If my wife hadn't taken that nighttime cold medicine and fallen asleep early, I never would have hooked up with Joanne. I wasn't ready to go to bed, there was nothing good on television, and it was obvious that sex with my wife was not an option, so I went on the computer and logged onto one of the social networking sites. What impulse was it that made me type in the name "Joanne Tate," a former girlfriend I hadn't seen in—could it actually have been thirty years? There turned out to be a huge number of women with that name. I stopped counting at around fifty and concentrated on the profile pics. And with a few clicks, there she was: Joanne Tate, her hair now blonde, face quite a bit fuller and more mature but still beautiful, a few laugh lines around her mouth but no other wrinkles to speak of.
It was her eyes in that photo that wiped away three decades and drew me in. I had gazed into those same deep brown eyes at the Sugar Shack Lounge, that smoky, crowded boîte de nuit in Carbondale. Yes, it had been an out-of-the-way strip club where I had first met Joanne.
Newly divorced at twenty-nine, and with jobs hard to find, Joanne had resorted to stripping in order to cover her college tuition and make the payments on her Chevy Monza. She was a lovely, lithe brunette. I had seen her completely nude many times before either of us said a word to one another. She liked dancing to funky, unusual music off the jukebox. Dr. Hook's You Make My Pants Wanna Get up and Dance was her opening number of her first set. There was a double beat in the bass line before the refrain. Joanne always exposed her breasts one at a time to that one, two beat before she tossed away her top for the rest of the evening.
Night after night I made sure to arrive before seven PM when the dancers took to the stage, and grabbed the table front row center every time so I could be close to the action. The local ordinance permitted topless dancing but no nude dancing. Joanne didn't care. After midnight her bottoms came off, too, favoring all the men in the club with a full view of her dark hairy bush. For the next two hours she strutted around as though clothes had never been invented, proud of her body. And there was a special trick Joanne could do if the tips were flowing and the crowd was begging for it: she could squat and pick up a longneck beer bottle no-hands. And that's with the bottle full and the cap still on. She could accommodate a forty-ounce tallboy the same way if the money was flying and the crowd cheering.
Other customers would tip Joanne, buy her a drink and ask her to sit at their tables with her top off. Joanne had no problem managing easy conversation while the men stared openmouthed at her bare breasts. As for me, I never had the nerve. Until early one evening at a local supermarket I spotted Joanne standing at a magazine rack. Her back was to me and she was wearing a sequined little black number that showed off her thighs and made men want more.
"We'll have to stop meeting like this," I said nervously, sidling up next to her and looking over her shoulder. She was glancing at a Cosmo article, something about thirteen new ways to bring your man to exploding climax.
"Oh, hi. It's you," she said, seeming a bit flustered herself, slamming the magazine shut.
"You look fantastic this evening, Joanne," I said, adding, "If that's really your name."
She looked at me as though insulted that I would suspect her of using a stage name. But then she smiled, confidently extended her hand and introduced herself as, "Joanne Tate from Vandalia, Illinois. Former Vandalette, current dancing girl and occasional nude model for the art department. Delighted to meet you."
"I'm Jeremy. Jeremy Wilcoxen," I said. "Pleasure to meet you at last, Joanne. Other than when you're working, I mean."
She said, "Actually I have to be at work in an hour. See you there?"
"Count on it."
She replaced the magazine in the rack and said, "This time, don't be a stranger, okay, Jeremy? We'll have time to talk between sets. I'd love to know more about you."
I was at my customary table by six-thirty PM. Joanne and I talked and talked between her sets. While we talked, I gazed into those eyes of hers and dreamed of kissing her. Every hour or so it was time for Joanne to get up onstage and perform. We never broke eye contact then either, not even when she was penetrating her prehensile vagina with a twelve-once beer bottle, then standing, hands on hips, with it still protruding from her pussy to the raucous shouts and applause of all the men in the room.
I had hoped for a goodnight kiss; I received much, much more. Joanne told me late in the evening that the water pump in her Monza had gone out and although a girlfriend had given her a ride to the club, two AM was too late to call for a ride. She asked me if I would mind chauffeuring her home because taxis were hard to find at this hour. I readily agreed.
It was a thrill just having Joanne riding shotgun in my Trans Am. It turned out that she lived in a modest efficiency apartment building mainly for students. When she asked me in for a nightcap, how could I say no?
She brought two crème de cacaos, then asked, "Mind if I slip into something more comfortable?"
"Please do."
Joanne popped into the bathroom and emerged wearing a filmy lavender peignoir that left nothing to the imagination. All I could gasp was, "Beautiful!"
"Nothing you haven't seen before, many times. Monday through Friday, week after week. I don't know whether to be flattered or scared of you."
"Then feel flattered. I'm nobody to be scared of, unless you're afraid to be kissed."
Joanne sat on the loveseat next to me, moved close enough so that her hair brushed up against my cheek, and said, "I'd rather be made love to. If you're in the mood, that is."
Her unmade bed was close by. I swooped her up and carried her there. She seemed lighter than air. I lay her down on the bed, stroked her thighs, drew her legs apart and crawled between them, eagerly approaching her pussy and anxious to bestow oral sex on a woman, my first time. Giggling with excitement she said, "Maybe I'd better freshen up first. After all, I've been dancing all night."
"Don't bother," I said hoarsely.
"You sure, Jeremy? Just a once-over with a wet washcloth? Won't take a sec."
Instead of answering I slipped off her panties and buried my tongue between her generous pussy lips. She shuddered and squealed, I hoped with pleasure. I was barely twenty-one and had never eaten a woman's pussy before. Although I'd seen it done plenty of times in porn movies, the real thing was even better. I loved the sea taste of her, the low-down scent that was undeniably woman in all her sexual glory. I loved knowing that she knew I was delighting in the honest funk of her as I licked and licked, savoring her intensifying response. She near-climaxed with a scream when I found her slickened clit and focused my tongue-pressure on it for many minutes. I reached upward and played with her nipples, those twin glories I had stared at for months, now at the mercy of my tweaking fingertips. They were already erect but grew even harder with my steady attentions.
Joanne began to groan, rhythmically louder and louder as I lapped away at her. All at once she uttered a high-pitched sustained sound that was almost a whistle. Her legs clamped around my neck, heels kicked against my lower back as she arched hers. Finally she went limp, panting and laughing.
"Ooh, you're good, Jeremy! You're so good! Omigod, you made me cum like a bitch in heat! That's the first time anybody's gotten me off in months, I swear!"
I stood up on my knees in bed and said, "Glad you enjoyed it."
"I'm going to chain you up and make you do this every night, Jeremy," she said.
"No chain necessary." For the next semester until I left school it became a regular thing between us. As soon as she was through at the club I would drive her to her place, she would undress and I would eat her pussy until she came, sometimes multiple times, seven being our record. You're probably wondering why she never reciprocated or why we never shared intercourse. It was because of something Joanne had shared with me later that first night. Lustful as a puppy, I had begged her to fellate me or for us to have straight missionary sex. She declined, saying, "I'm a Catholic, Jeremy."
"So?"
"That means in the eyes of the Church I'm actually still married to Phil, even though our divorce is legal and final. That means it'd be a sin for us to fuck or for me to suck your dick, any of that."
"What about what we did tonight?"
She sighed and said, "I guess I have to believe that God forgives me for any pleasure I can't resist. I tell myself that cunnilingus isn't really sex because there's no real penetration."
