Fine Stems And The Couch Dancer

I have been watching Pamela Feinstein for a long time.

Pam's a brilliant programmer, and while it violates conventional wisdom she supplements this skill with real, actual documentation. It's kinda unheard of where I work. I was told her boss asked her to provide fewer docs so that she could improve her output in sheer number of lines of code (which is already higher than her peers), and that she laughed at him. In a layoff-rich environment like ours, that takes some confidence and knowledge of one's self-worth. She's a real piece of work.

She also has a pair of legs that don't quit, to which my inner fifteen year-old has responded by nicknaming her "Pam Feinstems".

Internally, of course. I wouldn't dream of making her uncomfortable in a work context. I'd love to pretend that it's because I respect her (I do) or that I'm afraid the Human Resources fascists will axe me if complaints arise that I'm harassing her (I'm not), but the true reason I keep things very professional with Ms. Feinstems is the same reason men have had for being gentlemen for centuries: I would dearly like to get inside her panties, and being polite and warm trumps being a crude jerk. At least the gentlemen would like to think so.

I'm a recently-divorced man with an eye for a cute face and a decent figure, though I insist those are accompanied by a serious intellect. I've tried dating dumb girls and it's never worked out. As a result, my attraction to Pamela predates the troubles in my marriage which culminated in the (completely unrelated) split-up, and I had—wisely, at the time—set her up with James, an acquaintance of mine, to eliminate my own temptation. Now that I am free... well, let's just say I think that she can do better. I'm no saint, as you will discern, and James isn't all that

close

an acquaintance.

Most of my business is in Silicon Valley, but much of my team's engineering staff is in Portland, Oregon. As a result, when meetings arise, they are typically up north where it's considerably less expensive to house and feed everyone. Our yearly technical conference is coming up and I am looking forward to some down time from the normal daily grind.

Pam, a member of one of our partner organizations, will be delivering a paper as well. Alas, her boyfriend will not be there, as he isn't presenting and is in another department which will not attend. This brings sympathetic tears to my eyes for him. He's a really nice guy, but I intend to be fucking his girlfriend while she is away at the nerdfest.

There's always a party or two in the evenings. The

really

socially-inept engineers hang out at the official events on the company dime; the rest of us discuss the same nerdy topics, but in local Irish pubs or nightclubs.

I need to ensure that Feinstems accompanies us to the latter.

I won't invite her, but I will make sure someone else does... "Hey, go invite Pam!"

"Yeah! She's cool!"

So off to the restaurant/bar we go, where the beer flows (for most of us; I drink kamikazes because that's just how I roll).

"Hey, who the hell invited you, Pam?" I administer the good natured ribbing while trying not to salivate. She's wearing a bright blue dress which hugs her figure without being inappropriate for the workplace. There is a slit in the back which provides an extra couple inches of eye-candy for this leg man. I find the subtlety of professional-but-sexy women's clothing arousing.

She sits down across from me. I am known to be sympathetic, nice, and damned funny. For an enginerd, anyway. When I decided to leave my last the job, virtually no one said, "We'll miss your technical expertise." No, it was, "Damn, it won't be any fun around here anymore."

There is alcohol...

check

. There's a mini-skirted used-to-be-socially-outcast and the residual body self-esteem issues that come from being really smart but only recently cute. Something I can empathize with, yet am willing to use to my advantage. So...

check

.

And after several more drinks, there's ankle touch-age under the table...

Checkmate... Er... I mean, "check"

. I'm sure it's accidental, but I neither call attention to it nor attempt to move my leg away. She does... but a couple of minutes later, she replaces it. She's warm.

People trickle out, there are only a handful left—the hard-core drinkers and the soft-core drinkers who probably still shouldn't drive. I have given up on 'kazes hours ago and have been downing water, so I'm not one of the latter group. Others have followed suit, but not Pamela. As the work-crowd thins, someone suggests going for coffee, triggering laughs around the table.

The joke is, of course, that there is a strip joint known as "Stars", and the locals have for years gone there and claimed to the uninitiated be going to "Starrrrbucks" late at night when the regular bars close. So, when one guy says to another on a trip to Portland, "We're going out for coffee..." everyone knows what that means.

Pam is no idiot. She's well aware of the euphemism, so when I admit I'll be headed out for something caffeinated, she laughs along with the rest. Eager to show how laid back she is, she replies, "I'm game!"

Okay,

now

it's a checkmate.

I laugh at her and feign disbelief. "Really? I wouldn't have ever pictured you as the type." Dare the chick to prove she's not a prude.

"Hey, I'll try anything once."

Words that will come back to haunt you, my dear.

"Yeah, that's what Britney Spears said. You see how she's fared." I down the rest of my water and stand to go pay the check. "Well, I'm definitely going for coffee. Anyone else that wants to go with me, we'll meet at Stars. Know where that is?"

Some mumbled responses, and I give half-assed directions. Them arriving there is

not

my priority. It's counter-productive, in fact, which is why I'm headed to Dolphins, instead. See, Pam's coming with me, in my rental car.

"Dolphins?" she says, reading the sign as we pull into the parking lot. "You told those guys to meet you at Stars."

"Nuh uh."

"Yuh huh."

"Did I?" I pause as if thinking about it. Really I'm looking at the way her skirt hits her creamy white upper thighs in the shine of the streetlamps and wondering if they'd be as smooth under my tongue as they look. "Shit. I think you're right. That's like completely in the opposite direction. Fuck!"

"Dumbass." She's laughing at me. But not laughing

best

—that will be me, soon enough.

"Yeah, well... Screw it. I'm not driving all the way over there at this point. They can have fun without me. Dolphins is better anyway. You want me to take you back to the hotel? The others aren't coming, and you don't have to prove anything to me about how dirty a girl you are."

"Huh."

"Because I already know."

She hits me on the shoulder. "Oh, yeah, how is that?"

"James tells me."

"You lie."

"Yeah, I do." James is a fucking mouse and wouldn't tell fuck-stories if you held a gun to his head. "James is a nice guy and wouldn't say that about you if you held a gun to his head." Self-censorship is the key to illicit nookie. I think that's written down somewhere. If not, it should be. "He sure as hell wouldn't drag you here."

"No, it's cool." That's the liquor talking.

"You sure?"

"Nah, we're already here." I silently urge the liquor to keep up the good work.

Laughter. "Okay, but if you get up on stage, I am NOT responsible."

We get out of the car and walk to the front of the establishment. I drop a ten on the door guy after our IDs are checked, and she tries to as well but, "Ladies are free tonight, ma'am."

"Don't worry, she's no lady," I reply, earning another shoulder slap. "Ow! What'd I say?" We enter elbow-to-elbow and try to adjust our eyes to the dimness.

It's loud, as all such places are loud. Whether the music is booty hip-hop or Jimmy Buffett, the sound guy's attempt to improve his audiologist brother's business is unrelenting.

The place is small—a box, really. A squared-off C-shaped stage, two poles, and a smattering of tables, with a darker, more curtained-off area for more private dances. The waitresses are cute but not over the top. The talent is slender, surgically-enhanced, and shaking ass in a way which someone must have told them was sexy. I've seen it before.

Pam hasn't, though. She's trying to maintain a casual vibe, but widened eyes don't lie. She really is not a dirty girl. She's just learning.

I grab a seat at a table close enough to see the stage but not close enough to make Pam flee like a bunny. A waitress, "Morgan", approaches, and I accept what I know is an exorbitant cost to order two vodka shots and a bowl of fries. It will be worth it.

Pam sits down, eyes glued to the stage, but she shakes it off and looks at my smirk. "What?"

"Nothing. Is it all you expected?"

"It's... weird."

"Yeah. Yeah, it really kinda is."

"And men pay for this?"

"Some men. And some women, too." I gesture toward a group of mixed gender right up at the stage, where a sleazy-looking redhead is urgently waving a handful of singles in the direction of one of the less sleazy-looking dancers.

"Huh."

I'm silent, letting her soak it all in. The stage show is over momentarily, and Pam looks around at the rest of the place while the DJ drones on about which grade-B porn stars will be here next month, 'so be sure not to miss it!'

"Aside from that," she indicates the stage, "it just looks like a normal bar."

"But without any character or class."

"Without that, yes."

Our drinks arrive. Or hers, anyway. I'm driving. I hand her one of the shots as the music starts up again. Apparently, "Giselle" is on her way out, now.

I will admit Giselle is attractive, and I spare her some of my attention. Brunette, long legs, nice figure which is close enough to nature's statistical reality to possibly be natural, and a pretty face. The Lucite heels are silly, but the fishnets are nice to look at and the bra...

whoops!

Well, never mind the bra, anymore.

Pam notices me noticing and knocks back her shot. "Is that your favorite?"

"Huh?"

"I said, 'Is that your favorite?'" she repeats, her eyes watering from the alcohol.

"What? No. How can I tell my favorite? I've only seen three!"

"You're just staring at that one more than the last two."

"She's a brunette. Brunettes are fucking hot."

"Why thank you."

"Don't mention it. She has nice legs, too."

"Why thank you."

"I didn't say you did."

"You didn't have to."

Damn, but I love a girl with confidence in her appearance. Even if the alcohol is what lets it out. I smile. "I don't know what you mean."

She laughs. "No, of course not. You're lucky I'm not the lawsuit-y kind, with the way you look at me when I wear a skirt."

"Can you prove this in a court of law? Are there photos?"

"Of what, you leering at me when I walk by in a short dress?"

"Yes. I want to see proof. And keep in mind the pictures must include not only me, leering—allegedly—but also your legs in the skirt, so the jury can be certain that's what I'm looking at."

"What will you do with these pictures?"

"Ah, ah! Never you mind! I'll be studying them, that's all you need know. I'll have them back to you in a week or so."

She laughs. "Only a week?"

"I have a photo scanner."

"Ah."

The fries are going unappreciated right now, as I'm much more deeply engaged in predation of the animal sort. Morgan comes by again and I ask for two waters. She nods and probably checks me off her list of people she wants to be nice to this evening. Ah, well.

"Waters?"

"We're not staying

that

long, right? I figure you've seen enough to satisfy your curiosity. We'll finish our drinks, and maybe these greasy-ass fries, and then we'll go home."

"Huh. And you call

me

a prude."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did! You were thinking it."

"Psychic, are you?" I slide the other shot glass in front of her.

Oops. I forgot to drink it.

"Yes!" Giselle's done with her set right now, wearing far less, and the applause and green-tinged likenesses of dead presidents are flying.

"What am I thinking right now?" I ask, staring into her eyes.

"You're thinking, 'Giselle has a nice ass.'"

"Yes," I lie, still gazing straight at Pam, "that's exactly what I'm thinking."

"You're thinking, 'I want a lap dance.'"

"That's amazing. Remind me to never play poker with you. Do you even know what a lap dance

is

?"

"Ha! How naïve do you think I am?" she asks, downing the other shot.

I gulp my water (thank you, Morgan!) and shake my head. "You've got me there." I flag down the waitress and tell her I'd like to get a lap dance from Giselle. I'm informed that she rests ten minutes after her stage gig, and then will be available.

"I want to be first in line, then," I say, handing Morgan a twenty.

"You don't pay me, you pay her."

"I know that."

"Oh... Oh!" She smiles at the unexpected bonus and goes away. Pam is smirking.

"Psychic powers!"

I shrug my shoulders. "Men are so transparent."

"Translucent. I can see through you, but it's all misty and gooey."

"Gooey? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"It's just like, you know... never mind. Fuck you!"

I'm laughing aloud again, and we are silent for a few minutes. Won't be too long, now...

ahhh... yes

.

Giselle has re-emerged from the back room, this time decked out in a parody of a schoolgirl outfit. Tiny plaid skirt, white blouse completely unbuttoned, and horn-rimmed glasses. Though I'm trying hard to imagine a school where fishnets are part of the uniform. Not to mention the lace gloves. Though I love well-dressed ladies, there is a time and place for trashy. I hereby nominate this time and this place.

She has been briefed, apparently, and comes directly to our table. She sits down next to us and crosses her legs. "Hi, honey."

"Evening, Giselle. Excellent dancing."

"Thank you! You guys having a fun time tonight?"

"Are we, Feinstems?"

"Wha—huh?"

"Are we having a good time?"

"Well, yeah, sure. I mean, you are, right? And it's not too bad for me, you know. The drinks!" She holds up the empty shot glasses proudly before realizing how silly she looks. I'm enchanted.

"We're apparently having a good time."

Giselle smiles knowingly at us both. She is well-schooled in her role, and ensures we feel we know her as a person before she brings business to the fore. I am not paying close enough attention to her babbling to know whether she's going for her degree in child development or pediatric physical therapy. It doesn't matter either way; I know it's all a front in an attempt to play to a man's latent desire to be fucking someone he thinks would be able to successfully raise his brood. I'm pretty doubtful such a thing actually works, but judging by the times I've heard dancers refer to their chosen area of study, clearly

they

believe it helps. Regardless, if I thought for one minute all the strippers I'd ever met were

really

working with children, I'd have changed careers decades ago.

I nod and notice that Pam is entirely fooled, starting to ask detailed questions about the curriculum that not-even-really-named-Giselle will be unable to answer, so it's time for the charade to end.

"So... Giselle... How much is it for a table dance?"

She looks at me, relieved the interrogation has been interrupted. "Oh, honey, we can't do table dances here. Stupid laws, y'know!" Before I can frown she continues. "We do couch dances, though!"

"Couch dances?"

"Yeah. You lie on a couch and I join you. I promise you won't be disappointed."

"That sounds intriguing. Okay, then, how much for a 'couch dance'?"

"Twenty five plus whatever else you think is appropriate," she bats her eyelashes.

I laugh. "I see. Sounds good then." I peel two twenties out of my wallet and put them on the table.

She takes them, trying not to appear too grabby, and then reaches for my hand. "Come on, honey." She turns to Pam. "You're welcome to watch, you know!"

"You misunderstand. The couch dance is for her..."

"Huh?!"

"Oh!"

"... but I'm welcome to watch, you know!"

"What? I don't..."

"It's okay, honey. Your first time? It'll be fun. I'll be very nice and I won't bite you hardly at all."

"No, it's not that, I just..."

"Don't worry, Giselle. She's just surprised at my generosity, that's all. I promise you, she's not a prude."

Daggers are shooting from Pam's eyes in my direction, but I'm blinking innocently at her and failing to completely submerse my grin beneath a blank look. I'm biting the insides of my cheeks, though. "I'll get you... and your little dog, too!" is unsaid by her, but it's understood as she defiantly takes Giselle's hand and follows her to the other room.

I sit and finish my water. No point in chasing after them both like a puppy.

A very horny puppy. Whose cock is trying to bust through the fly of my jeans. What the fuck am I waiting for, again?

I throw my final twenty on the table for whatever-her-name-is and jump up, hoping I haven't missed anything.

I enter the confines of the dim private room, and it's a couple seconds before I can find them. There are a half-dozen couches and four are occupied. But I'm only interested in the one.

Pam is sitting on the couch, legs propped up and showing much more thigh than she would intend. Giselle is sitting on her lap, whispering something in her ear. Likely the private dance mantra... "You can't touch me, but I can touch you... blah blah blah..." Pam's eyes are bugging and she would likely be freaking out right now were it not for the buffer of vodka protecting her from this scary world.

Then it begins.

Giselle knows what she's doing. How can she not? She's adept enough to slide her body over the black couch and Pam's blue dress without completely covering them in body makeup. I can respect that kind of professionalism, you know? She takes off Pam's glasses but leaves her own on. The lack of specs make Pam's eyes look unfocused and a little helpless. The half-naked girl astride her adds to the effect in a very pleasant manner. If I were not in public right now, I'd totally be stroking off.

She starts by leaning completely into Pam, breast to breast contact, with her cheek against Pam's. She might be whispering something... Pam's eyes flicker closed momentarily. One of her legs is between Pam's and vice versa. It doesn't look like there's any thigh trib action. At least not yet. One can hope.

Giselle's hair is long and flows down onto Pam's chest as the stripper rubs her cheek on Pam's bosom en route to the lower portion of her body, and her ass is in the air. She drags that hair all the way down to Pam's arched pumps, her hands on Pam's ankles, then slooooowly eases her way back up. Her hands inch up, and her hair brushes the other girl back and forth from one leg to the other. I'd try to catch Pam's eye, but I know she's nearsighted as fuck, so I just watch the show.

Giselle has made her way to Pam's upper thighs, now, which means her hands are halfway up Pam's skirt. I could easily be imagining Pam breathing heavier now, since it is, of course, what I want to believe... but even objectively she seems to shudder here and there. Giselle pries Pam's legs open, exposing her panties to my view, but only for an instant as she blocks that view with her head. I know she's not really fucking Pam with her tongue—strippers aren't stupid, and we could be goddamned cops—but she's sure simulating it well. Her hair is draped on the other girl's thighs in a tousled mass, and she is moving her head in an angling motion as if she's eating her out. She reaches up to place Pam's hands in her hair, and I swear I almost come right there.

Giselle ends her faux-cunnilingus after a few moments, licks Pam's inner thighs (I see actual tongue), and then moves back up, kissing through the clothes. Now, their legs entwined again, there does seem to be tribbing. Both skirts are hiked up and things are pressing against panties. Pam's eyes, already glazed by the booze and the lack of glasses, cross slightly, and she's moving her pelvis in rhythm with Giselle's. Giselle's a tease, of course—that's what she's paid for—and she turns, then, pressing her ass between Pam's legs. She looks across the room at me and smiles like the cat who... ate the pussy?... and grinds back against my guest of honor for a bit.