my face angles with the photo shoot and now my body angles. It’s
too bad over-forty modeling isn’t a career.

I finally realize where he’s looking, especially when I bend
over. My low-cut lace blouse has given him a birds-eye view of my new push-up
bra. Based on the smile that hasn’t left his face, he likes what he sees. The realization
sends a million volts of electricity straight to my cunt.

His gaze locks on to mine and intensifies, as if to tell me
he wants more. More what? What am I supposed to do now, grab his crotch? No,
that wouldn’t be subtle or seductive. I do need to touch more than his
shoulders, however. When I remember how good it felt to have my legs wrapped
around him during the photo shoot, insatiable heat roars inside my core,
drawing my pelvis toward him with a force I can’t control.

I straddle one of his legs, rubbing my corduroy-clad crotch
up and down the length of his thigh. When scalding fluid drenches my thong
panties, I hope it doesn’t seep through. Luckily two layers of pants lie
between us.

Geez, look at me now.
I’m truly acting worse than a
dog in heat. If anyone records this on video, I’ll be absolutely mortified.
Even a picture would be too much. As if on cue, the LED light on Zena’s phone
flashes in my face.

Carlos shifts in his seat, more forcefully this time, making
the metal legs squeak.
Uh-oh.
Is he trying to throw me off him? I
struggle to remember more of this morning’s lesson, but my brain has stopped
working.

The only message firing in my neurons right now is
I need
him and I need him now
. Confusing me more, he touches my hip and then drops
his hand as if burned. Does he have cellulite detectors in his fingers or
something? Then I remember he’s not allowed to touch me either. Who invented
these stupid rules?

I lean close to his face again because what I really want is
a kiss. As much as I’d love to have wild sex right here in this chair, I’d
rather go through each of the bases first. Someone this delectable is meant to
be savored.

To avoid putting my lips too close to his, I concentrate on
his neck instead. As his unique mesquite scent fries the rest of my brain
cells, I actually blow in his ear. Is that immature or what? I feel more
awkward than a thirteen-year-old during her first make-out session. He’s
probably laughing inside at my clumsiness. Can I help it if my life has been
all work and no play for longer than I can remember?