A Summer In The Flesh Ch 12 13

This is a two-chapter segment of a fifteen-chapter novella. I posted the first 11 chapters individually, but really Chapters 11 through 15 relate to one event and, if possible, they ought to be read in one sitting. In any event, the story is about co-ed housemates and is set in the summer of 1979.

*****

“That was incredible,” I said to Amy as I rolled off of her and got up. “Is that some kind of trick?”

“It’s your G-spot,” Amy said.

I got up and opened the bedroom door a crack and told Charlie to make himself at home for a few minutes.

I pulled on my panties. “Where did you learn about that?”

“From some sex book,” Amy replied

“Whew wee, I should read more. Well, thank you, Amy.”

I looked into her mirror again. “I can’t wait for Charlie to see me,” I said to Amy with girlish enthusiasm. “Can you help me fix my makeup real quick?”

While Amy administered to me I closed my eye. I was so taken by the sensation of that orgasm, a new type of orgasm, that I began to group my orgasmic experiences in my mind. I decided there were four:

1. There was the clitoral orgasm – nice, tender, shivery and then cuddly sweet and warm; I would rank it a 6 on the orgasm meter.

2. Then there was what I will call the anal orgasm, which is really more of an internal sensation, like a radiant swirl of energy and passionate aching inside; I’d give that a 7.

3. And then there was what I had just experienced with Amy, one of the best orgasms I could recall, and what henceforth I would refer to as my G-spot orgasm – breathtaking, with a momentary loss of consciousness; I’d call that an 8.

4. And finally that deep inside, man-on-women, cock ramming against your cervix, serious pounding and friction, whole-body kind of orgasm – the coveted vaginal orgasm; a 9.

So there it was, I thought – Annie’s Four-Dimensional Theory of the Orgasm. But what was a 10, then? Was there a fifth dimension? I suppose I had left some room for the possibility. Actually, I suppose I knew, but wasn’t quite ready to admit it.

Amy dabbed my face and touched up my mascara. I retied my soft-white baby doll and adjusted my lacy hip-hugger panties. I made one last adjustment to my frosted white stockings. I put on my silky pearl-white robe, set the white rose back in my hair, and took one last look in the mirror. I was a sexy vision in white.

“I look like a bride getting ready for bed on my wedding night,” I opined.

“Or maybe a sacrificial virgin,” Amy offered with a chuckle.

Charlie was on the couch when I came out. I faced him and let my robe fall open. I put my hands on my hips. My pussy was still tingling.

“Hey Charlie,” I said as sexily as I could.

“Hey,” he replied as he turned to look at me.

The room was dimly lit, but lit well enough. I counted down from three in my head. Three… two…

“Holy sh… wow, Annie! I mean… wow!”

I made my way to the center of the room. Charlie got up and walked around my like he was inspecting a new sports car.

“You look soooo sexy.”

He stopped in front of me. In my heels, I was eye-to-eye with him. I stepped up to him and put my arms around his neck and I whispered in his ear.

“I am so glad you said you wouldn’t go if I didn’t,” I said, “because I wouldn’t go unless you were coming, too.”

We kissed, and I hoped he didn’t taste Amy. He slipped his hands under my robe and pulled me firmly against him. We kissed covetously.

I heard Amy clear her throat. We both looked her way. She was standing seductively in the bedroom doorway in her fishnet body stocking, gloves and jewelry. She had one hip thrown out, her arms above her head, hands resting up on the top of the doorframe, stretching like the seductive feline she was. She was shockingly licentious. She was turning ME on (again). I could only imagine her effect on Charlie. The bitch!

“Man oh man. You look…” Charlie again couldn’t think of what to say, “…hot. ” There was an awkward pause.

“Out with the both of you,” Amy said. “ I’ve got to redo my face.” Amy gave me a sly look. “I’ll be ready to get the boys dressed in a minute.”

I laughed. Charlie looked at me balefully.

“You’ll see,” I said, “and there’ll be no arguments.”

I sipped a glass of wine in the living room while the boys sat gaping at me. I was standing demurely by the window, trying not to look like I was posing. Finally I gave up. This was too much fun.

“Do you guys want to see it without the robe,” I asked with as much coy innocence as I could effect. They responded eagerly in unison. I set my beer on the window seat and untied the robe and let it slip off my shoulders.

“Good Lord, Annie, that’s indecent!” Tom blurted out, and we all laughed.

“Can we see it from behind?” Mike asked meekly.

I turned around slowly. I stuck one hip out, and then I gave a little tug on the chiffon, pulling it up just enough to expose my panties, overflowing as they were with my bum cheeks.

“Fuck the Troubadour!” It was Tom again, and I worried he was coming for me.

“Ah ah ah,” I scolded, picking up my robe. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Amy came in to the room. She had put on the leather shorts and boots. Her hair bobbed and swung as she came to a stop in the middle of the room. She shot her arms above her head, stuck out a hip, lifted a knee, and said, “Well, what do you think?”

“I’m in pain. I can’t breathe,” Tom said with true exasperation.

“Told you,” I winked at Amy.

“Watch,” said Amy. She twirled around once, planted herself, and then she grabbed the snap button sides of her shorts and ripped them off like it was a magic trick.

“Ta da,” said Amy gleefully.

She spread out her legs so that the beginning of the crotch opening was visible. The men applauded politely, and I joined them. So she was so professional, I thought.

“Amazing, simply amazing.”

“You’re a knock out.”

“Ouch,” Tom finally offered.

I was jealous.

We finished our beers, and then Amy and I took the guys one by one to their rooms and instructed them to dress. Mike and Tom offered no objections, but then they had pretty conservative outfits. Charlie was another story.

“No way,” he said, picking the decadent drawstring pants off his bed. “This is too much.”

“It’s not that radical,” Amy offered. “Trust me. You could wear those down to the club right now and no one would bat an eye. It’s mild by Troubadour standards.”

“Wear it,” I scolded, “or I’m not going.”

“Come on, you can’t be serious.”

“Just try them on, for me, please,” I pouted playfully.

He looked resigned to the task, so we left his room. I sneaked back a minute later. He had the pants on.

“Let’s see.” I came up behind him. He turned around. “They look great, Charlie.” They really did. “There look, I don’t know, kind of Medieval. Very sexy.”

“Bull.”

“I’m serious. Here…” and I took the liberty of undoing the drawstring fly, “let’s see how it works.”

I was face to face with him, and I stared into his eyes. I loosened the drawstring and got my hand inside his pants. I took hold of his hefty manhood. It was swelling. I pulled it out carefully. I looked down and redid the string gently. Then I took hold of his cock, swinging free like it was, and looked back into his eyes.

“That’s not so bad, is it?”

“It’s ridiculous.”

I clenched his thickening shaft and gave it a tug. “I like it.”

“Yow. Okay, maybe it’s not so bad.”

I took a few steps back and inspected him. I had to nod my head in approval. His cock was even more impressive as a stand-alone unit. Against the black fabric it seemed to float in the air in front of him like it was disembodied: nothing but cock – the perfect cock, MY perfect cock – I thought. I loved the thought and the visual impression.

I moved up to him and pressed my body against his, and I went up and down on my toes as much as I could in my heels, so that his dick rubbed against the chiffon. I took his hands and put them on my bum. I put my arms on his shoulders and kissed him.

“Wear them for me?”

“Okay. For you.”

We were on our way to Canada and the Troubadour Lounge by nine o’clock that night. Charlie drove Amy’s big Ford LTD again, and I sat up front with him because it seemed like the natural order of things.

The windows were down, the air was warm, the beers were cold, and the tunes were cranked. Amy and I had tried to argue for having the windows up, to save our hair, but our pleas fell on deaf ears. I was glad, actually, because the night air felt good. Our hair would survive.

Amy described the Troubadour as a giant party room with smaller areas and “special” rooms off to the side. The main room resembled a big strip club. I announced that I had never been to a strip club, and everyone laughed. I told them to go fuck themselves. Amy continued.

There were numerous circular, bench-style seating areas and plenty of typical bar tables and chairs, lots of mirrors and disco-style lights, and a huge bar. The room’s main features were two large “exhibition” platforms. The platforms were circular stages with seating all around except for where the steps were.

“You never know what might go on up there,” Amy said presciently.

The adjoining areas had similar seating arrangements, and in one there was yet a third platform. On Friday nights it was a separate ladies’ club with male strippers.

There was also a ladies’ lounge that Amy said was a very nice place for the girls to get away from it all and relax and freshening up. There were couches and makeup tables and lockers, and in the bathroom area there were a few showers stalls and always a fresh stock of towels.

Amy then explained how the Troubadour operated. She told us there were basically two types of customers, tourists and professionals.

Professionals came there to make money. The vast majority of the professionals were women, as that’s where the most of the money was. There were a few heterosexual male professionals, and a few homosexual and “other” male professionals who frequented the club (no, I didn’t ask what “other” meant). While male homosexual activity was basically prohibited (“It makes some guys squeamish,” Amy explained), what people did behind closed doors or outside the club was their own business.

Tourists came to the club to spend money and be entertained. While tourists were mostly male, on Friday nights there was a male professional revue and anywhere from ten to thirty percent of the tourist crowd might be women, usually in groups. That was one of the reasons Amy wanted us to come with her on a Friday night; the more women tourists that were there, the more the scene resembled a wild party and not a typical, strip club.

Amy pointed out that it was always the women tourists that caused the bouncers the most trouble. She theorized that men had some kind of genetic instinct for the rules of such a place.

The bouncers oversaw everything, and could be rough on someone who was breaking the rules. Most of the time they were very mellow, however, just trying to politely make sure everyone had consensual fun – and paid their bills, of course.

The bouncers also worked “the line” where tourists waited to get in. It was very much like Studio 54, Amy said, in that the bouncers picked younger, attractive and more interesting people out of the line. Professionals, women, and guys with women almost never had to wait. Nerds, losers, and middle-aged geezers who didn’t look like they had any money waited a long time, often all night. Nerds, losers, and middle-aged geezers who looked like they had cash didn’t have to wait as long. Creeps were told to go home. Women and pros got in free. Male tourists had to pay a ten-dollar cover.

The club skirted legal issues by declaring itself a club. All first-timers had to sign in and become “members,” but no one every checked for I.D. against the registration. The club then gave you a card to use on future visits. Many of the pros used stage names, she said, and she kidded us to come up with our own. Amy’s registered name was Angelina, but she stopped using it after awhile because she decided it was silly.

As to how money changed hands inside the club, Amy said it was easiest to think of it as give and take. The “givers” perform for the “takers,” and takers tip the givers. If you are just doing something together for fun, well hell, Amy said, that’s free!

The professionals, and the amateurs that “gave” a lot, had to ante up 20% of the night’s profit to the house before leaving. The bouncers kept track of approximately how much money people were making, and if they tried to skip out or short the house, they would be barred from the club.

In general, the going fee was ten dollars per song (that’s 1979 dollars – I wouldn’t know what the going rate is for that kind of thing today, of course). Everything was keyed off the music. Amy said the givers always set the rules, and she gave examples, using me as her model (like any of this was actually going to happen, I thought).

If someone asked me to dance, and I agreed, then he should give me ten bucks at the end of the song. If I let him “cop a feel,” he ought to tip me more, or he might ask for another song. If I didn’t want him to cop a feel, all I had to say was “no touching,” or if it was a slow song, “no grouping,” which meant no ass grabbing or tit fondling or other overtly sexy stuff.

She went on with a whole bunch of rules for “table dances” and “lap dances,” but I stopped paying attention. I really didn’t think I needed to know about any of that. I decided I was just going to survey the scene and dance with Charlie a few times.

I was intrigued by the platforms (I was there to watch). Amy said they were for drumming up business or for girls who just wanted to dance instead of the one-on-one stuff. The customers seated at the platform were expected to toss a buck per song up on the platform. Wilder and wilder stuff was the norm as the night progressed.

“This place isn’t for the faint of heart, guys. After midnight, anything goes. Girls will be walking around buck-naked, or in some outrageous costume. Almost every weekend night, at least one couple or group will get up on a platform and perform for everyone. So be prepared. The bottom line is to have fun, do only what you want to do, and respect everyone. And if anyone wants to leave,” (ah hem, that would be me, I thought) “we all agreed we would leave together. No big deal.”

“Leave? I might just move in,” Tom said.

It sounded very complicate to me. The guys asked a lot of questions. Tom seemed excited. Charlie seemed strangely indifferent. Mike was anxious. I was nervous, but curious.

Then Amy told us about the “special” rooms. I don’t know why I listened. Maybe I had some anthropological interest in the practice. Amy explained that if a couple or a group wanted some privacy, there were rooms available. The rooms were different: one had a suspended stirrup seat for pussy play (I had to ask about the stirrup seat – it sounded both ridiculous and interesting); others had couches and mirrors and a few had a queen-sized bed; a few small rooms, “Jack Boxes” she called them, were basically designed for two people with a quick jerk-off/hand-job/blowjob session in mind. “Lots of Kleenex gets used in there,” Amy noted.

“Gross,” I responded. Amy laughed at me.

The rooms rented in twenty or fifty-minute increments, and Amy promised us they were meticulously cleaned by a professional, on-site maid service after every session. In rooms with beds, for example, the sheets and pads were changed after every session, and they had additional, freshly laundered pads and sheets stacked in storage cabinets, just in case you wanted to be absolutely sure or you needed a change in mid-session. The rooms ran from $10 for a quickie in a “Jack Box” to $50 for fifty minutes or $30 for twenty minutes in the bigger rooms.

In addition to sounding complicated, it sounded seamy, and I told Amy this. She swore I wouldn’t think so once I was there. Sex can be such a sticky mess, I thought. I wasn’t sure I wanted any part of this.

“Amy,” I said, “it sounds like a glorified whorehouse.”

“It is, I guess, but what’s wrong with that? Have you ever been in a whorehouse?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, than, how do you know it’s not a blast?”

“I don’t, but...”

“It’s just a party, Annie. The music is great. You’re in good company. For crying out loud, relax.”

“Sure.” Easy for you to say, I thought.

Tom had brought a small cooler of beer, and we shared a few more. We smoked a joint and joked with each other about stage names and, somehow, the names men give to their penises. We started to list what we thought were the worst and best names for either purpose.

On the worst list, we came up with Wimpy, Lumpy, Droopy, Stubby, Slack, Meat, Fester, Itchy, Putz, Pinky, Slim, Chick, Goober, Rufus, Potsy, Dudley, Hermy, and Stinky.

We were divided by gender on whether Hog was a good or bad name.

On the best list, we liked Brutus, Anaconda, Big Daddy, Goliath, Pokey, Hambone, T-Bone, T-Rex, Rocket, Zeus, Thor, Thunder, Stallion, and my favorite, Moby.

When we got to the Canadian border, I tried as hard as I could to wrap my robe around me and make it look like a dress. Amy had put on a blue jeans jacket. They waived us through without a hitch.

It was another forty minutes to the Troubadour. It was off a two-lane highway headed for what appeared to be nowhere. There was only a small neon sign on the roadway depicting a strolling minstrel. One hundred-foot pine trees surrounded the parking lot and the building, which looked like a warehouse, was painted pitch black.

The gravel parking lot covered at least two acres and was fairly full. The sweet, cotton-candy-like pine scent in the air was intoxicating. The gravel crunched under our tires.

The entry to the club was a gable-roofed addition to the building with a larger neon sign that said “The Troubadour Lounge Club” in brilliant pinks and blues. There was a line of about thirty men waiting to get in.

I feigned modesty when it was time to get out of the car, but I could see a few other women walking into the place, and I was definitely not underdressed. It reminded me of sexy pajama party I attended back when I lived in a co-ed dormitory.

We followed Amy up to the two bouncers at the entryway. They both had on black T-shirts and black jeans with studded black leather belts. They were huge.

“Amy’s here! All right, let the party begin,” the largest bouncer said.

“Shut up, Mack.” Amy smiled back at us as she said this.

The bouncers were looking at me like I was mouthwatering piece of meat. Hoots and whistles came up from the line for Amy and me.

Amy sashayed past the bouncers, and Mack opened the door for us.

“Your boys will have to pay,” he said to Amy as she walked by.

“I know, Mack.”

There was a window like a theater ticket booth in the room past the door. Another large double door led into the club. We took care of the paperwork.

A new song started just as we got to the big doors – Madness’ “One Step Beyond….” The deep bass and curt saxophone riff and beckoned us in. Charlie and I looked at each other. Cool, we said with our eyes. We pushed through the doors as if on cue.

Light and sound hit us in waves. Lit disco balls swirled in the air. The music was loud, but not deafening. Colored lights flashed on the floor. There was a lot of candy for the eye. The place was bigger and cleaner and newer then I had imagined.

But the most startling features of the place, with out a doubt, were the customers.

I was shocked to see that there were almost more women than men. Scantily clad women in lingerie and leather were everywhere. Naked women were dancing and displaying themselves on the platforms. Naked or near-naked women were sitting on men’s laps or doing private dances for them in every corner of the room.