StripperwithSpice (9 page)

He opens the car door for me. “I’d like to see you again,
Janice.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“How about if we go for a walk next Sunday at Great Falls?
We can take in the foliage.”

It sounds innocent enough.
What the hell?
He’s bound
to hurt me but so what? I’ve been through worse. Nothing could be harder than
being unemployed and rejected by the corporate world faster than yesterday’s
garbage. At least my livelihood doesn’t depend on it.

But I’m still not quite ready to surrender. I have some
research to do first.

“I’ll think about it.”

On Thursday night, I pull into a crowded parking lot in
Silver Spring.
Please tell me I’m not really doing this.
Clenching the
steering wheel, I stare up at a red neon sign blinking the words
Stallion
Palace
.

Carlos doesn’t know I’m coming. In fact I’ve left him
hanging about our weekend hiking date. The outcome of tonight will determine
whether I date him again. Judging by the churning in my stomach, the prospects
don’t look good.

Finding the club’s website was easy enough. It even listed
the nights Carlos performs. I pull down the brim of the hat I’m wearing. My
hair is pinned up under it and I’m even wearing big sunglasses. I also wear a
baggy taupe caftan—one of the few things I have left of my mother. Cheesy, huh?
Whatever it takes to keep him from recognizing me.

Music pulses all the way to the parking lot. I take a deep
breath before leaving the safety of my car. Inside I get carded by a tall hunky
guy with the typical “I’m too sexy for my pants” stance. The cover charge isn’t
in my budget, but the knowledge I gain tonight will be worth it.

A sea of talkative, drinking women fills the large room,
which has an apron-shaped stage in front with closed red curtains. A black bow
tie decorates the back of each white chair. I pick a table off to the side to
better hide myself.

When I see what the other women have on, I almost regret
wearing the ugly caftan. Low-cut blouses sport outrageous cleavage and some
miniskirts are so short they should be illegal. Most of the shoes have heels
high enough to cause vertigo.

My heart thumps in time to the music as I drum my fingers on
the table
. Come on. Let’s get this over with. He’s back there
, I remind
myself.
He’s going to strip in front of all these strange, horny women.

When a shirtless waiter in red suspenders approaches the
table, I order a ginger ale to soothe my uneasy stomach. Why did I come?
Wouldn’t it be better not to know about Carlos’ wild life? Unfortunately I’ve
never shied away from the facts and I’m not about to start now.

As my table fills with other women, the air thickens with
perfume and the sugary scent of exotic drinks. I lose count of the number of
times my chair gets bumped. They must be regulars because they talk about the
dancers as if the guys are their best friends. One woman with red hair and
rhinestone jewelry flashes a wad of bills.

“I brought plenty of twenties for Carlos. I wonder what
he’ll do for them tonight.”

The dark-haired woman next to her thrusts her fake boobs
forward and grins at the money. “Do you think I ought to go for a lap dance?”

“We insist, Cindy,” the first one says. “Your birthday was
yesterday.”

“Carlos is the best, huh?” I ask in a disguised, husky
voice.

“Beyond a doubt.” Rhinestones points out the women in their
group. “I’m Rhonda. This is Cindy and the quiet one is Annie.”

“Hi. I’m Ja-Jocelyn.” In keeping with my disguise, I
remember to give a false name.

“Are you a virgin, honey?”

My head rears back. “Excuse me?”

She wiggles her fingers, making her rings glitter. “Your
first time here?”

“Uh huh.”

Her eyes give me a quick once-over. “I can tell by what
you’re wearing. Next time dress up a little.”

Annie leans forward. “What she means is wear something to
give the men good access to your tits and ass during a lap dance.”

Um, classy. And she’s supposed to be the quiet one?

I gulp some ginger ale because my mouth has just dried and
turned to glue inside. What does Carlos do during these lap dances? Feel the
women up? Have sex with them? If I see him doing it with some other woman
tonight, it’ll kill me.

When the lights dim, the women scream in anticipation. I put
my hands over my ears. This bunch is much wilder than the one at the weekend
convention. A handsome announcer with broad shoulders and a goatee takes center
stage. I raise my dark glasses up with my finger so I can see beneath them.
When he does a hip roll, the women scream again.

It’s going to be a long night.

“Ladies, are you ready to ride the stallions tonight?”

The screaming goes up another octave. “Yeah!”

He puts a hand to his ear. “I can’t hear you.”

I can. My eardrums are already splitting. I remind myself I
could be home right now in my quiet apartment reading a romance novel instead
of undergoing this emotional torture. My feet twitch, telling me I can still
walk out, but I stay in my seat. If I don’t see this through, I’ll never get
all the facts.

A fast-paced dance tune kicks in as the red curtains fly
open, revealing five guys on stage. It only takes a moment for me find him.
He’s second from the left and I can’t even focus on the other four. The women
around me even disappear. He’s dancing just for me.

The performers, wearing gangster-style, baggy black jackets
and pants, dance in unison with plenty of hip rolls. Watching it reminds me of
the way Carlos rolled his hips while he fucked me. The sight strikes a match
across my clit and sets it ablaze. I cross my legs to snuff it out. What gives?
I came here expecting to feel jealous, not horny.

When the first dancer strips off his jacket and throws it
into the screaming crowd, the women who catch it claw at it faster than
vultures on fresh roadkill.

Carlos flings his off next and before I can react, a bundle
of black fabric flies toward my head. The women next to me clap as I catch it
and lay it across my lap. The familiar scent of mesquite lowers my heartbeat,
reassuring me Carlos is still Carlos.

It was odd for him to throw the jacket off to the side of
the audience though.
Oh crap!
Does he know I’m here?

Divested of their jackets, the men point thumbs and fingers
in front of their crotches and vibrate them back and forth as if their penises
are machine guns. I stifle a moan as I imagine Carlos’ erection shooting
straight into my core.

Too overwhelmed to even notice the screaming anymore, I
blink several times. When I look up again, the pants are off, lying on the
stage in piles of black detritus. What did I miss? Before I can focus on the
brief black thongs the guys wear, they shuffle offstage.

When the act is over and the curtain closes, I hope the show
is done. It wasn’t so bad. I can handle this. Tomorrow I’ll accept his hiking
date and everything will be fine. But the women are still here. It’s far from
done.

“It’s come to my attention that it’s pretty hot in here,”
the announcer says when he takes the mic again. “In fact several fires have
been reported.”

The women laugh and cheer in response.

“Somebody needs to put them out,” the guy continues.
“Luckily we have the man for the job. Let’s hear it for Bombastic Brian.”

The first guy from the previous group dance explodes onto
the stage. I say explode because he moves so fast it’s as if he’s been shot out
of a cannon. Short and slender with blond hair, he’s dressed as a fireman,
complete with a hard, red hat and big coat.

Sirens, fire truck horns and emergency broadcasts pour
through the speakers as he dances. I assume it’s part of the act, but we’re in
the middle of a city so who knows. Special-effect smoke billows around his feet
Another guy pulls a long hose from offstage and hands it to Brian who flings it
around as if it’s a phallic symbol.

“Put out my fire, baby!” a woman from the audience yells.

This is the wildest thing I’ve ever witnessed. I must be
missing out because this is the first time in my life I’ve attended one of
these.

Not long after, the fireman jacket comes off, revealing a
G-string made of the same reflective fabric. He gyrates across the stage in
nothing but that plus the hat and fireman boots. What energy. He must have
guzzled ten cups of coffee right before he went onstage.

I blink in disbelief when several women form a line to the
stage. While Bombastic Brian rotates his pelvis in women’s faces, they shout
louder than oversexed chimpanzees and stuff bills into the waistband of his
G-string.

Dread sinks in my stomach when I realize Carlos will surely
do the same thing. I still have time to leave… Maybe I like torture because I
stay where I am. When the announcer takes the stage again, my nails dig into my
palms. What will Carlos’ act be?

“Ladies, you sound pretty wild tonight.”

Deafening cheers fill the room in response. My ears must be
numb now because I no longer notice.

“I think some of you need taming. Fortunately our next set
features a stud who knows how to ride the wildest bronco until it eats out of
his hand. Put your hands together for the palace’s prime stallion, our Latin
hombre
,
Cool Hand Carlos!”

My heart thuds with the music, which has a slower, sexier
beat than the high-energy piece the fireman danced to. It’s country, blues and
Mexican all mixed together. The most intense wave of lust I’ve ever experienced
hits me in the chest when the curtains open to reveal a dark stage with one
blue overhead light.

He stands still in the center—straighter than a saguaro
cactus—in a long black duster and cowboy hat, fringed leather chaps, ripped
jeans and, of course, western boots. It doesn’t take long for him to shed the
coat. The jeans ride low on his rolling hips and he wears no shirt.

I’ve never seen him look so serious. His dark eyes glow with
a strange fire tonight and burn straight to my soul. Knowing the history behind
them makes them even sexier.

I want I want I want
him, I internally chant to the
music.

His dancing is slow and hypnotic. I don’t think I’ve ever
concentrated this hard on anything in my entire life. After he rotates his hips
a few times, he thrusts them forward and does it all over again. Adding to the
seduction, he leans forward and runs his hands up and down his chaps. The
longer he dances the more his serious expression fades into a small smile.

Watching him sends me back to that hotel room. He’s not
caressing the chaps. He’s stroking my flushed skin. Each roll of his lithe,
narrow hips sends his cock deeper into my waiting pussy.

Maybe the fireman got me with his hose because suddenly I’m
wet all over. Sweat glues the ugly caftan to my body, and my panties are so
creamy I almost slide off my chair.

His fingers fool with some knots and the chaps come flying
off. Next to go are the jeans, which he magically tears away.
Omigod.
There he is, completely naked except for a black G-string. I fight the impulse
to run onstage and cover him from other eyes with the jacket in my lap.

For the first time, he gives the audience a full white
smile. My hands fiddle with my glass, nearly knocking it over. I can’t handle
this. He’s too hot. Too far away. He sure doesn’t look ready to retire.

His muscles flex and ripple with his hypnotic movements and
his skin glows as if it’s been lightly oiled. I squint in concentration. His
glow isn’t just slathered on. It’s coming from inside him. He loves this.

The audience screams even louder than it did for Bombastic
Brian. Carlos is definitely a master at his craft. Why couldn’t he have a
different craft? Preferably something that kept him fully clothed around other
women.

Why can’t he just dance for me?

I grip the table when the moment I dread arrives. As Brian
did, he struts around the stage while women come tip him. My jaw clenches hard
enough to crack my teeth when the women run their hands all over his bare
flesh. I can’t even count the number of feminine hands in the vicinity of
Carlos’ crotch.

They touch his buttocks and even brush across the bulge of
his cock as they stuff bills into the G-string. In return he kisses them on the
cheek as if he’s a perfect gentleman. There’s so much money flying around, some
of it falls on the stage and an older man sweeps it up with a broom. Most of
the girls are pretty and young. Some are even knockouts.

How can I possibly survive such fierce competition for his
attention? I might as well not even bother. Why couldn’t he be a farmer,
surrounded by soybeans instead of other women? My heart, now a damp clump of
sod, sags low in my chest. Feeling nauseous again, I gulp more ginger ale. I’ll
probably need a case of it to finish out the night.

“Get your paws off him,” I want to growl.
He’s mine!
Mine! Mine! Mine!

When he finally exits, I release a big sigh. The other three
solo dance acts pass by in a blur. I think the third guy is a mountain man, the
fourth a vampire and the fifth an Indian who looks a lot like Cochise from the
romance convention, but I can’t be sure.

I glance at my watch in the dim light, shocked by how late
it is already. These people obviously don’t have day jobs. I’ll have to drink
as much coffee as Bombastic Brian just to keep my eyes open at work tomorrow.
The other women must live locally too. Cruising the DC beltway alone in the wee
hours of the morning is not a thrilling prospect.

After the final act, the announcer encourages the women to
tip the bartenders well since they’re working so hard.

“And now is the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Lap
dances!” The announcer yells the last two words, eliciting the loudest cheering
yet. “I heard we have a birthday in the house.”

Rhonda jumps up and points to Cindy. “Over here!”

“That means the first lap dance is yours. Who’s it going to
be?”

I dig my nails into my palms under the table. Not Carlos.
Don’t say Carlos. Please, please, please. I’ll just die if I have to watch him
give a strange woman a lap dance right under my nose.

“Can I have Cool Hand Carlos?” Cindy calls out.

“You certainly can.” The announcer looks toward backstage.
“Oh, Carlos. You’re wanted on the floor.”

“Oh, yeah!” Rhonda says. “I got my twenties ready.”