What do you know about strip poker?
Right. What in hell is there to know? When you were a kid, a teenager, it was an off-color joke. Presumably, people did do it. And, yes, it was intriguing, but how do you get invited?
Now, all those guys who were adolescents in the 1950s, 1960's, and so on, are lamenting all that they missed. Erotic daydreams. Fantasies.
And on the internet, where the biggest pot of gold is pornography, you can view hundreds of videos of strip poker. You can participate, too, for a monthly fee, in a live online strip poker. Yes, for the right price real girls will strip and pretend to be alarmed and embarrassed to slip off their bras and panties.
All the fantasies I encounter, all the tales of illicit sex, become in me a need to do them. I had some of strip poker at the high-school academy in Connecticut and even in college—a few fraternity parties. The thrill is exhibition, and its darling, voyeurism, and the hope that the game would end in an orgy. I was the girl who felt guilty when you had a hard-on. I was the girl who smiled when you reached over during the game and flic ed my nipple. I laughed.
Ten years later, I'm still game—if it is for a good cause. I have mentioned, in passing, a young woman in East Hampton who panicked after a traffic accident, did a hit and run, lied about it, tried to bribe a witness, and ended up with a nine-month prison sentence. It horrified me. This woman is the sex prey. I knew what would happen. I ended up visiting her at the Suffolk County penitentiary every two weeks. Trying to give her advice. Give it up in the most bearable way and leverage that into protection.
You could say it worked. She got out in one piece. Problem is that with her record, her attitude toward life, and her sheer hardness she hasn't thrived in "civilian life." She could marry money. She is drop-dead beautiful in a big Russian girl way, flawless oval face, eyes alight (though not with joy), mouth big and pouty, and all framed with chestnut hair flowing down over her shoulders. We will get to her body.
Skip over, here, all my other efforts to help.
So, one day Katrina wants to know if I will join her and another woman for a strip poker game with three guys. Katrina does this. No sex not required, she said, just a fun game. Nice guys, money. Katrina needs it, but she must bring other girls. She knows any money I get does to her.
Right. That I even considered it, did not lecture her about getting a life, did not storm away tells you I am sexual risk-taker, an exhibitionist, and a fringe member of polite society.
I said, dubiously: "Three of us get naked with three guys and then smile, collect some money, and say, I have a lovely evening."
"No, of course not, Ellen. But I can handle three guys. For me, it's just another gang bang. (Ouch!) Once they get off, they don't care about you. And I think the other girl is probably a slut, too."
"After the game, I just sit around bare ass and watch? Maybe I could serve the drinks? And wipe up their dicks with a wet face cloth when you're done." This sounded weirder than the game itself.
Katrina has a gorgeous laugh. She just breaks up, and then she's even prettier. She didn't answer, though.
She insisted on picking me up. "I don't drink anymore, Ellen--ever. I will drive you home. This is essential." It took over a year to get her driver's license back after she left a body beside Route 114 that evening. Of course, most of it was in prison.
Sure, I have no way to bolting. But let's not catastrophize. Katrina has been making a living for three years.
It was a Thursday evening. Katrina was high, but not on a trip. She spoke calmly, drove well, laughed. After a long drive, all on backroads, I had no idea where we were. I asked Katrina. She laughed and said, "Land of Cand. Land of the Golden Man. Land of Whipper Ginny. Land where none grow old!"
How can you doubt that? I used my cell phone GPS, then called a friend I knew was out and left a message about where I was, what I was doing, when I would be back.
"Smart," said Katrina. "But you'll see, all under control."
Then, she turned to me and said: "This is ridiculous, I know, but..."
"I'm still on the pill."
"Good."
We walked into a mansion. From glimpses, I thought we were near the water. Not sure if it was the Atlantic or Peconic Bay, not so far apart in Long Island.
Not shoddy! After clearing ourselves with the young man at the entrance, then passing along a couple halls, we walked into a regal living room, well-lighted (of course), thick carpet, beautiful furniture, and, in the center, a round table with six chairs, its top casino-green nap.
Three guys rose and came forward. Not bad looking, rugged handsome. But was I paranoid? What did senior members of the Gambino crime family look like? I did have that thought, but who knew? They were tall, broad shouldered, and their smiles were happy and welcoming. Anyway, I am with gorgeous Katrina and already here is the third girl, Tammy, a chubby little blond piece with excited, sparking eyes and what looked like a permanent pout. I was guessing she had some rolls of fat at her tummy, easily forgiven when she is packing about five times the ordinance I have in my bra.
I shake. I smooch. I hug. I giggle.
One guys can't stop staring at me. Am I too scrawny? He is scrutinizing my long bare legs, frowning at my bare chest revealed by my blouse, looking at my face under the black pixie bangs.
We seat ourselves. Three women on one side, three men on the other. A young guy comes in to take our drink orders. I think he is "related." Also horny. He stares at Katrine but especially at Tammy with her sweet face, sexy dark-blue eyes, and corn-yellow short unruly hair. I wonder where they got Tammy?
Okay, heads up. One guys smiling, reciting the rules. When you lose a round, you remove one item of clothing. When you are stripping, you stand up, back from the table. When you return to your seat, you do not close your legs.
I raise my hand, grinning. Should we all take off our shoes and socks? Earrings and watches don't count. And, guys... take off suit coats and ties... Even things up.
Applause. NO ONE here wants to say dressed.
Now, all the guys are studying me, grinning.
The game continues until only one player is wearing anything.
I raise my hand. When the girls are sitting, our boobs are on display. So the guys who are stripped below the waist must play standing up so we can study their packages.
They glance at each other, frowning. One shrugs, then all of them shrug. Applause. The guys are grinning at me. Katrina is happy, too, This game is a winner. I may set a new standard.
And I add, in the interest of fairness, that when a girl is naked below the waist, she also stands up to play.
All right, all right. Enough high IQ suggestions.
