The Wooden Pony Club

This is a revamp of a series I have published previously. The events and people overlap with those in other stories I have published, because they are based (loosely) on my real-life experiences and relationships.

"If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs and peep in at the queer things which are going on... it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable." -- Arthur Conan Doyle, 1891,

A Case Of Identity

My journey began when my boyfriend took me to a fancy restaurant for my birthday. We feasted decadently on chilled avocado soup, char-grilled salmon with asparagus, lamb casserole

l'arabique

and dark chocolate

feuillantine

. Just before the dessert arrived, Matthew took from his coat pocket a black satin scarf and folded it lengthways.

"What's that for?" I said.

He gave me a quizzical look, then a grin, and pressed his fingers against my lips. This was not the first time that Matthew had blindfolded me. He loved how it made me so sensitive and helpless and dependent on him. So did I. We were in a quiet corner of the room, and in the subdued lighting we could not be seen by the other diners; but anyway, it didn't matter. What other people think has never really bothered me; and anyway, the waitress seemed unperturbed.

Matthew brushed the hair from my eyes with slow, soft strokes, and gently tied the scarf around my head before tightening the knot with a sharp and not so tender tug. I heard the dishes being placed on the table and the tinkle of a silver spoon against porcelain. I sniffed the sweet fragrance, and after the first delicious mouthful my whole body tingled. Being sightless not only stimulates your other physical senses. The intimacy you feel as you are cut off from your surroundings, deprived of your self-reliance, and you have put your trust in your partner to feed you, has a wonderfully erotic effect. Matthew felt it too. I shivered as he drew his fingertips across my neck and along my shoulders and slipped the straps of my dress down my arms. Ignoring the server as she cleared away the dishes, he started kissing and caressing my neck and décolletage.

When we left the restaurant, I was still wearing my blindfold, having no idea if we were being watched. I still didn't care, though I heard the footsteps and whispers of passers-by. Matthew held onto my waist as he guided me out onto the street. There he offered me his jacket, but I declined. The evening chill tickled my bare arms and legs in a pleasant way. He restored my sight and we walked to our favourite pub, three blocks away. Inside we came across Richard. He was drinking with a couple of his friends but left them to join us.

Richard and I had known each other since childhood when we were neighbors. He's two years younger, and I never much enjoyed his company. He was short and stocky, good-looking but with what I can only describe as a fuzziness around the edges, unruly hair and eyes that never quite seemed to focus. I found him to be rather indolent and dissolute, generally undisciplined and more supercilious than he had any right to be. But his sister and I were good friends at school and university. Emily and I were at one time almost inseparable. We had much in common, both straight-A students, not very sociable and not particularly interested in boys (or girls, for that matter). I was something of an "adrenaline junkie" who preferred to spend her weekends and vacations in pursuit of adventure -- cave-exploration, sky-diving, base-jumping, rock-climbing, that sort of thing. I dragged along Emily, and she got her own back by drawing me into more sedate, back-to-nature pastimes -- hiking, camping, bushwalking.

Then, just as I was starting my postgraduate studies, Emily was awarded a research fellowship which meant her moving interstate. We each went our separate ways. Nevertheless, I still encountered Richard on the odd occasion, such as this.

When he proposed that we move to a new venue, I felt inclined to decline; but my head was foggy from two glasses of dinner wine. It may have been three. So I put aside my usual "What's he up to?" reservations.

"What about your friends?" I asked, and Richard simply shrugged, not even looking back.

Matthew agreed to relocate, reluctantly. He didn't like Richard and was no doubt also asking himself "What's the deal?" It was to be amenable that we both went along. And so, with that fortuitous encounter in a bar on my birthday, the scene was set for my

outré

voyage of self-discovery.

Richard steered us to a rather seedy-looking nightclub about fifteen minutes' walk away. In my skimpy dress I regretted refusing the offer of my boyfriend's coat. On the other hand, the cool breeze did partially clear my head; but as a result I was starting to have second thoughts... especially when I saw the notice by the entrance announcing that females were admitted free of a cover charge. This, in my experience, is rarely a good sign. Nonetheless it intrigued me that Richard simply nodded at the doorman and all three of us were ushered inside without paying.

To my relief, the interior was not as dingy as the façade might suggest. It appeared to be a typical establishment for its kind, crowded and noisy. Women patrons outnumbered the men, but that was due to a large and boisterous all-girl group. The waitresses and female bar attendants were scantily clad but in expensive lingerie -- satin-and-lace bra and panties, garter belt, stockings and high heels. The music was provided by a contemporary jazz band which was really good. There were three guys and two girls, and the latter were also wearing lingerie. So I was not surprised that the entertainment featured "exotic dance"; but it was tasteful enough.

We found a table and ordered drinks. Since I was still feeling fuzzy, I had lemonade. The waitress called Richard by name; and sometime later the manager came to talk to us. Richard introduced us, announcing her as "our hostess" Desirée. She was a tall, slim, striking brunette, with dark, sparkling eyes and a wry, slightly crooked smile. She wore the same sexy outfit as the other female staff, and as she stood beside him, Richard was behaving in a very familiar manner, patting and fondling her backside and playing with the suspenders on her garter belt. She kept on pushing his hand away but appeared otherwise unperturbed.

Desirée stayed to chat for several minutes. She seemed interested in my personal circumstances, and so I guessed (correctly as it turned out) that she was appraising me for a job offer. But shortly before midnight, Richard suddenly declared that it was time to leave. Aware of his nocturnal habits, I found this somewhat strange; but since it was a weeknight I was happy to go. Matthew concurred, keen to be out of the place (despite enjoying the feminine décor) and away from Richard. He no doubt anticipated a reward for his forbearance, and if so was not disappointed... but that's another story.

I had just about put the evening's events out of my mind when, two weeks later, Richard turned up at my apartment with coffee, croissants and a proposition. At the time, I was looking for something to supplement my meagre income earned as a tutor to underappreciative undergrads. I'd worked through a series of dreary part-time jobs, and waitressing was not the most horrible; so I was receptive when he told me there was a position open at the nightclub.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Because I work there, dummy," he replied.

So that very afternoon we went back to the Wooden Pony Club. The name was discreetly displayed on a small sign above the doorway. It meant nothing to me at the time.

In the harsh light of day the exterior looked even more shabbily disreputable than it did in the dark, and in striking contrast to the congenial interior. I had the distinct impression that this was deliberate, a false front. The air of mystery aroused my curiosity, and it was therefore something of a letdown to be welcomed by a weather-beaten, middle-aged man wearing scruffy overalls and wielding a mop. He conducted us to an upstairs office where Desirée was just hanging up on a phone call. She was now attired in a business suit and her hair was tied in a bun, but even in a tailored jacket and a man's tie she maintained the sensual deportment of a showgirl. When she stood and came round from behind her desk to greet us, her skirt, short and pleated, was still falling into place, giving us a peek of bare thighs between the tops of silk stockings and a suspender belt like the one she had on when we first met.

As she outlined the terms of employment, I knew this was a job opportunity too good to refuse. The pay was generous, the hours were flexible and the dress code was... well, I'd worn about the same when serving drinks in a poolside bistro not so long ago.

At only one stage of the interview did I have any misgivings. Desirée asked Richard to wait outside, and after he'd left she told me to stand up, take off my blouse and drop my jeans. I complied, feeling ill-at-ease as she leaned back in her chair to scrutinize my assets. Okay, that made sense, given what I'd be wearing on duty; but then she told me to stretch out, touch my toes and perform slow pirouettes. My jeans were still around my ankles and as I started to kick them off she said "No, as you are" and so I did my rotations shackled by my denims. I guess this demonstrated my agility, though it wasn't very elegant.

Desirée said I was very pretty and I thanked her for the compliment, and she said "Just stating a fact, sweetie."

As Richard came back into the office, I was buttoning my shirt, and he gave us both an inquisitive look before nodding and grinning.

I started the following week. That uncomfortable moment in Desirée's office had left me a little concerned, but I quickly put it out of my mind. The club was only a short drive or bus ride from our apartment and the university, so the easy commute was a bonus. Desirée introduced me to my co-workers and presented me with my uniform. It consisted of a brief, orchid-pink bra and g-string panties, trimmed with black lace, a black ribbon choker with a tiny embroidered white rose, a frilly garter belt with four suspenders, silk stockings that alone must have cost a small fortune, and stiletto heels. One of the girls had to help me with my garter belt (not part of my usual ensemble), and the shoes were not designed for long periods of waiting on tables. However, the costume was ultrafeminine and very sexy, and when I got started it was fun to be the centre of attention as the new waitress.

Richard was tending the bar that night, and there were a couple of other males on duty. They were smartly dressed in grey slacks and waistcoats, white shirts and red ties. I envied the men in one respect. The temperature of the room was turned down rather low, so if I did not keep moving the goosebumps began to appear. Not only goosebumps, The chill had a visual effect on my nipples under the diaphanous fabric of my bra that was, at least, pleasing for the customers. Our boss, to her credit, led from the front in her skimpies.

During my two-week probation, my duties and wages were the same as the others'. Since everyone but the boss and the maintenance man worked part-time, there were many of us. All of my fellow employees were university students, and because the girls had to be over twenty-one years of age, we were nearly all postgraduates; which meant we were probably the most highly educated bunch of waitresses in the city.

The work was typical waitressing, despite the hedonist tone of the place. On the whole, the mood among both staff and clientele was upbeat and the ambience of the club an easy-going sensuality. For the patrons there was a strict no-touching policy. I still received the occasional hand on my backside, but the penalty for gross misconduct was immediate exclusion and permanent expulsion. Yet that put Richard's cheeky interaction with Desirée's derrière on my first visit in a much more interesting light. There was something a little off-beat about the Wooden Pony Club.