Entertaining At Large Ch 01

This story follows on from my debut Entertaining at Home. I've divided it in two mainly because when I started it I was determined to make this one shorter and more snappy than its predecessor. I failed – maybe next time. Comments welcomed again. Hope you enjoy it.

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My debut as a stripper on a public stage was, looking back, the result of a series of happy accidents. Not that I was thinking that as I looked out from the small platform stage in one of the seedier pubs in town at the expectant, leering faces of over a hundred tipsy men challenging me to brighten up their Friday night. I can only recall thinking "oh, shit", but, hey, I told myself, you make your bed.

A year ago, if you had told me I was an exhibitionist I would have laughed in your face. Maybe even slapped you. That was before I finally kicked out my ex-husband and had my first evening of freedom interrupted by four of his mates [see- Entertaining at Home]. The resultant disrobing, and more, I could put down to the amount of alcohol we had consumed, my vulnerable emotional state and the enthusiastic, if self-interest, encouragement of my audience.

I did, in fact, do just that. Building a new life after ten years of marriage fills up your time pretty fast at first. Making new friends – I took up cycling and football; putting new energy into work; catching up with old friends and even a little tentative dating. Life filled up with stuff and when I thought back to that evening at all, I could tell myself it was just an indiscretion, a one-off, something not to tell my grandchildren about. But.

There's always a "but".

In my case, I couldn't get the sense of excitement I'd experienced out of my head. The boys had started off with looks of achievement and anticipation when I had agreed: a sort of visual equivalent of the high-five. That had given me a brief quiver of satisfaction. As they had grown more aroused, I found my own body responding. Their almost glazed, self-absorbed stares as I dropped my dress might have made me think they were not interested were it not for the four clearly-visible erections. The thrill of the sight of those members and the way I was able to command a response by a gesture or a question was almost too much for me. By the time I had lost my bra and was easing down my panties I was wet. The rest, as they say, is history.

The memory kept coming back to me at the most unexpected times and eventually I had to admit to myself that I was turned on by the act; the booze and the rest had just helped. And with that recognition came the questions. Would I, could I, do it again? Where?, How? Who for? I would catch myself looking round the room at work meetings trying to guess what my colleagues' reactions would be if I suddenly climbed up on the table; or teasing strangers with a glimpse of stocking top when I bent to select something from the lowest supermarket shelves. Once I discovered that particular tactic the opportunities became endless. I'm sure all the bending and stretching I was doing was helping keep me fit.

My obvious route to stripper queen – a rematch with my original audience – was closed to me. We had become mates and I did not want to mess that up. I was keeper in their five-a-side team. Unusual? Yes. It had started with a text from Steve. He had been Dave, my ex's, best friend. I liked him and we had always got on.

'The lads and I wanted to invite you out for a pint. Interested? Xxx'

'The lads' were a couple of Poles and a Yorkshire exile. I had met them when they had turned up to watch football at my ex's invitation. It was on the day I finally kicked him out. I had let them in, against my better wishes, out of a torrential rainstorm. After a substantial amount of vodka and whisky they had, not to put too fine a point on it, fucked, buggered and skulled me to the point I had almost passed out.

'No thanks. My bum's still sore from the last time I had drinks with you lot :).'

If I was going to be a cum-slut again, it would be on my own terms. Not at the behest of a group of men at a loose end who obviously thought that with the application of enough alcohol I would be easy.

My phone rang seconds after I sent the text.

'Steve?'

'Hi. Listen I don't know whether to be insulted, or to apologise.'

'Apology gets my vote, but feel free to explain your dilemma.'

'Look, we didn't want to go for a drink with you for, well, the reasons you obviously thought we did...'

'So you could get me pissed and them stick your willies in my pussy, mouth and bottom?'

I was enjoying his discomfort.

'No.'

'Go on then.'

I waited, picturing the struggle on his face as he tried to get clear in his head what he wanted to say.

'It's just that, we talk about you a lot. Dave's still being a complete prick. He's been giving us the cold shoulder ever since he found out we... Well ever since the football match.'

'When you all stuck your...'

'Yeah, yeah. Well we were talking and sort of agreed that we probably liked you more than him anyway.'

'Given that he hasn't got a...'

'Will you shut up about sex?'

There was an irritation in his voice I had never heard before. So I did as he asked.

'Thank you. You don't realise how difficult this is for me. So we were talking and, anyway, we thought we'd ask you out for a pint, you know, as a mate.'

He exhaled loudly at the other end of the phone. He had clearly said everything he could think of. I gave him a few moments just in case there was more. And to give myself time to compose a reply. I have never really had men as 'mates'. For me they had been either partners, work colleagues or acquaintances. I have had girlfriends who claimed close male friendships, but most of them had been with gay men. And this lot were anything but that.

'Well that's different. I suppose.'

'Thank you.'

I decided in the spirit of newly-solicited amity to ignore the tone of injured pride.

'When did you have in mind?'

'Well we usually go out after football on Wednesdays, but...'

'Wednesday will be fine. I'll meet you at the match. Where do you play? I could do with a laugh.'

'Ha, ha.'

His response was anything but amused, but he gave me the address of the all-weather pitch they played on. It was on the other side of town, but it would fit in nicely with my evening cycle ride.

'OK.'

'What?'

'I said 'ok'. What time's kick off?'

'OK? Brilliant. About seven. See you there.'

'Right. And Steve?'

'Yeah?'

'Sorry about the confusion earlier.'

I was as surprised as he was about my apology and we both hung up.

I spent a lot of time running over the conversation in my mind. A great thing about cycling is that once you're in a groove your mind wanders. I had straightened out what I thought of my marriage over a few hundred aggregate miles and, I had to admit, had been giving a lot of head space to trying to work out what sort of relationships I wanted in the future. Without reaching any real conclusions. Maybe my new mates would give me some ideas of ways forward.

Wednesday came and I skirted round the floodlit pitch where two groups of rather overweight blokes were kicking lumps out of each other in the name of sport. I could see Steve and the two Poles sitting on a bench on the far side. Luke, the Yorkshireman, was nowhere to be seen. The other three rose as I approached. We grinned and nodded at each other.

'Susan. Thank you for coming. You are like a ray of sunshine on this very dull day.'

'Piotr. Good to see you again too.'

Piotr, or Pete, speaks better-than-perfect English. There is something about the studied politeness in everything he says which makes him charming to a degree most Englishmen can only dream of. I shook his proffered hand and pecked him on the cheek. I had no idea how mates greeted each other.

'Good to see you again Susan.'

'You too, Wot. Have you been studying English?'

Wot, the other Pole, was less articulate than Pete, but seemed to be much more confident in his language than at our previous encounter. Then, Pete, had had to translate most of the proceedings to him. We too shook hands and I kissed his cheek too. I looked at Steve. He looked at me. Simultaneously we both nodded noncommittally, an altogether more English way to greet someone. I looked around.

'Where's Luke?'

'Oh, we're a man short. He's gone to see if the opposition have any spare players we can borrow.'

'Is that allowed?'

'Not really, but it's not the World Cup.'

I looked at the bleak surroundings of the municipal sports centre and the surrounding industrial buildings and had to agree. Luke was jogging back from the building where, I guessed, their opponents were getting changed.

'No go. We're going to have to forfeit. Bloody Andrew. Oh, hi Susan. Didn't see you there.'

'Hand job.'

They all started laughing at Wot's interjection.

'He's adopted it as his insult of choice ever since...'

He stuttered to a halt. I waved a limp hand to dismiss his embarrassment. I wasn't going to spend the whole evening with them treading on eggshells every time a reference to the gang bang came up.

'And Andrew is?'

'He's the guy who was due to play in goal. Dave used to play, but he's fucked off, pardon my French, after we spent the evening at yours. Jason grassed us up. He doesn't know about the sex, but just us being there was enough. Wanker.'

Luke was clearly not inhibited in referring to our romps. That was a relief, it seemed to lighten the tension the others had been feeling. It did not surprise me. He had topped off the evening by insisting on watching me pee and then drinking some of it from his hand. Jason was another friend of Dave's, perhaps now his only one. He had one level of behaviour: obnoxious. The others had chucked him out on the night in question before the games began, as it were. I was still none the wiser about the other guy.

'Andrew?'

'Cancelled on us. Second time in three weeks. Bit of a tosser anyway, truth be told. It's a drag. We really like the kick-abouts. You're looking fit.'

I was wearing a sweat shirt and jogging bottoms for warmth over my cycling gear. They were made for wicking sweat and body heat away from your core as you rode; not for standing around in the chill of the evening. I took his reference to my fitness to refer to the clothes rather than my stunning good looks. I laughed to reinforce the point.

'Taken up cycling. The lycra's underneath.'

'You are looking good. Would you consider...'

'I told you, Steve. No way.'

My interjection was snappish. The four of them were obviously taken aback, and looked at Steve for an explanation of my sudden change of mood. He spoke in the slow, deliberate way of someone who had right on his side. Rather like a disapproving teacher with an unruly child.

'I was going to say "would you consider playing in goal" that's all.'

My turn to be wrong-footed. Again.

'I couldn't. I've never played. I mean, I wouldn't want to let you down. Well I suppose...'

'Great. That's decided. I'll let the others know. They'll piss themselves when they hear we're playing a woman..'

Luke sprinted off towards the changing rooms before I had a chance to back out. But, I mean, how hard could it be?

The answer to that question turned out to be "very hard indeed". At first, the other team didn't even want to let me on the pitch. There were a lot of raised voices and gesticulating as my team argued the toss; the sort of histrionics you'll be familiar with if you've ever seen a televised game. The referee, who turned out to be mates with the other side and had even turned up in their minibus, eventually produced a rule book, but failed to find any reference to gender In it. My suggestion they play four-against-four was just ignored.

Things got more heated when the ref decided to phone some sort of official. Luke and he spent five minutes shouting at each other and at the phone. I thought they might come to blows. It was only when it became clear that I had never played before and the others were, therefore, almost guaranteed a victory, that they conceded the point. I didn't know whether to be relieved, elated or scared.

I was on the pitch standing between the posts of what seemed to me to be an oversized goal a few minutes later.

'Just try to keep the ball out and, when you kick it, try to make sure it goes to someone on our team.'

Was all the coaching I got from Luke as we had straggled onto the pitch. I was just as mystified as to the keeper's role when we trudged off about an hour later. We lost about 7-1, I lost count, and I had hardly touched the ball. My feet hurt like hell. Cycling shoes have stiff soles, the stiffer the better for transferring maximum energy to the pedals. They are not made for walking, running or kicking a ball. I was surprisingly dejected. I felt I had let the lads down.

They on the other hand were positively upbeat. We strolled together towards the changing rooms. I apologised for my performance and was immediately clapped on the shoulder by Pete.

'You were very good, considering it was your first game. Last week we lost thirteen-nil.'

I felt a little better. The other three patted me on the back and made consoling comments.

'Frankly, we're rubbish. We only play for the run out and the beer afterwards. And, hey, that lot are not going to be bragging about putting seven past a woman.'

There was general agreement except from me with my nascent feminism and I wasn't saying anything. We had reached the changing rooms. Steve pushed the door half-open before turning.

'You want a shower?'

'Too right. Where are the women's rooms?'

'Just down there I think. But they might be closed.'

Luke scurried off to check and came back shaking his head. We all looked at each other.

'I'm not stripping off in front of you lot.'

I thought I had better make the ground rules clear. Peter and Wot looked shocked at the very suggestion; Steve blushed; Luke barely hid his obvious disappointment.

'This is what we'll do. You go in and have a shower. We'll stay by the door to make sure no one tries to get in. Then you can wait for us afterwards. How's that?'

'Thanks Steve, but I'll be OK.'

'Forget it. Think we're sitting in a pub with you stinking the place out? You're showering, like it or not.'

'If you wish you may use my towel and toiletries. I could not help but notice that you have none with you.'

Piotr's gentlemanliness won me over. It would be churlish to refuse and I found myself alone in the vast room a few minutes later clutching a starched white towel and a bottle of man's body gel. My first impression was the smell: a mixture of liniment, aftershave, sweat and possibly urine. It was disgusting. My second was the temperature; it was freezing. I locked the door from the inside and stripped as quickly as I could before hopping across the icy floor to the stalls. I was out five minutes later. The water was lukewarm and came out in two thick streams. I had serious thoughts about hypothermia as I smeared myself in Piotr's gel, and then tried to get it off again as quickly as possible as the smell hit me.

The towel abraded my skin rather than dried it and I was dressed and unlocking the door for the rest of them as quickly as I could.

'That was fast. You'll have to talk to my girlfriend.'

Luke's was the only comment as they filed past me pulling off tops. I was alone with my dripping hair in seconds. I listened for a moment to the muffled banter from inside then went to get my bike. The boys were coming out by the time I got back.

'So which pub are we going to?'

'I thought you came here every week. Why don't we go to your usual?'

'Well, if you're sure. It's a bit, you know, basic.'

'As long as there's somewhere I can put my bike safe. I'm not exactly dressed for going out.'

Steve looked at the others who shrugged and turned to set off. Wot walked with me as I rolled my bike.

'Nice to see you again.'

'And you, Wot. Have you been having English lessons? You seem a lot more confident.'

'Thank you. I have a Scottish girlfriend, well she say "sort-of" girlfriend. I must speak English more and I think it get better. Piotr he help me.'

The pub was on the edge of the industrial estate. You could tell it was open because a murky light streaked from between half-closed curtains and there was the dull thud of a juke box bass more perceptible as a vibration than a sound as we stood by the door. The sign swaying in the wind read "Crown and Anchor"; the missing letters over the big window made it look like an anagram. It was with trepidation that I followed them through a side gate marked 'beer garden' into a gloomy paved quadrangle which held a broken picnic bench and was strewn with dog ends. I locked my bike to a drainpipe and followed them through into the pub.

Tonight was obviously a night for smells. I was relatively assured that the aroma emanating from the toilets we passed on the way through to the bar was industrial disinfectant. The body of the pub smelled of spilled beer, the bleach which was obviously used to clean the linoleum floor and a faint memory of nicotine. It had clearly not been decorated since before the smoking ban. The threadbare furniture and flock wallpaper was decades old. A blackboard by the bar announced 'Striper's Every Friday'.

There were a group of fiftyish men, all in matching overalls, playing darts in a corner, a couple of similarly aged women also in work clothes sat at a table in the centre of the large room. A younger group, mostly male but with one or two girls on the periphery, congregated around a pool table. A juke box playing seventies pop flashed its lights opposite the bar. The barman, a portly, red-faced man of indeterminate age, pushed himself up from a slouch and started energetically rubbing the bar with a dirty towel.

'Too late for redecorating, George, we've been in here before.'

'Oh, it's you lot. I wouldn't have bothered if I'd looked. Bird threw me off.'

He threw down the towel to emphasise the point. I tried to remember how long it was since I, or anyone for that matter, had been described as a 'bird'. The others just laughed.

'Four pints of your finest lager, George. What'll you have Susan?'

'Maybe a white wine?'

They all started laughing again. Steve stopped first and gave me a stern look.

'Two things. First we invited you out for a pint – that's beer or lager in boys' talk; second, George's wine is known to bring on immediate nausea and vomiting and, in extreme cases, death. Don't touch it.'

George invited Steve to "piss off". I ordered a pint of bitter from a local brewery which, frankly, I was surprised to see stocked in such a down-at-heel joint.

'Ah, at last, a woman with taste. If you were a dancer I would ask you out.'

I gave George a grateful grin – at last I had got something right – but needed to give Wot a silencing frown when he chipped in.

'But she do dance. She is best...'

Piotr hurried him away giving him a ticking off in Polish leaving George looking bemused. We took our drinks to a quiet corner and, I must admit, that overall I had a good time. The match was dissected. That gave me a chance to get a better idea of some of the rules and more clearly understand just how badly I had screwed up. The banter between the boys was on the whole good-natured and half-way through my second pint, their third, I joined in. I stopped at two as I was after all cycling home. All in all it was a good night and somewhere in the middle of it I had agreed to play again the next week. Wot and Piotr were coming round to mine the next night so I could practise my keeping.

That Autumn sport began to dominate my life. I was cycling everywhere except to the supermarket for a weekly shop. Long Sunday rides with a group of women I had run into on the road and who had sort-of adopted me were another highlight. I was having shooting practice most Thursdays and mid-week football was always followed by a session in the pub. George started pulling my pint as soon as I entered, for the first time in my life I was a bona fide 'regular' at a proper boozer. The boys even arranged for the sports centre caretaker to open the women's changing rooms so I could finish the evening looking something like a human being.