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I’m hot, tired, and thirsty from a long drive, and I want to drink.
I also want to bone.
It’s been awhile.
While I’m checking in at the dumpy hotel I’m staying at in the shadow of the historic train depot, the Sikh who owns the place says I should check out a “gentlemen’s club” on the outskirts of town called The Fool’s Lair.
He puts a special emphasis on “gentlemen’s club.”
“You’ll have fun there,” he says, with a sly grin.
A gentlemen’s club, eh?
Normally I disdain strip places as being a waste of time of money.
Dancers there are only nice to you if you tip them.
Even then it’s an obvious put on if they pay any other attention to you at all.
I’ve been to these places, and I see poor schmucks spending wads of cash on lap dances thinking the chick is really in to them during the spectacle and I just shake my head.
“No man, Get a hooker! Do that if you’re going to spend that kind of money. At least then you’ll get something out of the deal, you know? Otherwise you’re just throwing your money away.”
That’s what I tell my pals when they ask if I want to tag along with them when they go a strip joint.
Not only that, in many states, you can’t even get a beer in a place like that.
Some even make you buy a five or ten dollar non-alcoholic drink, and dancers start aggressively demanding you buy a lap dance from them within a minute of even sitting down.
How can that possibly be fun?
I tell all of this to the Sikh.
“The girls are fun there. They’re nice. They have booze there,” says the Sikh. “Go, you’ll fun there!” he says, again with a sly grin on his face.I think it over for a bit, and…well what the hell?
I decide to go.
The Sikh tells me where it is, and I get into my truck and head south on US 85 for a few miles, and literally a stone’s throw away from the Colorado border across from the “Welcome to Wyoming” sign at the bottom of a small hill, there it is.
The Fool’s Lair.
The club’s neon mudflap girl lights come on as I pull into the parking lot.
Plenty of time to go somewhere else if it’s lame.
I park the truck, and after I get out the first thing I see is a gorgeous blonde wearing a Texas A&M hat standing outside a Chevy Blazer talking to another woman sitting inside the truck who had seen her as she walked out and had motioned for her to come over and talk.
I walk in the guy at the door checks my ID.
“You’re a long way from home,” he says, noting my Boise address.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Have fun, bro,” he says as he gives my ID back.
I’m inside now, and there’s a tanned athletic looking auburn haired dancer sitting at the bar in a silky blue bikini, tinted glasses, and white platform shoes sipping a coke through a straw and reading a newspaper.
She looks up and sees me and smiles and says “Howdy!” in a twangy western drawl.
I smile and nod and get a beer and then sit down at a long table away from the stage, where a blonde with enhanced round breasts and a pierced nipple is finishing her set while the auburn haired dancer gets up and goes over towards the back of the club to talk to an impeccably dressed guy with big arms, and broad shoulders and sunglasses raised up on his slicked back dark hair and his once fashionable three day growth makes him look like he really wishes he owned a place like this in LA.
She talks to him for a short time until the blonde is finished and then tells the guy with the arms she’s gotta go and then walks over to the juke box, makes some selections, and then gets up on stage just as “Alive” begins playing and starts to dance and the club announcer introduces her.
“Put your hands together for Miley!”
I watch for a bit as she swivels around one pole and then shimmies up and down another and I note to myself that she has a commanding presence on stage.
So I go get a seat the stage with two college guys to my left and as Miley gyrates and makes eye contact with me and smiles as I take a long swig from my beer which relaxes me enough to return the favor.
And then at that moment I sulk and feel like a loser.
For going against my intuition about strippers and strip joints.
I’m reduced to flirting with a stripper and sitting so close to the stage with this woman dancing literally right over me at times that it feels pathetic because there’s no way in hell she would ever do anything remotely close to that with me in the real world.
I mean, yeah, it’s been awhile for me.
But do I really need to do this?
But I stop pouting when I remember I’m in fucking Wyoming and I’ll most likely never be here again and who the hell is going to know that I’m at this “gentleman’s club” flirting with a stripper like I actually have a chance with her unless I tell them?
So with a Risky Business sense of daring and adventure, I look at Miley again and smile and she makes little effort to resist as she continues her dance here and there on the stage.
A big fat guy wearing a black and red checkered canlı bahis şirketleri shirt, black suspenders, black jeans, thick glasses and cheap blue sneakers makes his way over to the stage from his table in the back and waits patiently for her to come over to him so he can slide a dollar bill folded in half long ways into her garter.
Or her g-string.
Or maybe have that be the moment she takes off her top and cups her boobs and takes the bill with them.
“What will it be?” the big dude must be wondering.
Meanwhile, I’m wondering who she looks like.
She has the face of someone from my past.
A big smile and bright white teeth and her auburn hair winged out in front and short in back.
Who does she look like?
Someone from a previous job?
A previous life?
She is commanding on stage in spite of her small stature.
She has the power of ten men.
She is definitely not just going through the motions.
She is owning each and every moment and making sure everyone knows it.
I finish off my first beer and go get another.
Meanwhile, “Alive” has ended and her top comes off revealing small breasts.
Not what you’d expect at a strip club, especially considering her predecessor.
Her performance continues as “Rapture” comes on and she goes over to the two college guys to my left at the edge of the curved stage.
She sticks her chest up in their faces and shimmies.
As close as she can get without touching them.
Both of these dudes are bedazzled and bedizzled and then she invites one guy to motorboat and then the other.
Meanwhile, there are singles, fives, and tens all over the stage now.
Beyond the stage are dart boards and video games and a guy wearing a bright orange NRA Freedom hat playing Super Off Road and in the back are pool tables and another stage presently not in use and the glow from the prairie sunset out the back door.
As I drink the second beer, I focus my slightly buzzed attention on Miley – her round ass, toned legs, firm abs, and the crown of thorns tattoo on her right bicep.
But I am magnetically drawn to the her light brown eyes, and after she shoots me another smile, I want this to be more than just about parts.
Because that is sexier.
Sexier than just going home with some randa.
It’s much much more libidinous to have a personal connection with someone, even if for just one night, because that is a night you both will remember for a long long time.
Long after she goes home the next morning hoping no one sees her wearing the disheveled outfit from last night.
Long after you…do the same thing…
The walk of shame.
So that’s what I’m seeking.
And I’m starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, she is too.
Then again, she is a stripper.
She probably looks like that at all the boys in hopes of having her garter stuffed with their hard earned greenbacks.Like I’ve always believed.It is long shot.
Like your chance of winning anything more than what you paid for a scratcher.
You just have to suspend disbelief while you’re here to have a reasonably good time, and then you go home and that’s that.
Or is it just that?
There is something in the way she shoots glances in my direction.
Or maybe it’s just my wishful thinking.
She takes a tip in her garter from the NRA dude, who has finished Super Off Road and is now taking in the action, as well as from the college guys to my left, and the big fat guy in the red checked shirt while the guy with the big arms sits at a table smoking a cigarette while looking over papers from his open briefcase.
The guy she was talking to before she started.
Probably her boyfriend.Or husband…
But hey, look at that, she just looked at me again.
And now she’s crawling over looking straight at me.
And she’s getting closer.
My eyes are locked on hers.
She’s getting closer.
She’s in my face now.
Close enough to kiss me.
I feel her breath on my face.
Her lips are within millimeters of mine.
Then she turns towards one ear.
“You are a very good looking man,” she whispers.
“Thank you,” I say.
“My pleasure,” she replies.
I open my wallet.
I take out a ten.
I fold it in half longways.
She sits up.
I dangle the bill over her g-string, moving it back and forth from the side to the front and she looks at me and I move it closer and closer to the front.
And then down.
Between her legs.
Closer.I can’t believe I’m doing this.
As I do it.
I look around quickly.
No one is looking.
Not the bartenders.
Not the guy at the door checking ID’s.
Not guy with the big arms.
He’s still at his table looking at paperwork.
Miley is watching as I ever so slowly push the bill as close to the fabric of her g-string as one can without actually touching it because actually touching it is…not a good canlı kaçak iddaa idea.
She looks into my eyes, and then sticks her thumbs into her g-string and pushes it forward and I slide the bill in before she lets it snap back.
“Thanks,” she says, smiling bashfully.
She goes over to the college guys on my left and I down the rest of my beer before going to the bar to get another.
After the bartender hands it to me, I look at the polaroids of all the dancers on the wall as Miley keeps dancing.
I immediately recognize the babe in one pic who was wearing the Texas A&M hat when I first walked in, and then my eyes are drawn to that of Miley’s.
She has this cheerleader way about her.
Or maybe class president.
That big smile.
Not what you’d expect to find in a strip place in the middle of the prairie.
Or maybe you would?
Maybe I’ve had it all wrong about strippers.
Miley’s last song has finished playing and a tall leggy and tattooed brunette with a black shag haircut named Blackheart is on stage now dancing to “Do You Wanna Touch Me?” as Miley is in the back again talking to the dude with the big arms at his table while he looks up from his paperwork and she’s covering her breasts with her top.
I watch from afar at the bar sipping my beer and looking at the same newspaper she was when I came in.
Their conversation continues a few minutes, then big arms guy is standing up and putting on his jacket, putting the paperwork in his briefcase, snapping it shut, nodding goodbye to her, and then walking by me out the door.
Miley talks to another dancer and after finishing my beer, I figure I’ve drank enough courage to go over and talk to her.
So I do.
The timing couldn’t be better because the other dancer turns to go to the dressing room just as I approach and Miley turns around and smiles.
“Hey there,” I reply.
“So what’s up? Whatcha gonna be doing?” she asks.
“I was wondering when you’re going to be done here?” I ask.
“I’m done right now. I just have to get dressed.”
“Want to get a drink somewhere?”
“Let’s stay here. It’s not too crowded. The bars in town are usually really loud and smokey, and I can’t stand that,” she says. “Lemme go get dressed. I’ll be right out.”
“Allllllrighty then,” I reply unintentionally doing Jim Carrey and she smiles and turns to head to the dressing room.
After about 20 minutes she comes out wearing a red polo shirt, jeans and simple black boots and joins me at the bar.
“What’re you drinking?” I ask.
“Beer’s good,” she replies.
“Me too,” I say and then relay that to the bartender, who promptly brings both drinks over.
Blackheart has finished her set and she has been followed by Rhiannon, a tallish woman with long blonde hair, as we both fiddle with our drinks.
There’s a pause.”
So I gather Miley’s your stage name?” I ask.
“Yeah. They wanted me to be ‘Stardust,’” she says with a laugh, “but I chose Miley because that’s my cat’s name. My real name is Amy.”
“I see,” I reply nodding as I begin peeling the label off the bottle.What’s your name?” she asks.
“Tim,” I answer.
“What do you do, Tim?” she asks after a beat.
“What do you write?”
“Stories. Poems. Nonsense. I also do catering work when I can get it. Otherwise I’m a cook at a restaurant.”
“Here in town?”
“No, I’m just passing through. I’m going to Chicago to get some of my stuff out of storage.”
“Where do you live?” she asks, as she begins peeling the label off her bottle.
“Boise,” I reply. “I’ve been there a few years. I’ve been meaning to do this for awhile, but I’ve had to work a lot and haven’t been able to find the time.”
The small talk continues with numerous pregnant pauses, until Miley/Amy looks at me and says, “Let’s go.”
“Where?” I say.
“Outside,” she says, getting off the stool and heading towards the back door outside.
I follow her and soon we’re walking together in the quiet moonlit prairie, the sounds of the club in the distance.
She stops and reaches up and pulls me down to her lips, kissing me, her tongue deep in my mouth as she breathes and gasps.
I’m startled at first, but then I kiss her back.
Then she kisses me back.
Back and forth.
Forth and back.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since you first walked in,” she says.
“Really?” I reply.
“Really! I wanted to do that so bad on stage but I can’t, you know?”
There’s a pause.
“Who was the guy you were talking to? Is he your boyfriend?”
“No,” she says. “He’s the owner’s brother. He’s a tax lawyer. The owner’s having some problems with the IRS.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, nodding.
This is weird.
“So you wanted to kiss me?”
“Yeah!,” she said, looking at me.
“On the stage?”
“Yeah…especially when…when you…started…” she trails canlı kaçak bahis off
“Started what?” I say.
“When you started…” she trails off again.
She seems incapable of finishing the sentence.
She looks at me and then away.
She is blushing and smiling.
“When I started what?” I say again.
“When you started…” she is trying to form more words, but nothing comes out.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this…”
“Saying what?” I am hanging on every movement of her mouth, trying to see what words she might be trying to fashion.
“When you started to…” She stops again!
“When I started to what?”
“When you started…teasing me…with that bill!” she finally says. “When you almost touched…my crotch!”
“…with the bill…I…uh…”
“I wanted you to touch me. My crotch. With the bill…you would have been touching…me…I…wanted…you. I wanted…to…” And she trails off yet again.
Her mouth moves silently again.
“What did you want to do?”
She still can’t talk.She pauses.
“What do you want to do?”
Her eyes are still locked on mine, but her vocal cords are paralyzed.
“What do you want me to do?”
She pauses yet again.
“I want you to come home with me!” she finally says. “I want you to fuck me!”
There it is.
This can’t be happening.
But it is.
It’s going to happen.
But what do I say?
Finally, I say, “Where do you live?”
“About ten minutes from here. My place is right off 85, actually,” she says.
We stand there briefly immobilized in the quiet night.
And then at each other.
“Then let’s go!” I say, taking her by the hand, and leading her around the north side of the building to my truck.
We get in and start kissing as if we’ve just seen ICBM’s rising into the sky.
She pulls back and says, “My place is about ten minutes from here.”
“I know. You said,” I respond.
“Oh. Sorry,” she says.
“No worries,” I say as I start the truck, and roll it out onto Route 85, then hitting the gas and driving like I stole it.
We get back into town, and she directs me to take a right onto East 5th street to a small two bedroom house on the left hand side of the street.It’s white with light green shutters.
I park the truck in the driveway and she says, “Wait here.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I have to tell the sitter she can go home,” she replies. “Give me a few minutes.”
“Oh,” I answer.
She gets out and goes inside, and I stay in the truck.
After about ten minutes, a young woman wearing jeans, a blue t-shirt and grey hoodie leaves the house and heads down the street to her car.
Amy sticks her head out the front door and motions me to come in.
When I get inside she’s leading a toddler by the hand to a back room.
“This won’t take long. Have a seat.”
I sit down on the couch and look around the modestly furnished home.
There are a couple of interesting drawings on the wall, and a tuxedo cat lying in a bed in the corner.
It doesn’t acknowledge me.
There are also textbooks on the coffee table.
“Probability & Statistics,” and “Economics – Theory Through Applications.”
“Those are for school,” she says, coming back in and sitting down next to me.”I see.”
She looks a bit embarrassed.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you about my daughter.”
I should have figured she had a kid, the stereotype about strippers and all.
Or maybe I shouldn’t have.
Oh hell, I think too much!
“That’s fine,” I say.
“And…uh…just so you know, I usually don’t do this kind of thing, and…I can’t promise anything more than tonight. I mean, I know you’re just passing though so…well I thought I should get that out of the way. And like I said, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything about my kid, I just wanted to get here, you know?” she says.
“I know,” I say as she smiles and stands up and takes off her polo shirt. “Why don’t you stand up now?”
I do and my eyes go directly to her breasts as I stand up, she drops her pants, leaving on her black panties.
“Sorry I don’t have bigger tits,” she says. “My friends used to call me ‘A-cup Amy’ in high school.”
“I don’t mind them at all. I think they’re outstanding as a matter of fact,” I say.
“Well thanks,” she says with a giggle as she drops to her knees. “Now let’s see what you’ve got here.”
She undoes removes my belt and undoes the fly and drops my jeans down, then my boxers.
I pop out.
She takes a look at my thickening penis and looks up at me for a brief moment, and then tentatively takes me in her mouth, at first.
After a few moments, she pulls back and looks up at me again.
“You have a nice cock. I had a feeling you did when you first walked in the club.”
Tickling me with her tongue in the right places while cupping my balls with her left hand.
This goes on for a few minutes.
Then she pulls back and looks up at me as she gently strokes me.
“You’re starting to leak.”
“You know what that means, don’t you?” I say looking straight down into her twinkling eyes.
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