A week or so after my photo shoot with Vivienne, I got a message from her on my answering machine. (In the late Nineties, cell phones were just getting affordable, and no one had cut the cord to their answering machine yet.) She said the prints were ready, reminded me of the address for the print shop, and told me they'd cost $45. I decided to pick them up the next day after work.
The hours dragged by as I replayed in my mind what had happened at the photo shoot. But 6:00 finally came, and I grabbed my jacket and bag and headed out the door.
The old photo district was in the 20s on the West Side. I hopped the F train downtown and was at 23rd Street in minutes. I walked up to the address, and checked the directory. The print shop was on the fourth floor, so I walked in and got into a reasonably rickety, reasonably dirty elevator. The chemical smell of the fixers and developers hit me as soon as the doors opened. I walked over to a counter with a sign saying "Pick Up." Behind it was a young Latin guy reading the Daily News.
"Hi," I said. "Picking up for Peter Lynch, please."
"Just a minute," he said, without looking up. He walked towards the back.
Vivienne had told me this shop did not of work for porn magazines, so they wouldn't have any issue with the photos she'd taken of me. I didn't know what I thought this place would look like, but it was surprisingly mundane. There was nothing to indicate they made their money with hardcore photos of people fucking and sucking.
The young Latin guy walked back, said "gimme me a sec" and walked over to an office. Leaning in, he asked "Liz? You know where the Lynch job went?"
He nodded and told me "she's got it."
He disappeared into the back of the store.
Angie emerged from office holding a 9" x 11" envelope made of cardboard. As she walked over to me, she closed the envelope and sealed it with the hasp. She was attractive, a little plump and middle-aged.
She looked up at me and smiled.
"That will be $35, please," she said.
"Are you sure about the price?" I asked. "I think it might be $45."
"It was $45, but I'm giving you a discount. "OK. Thanks," I said.
She looked over her glasses at me. "I saw your photos, and I liked them. A lot."
I felt blood rush to my head.
"So I made some copies for myself. Is that a problem?"
"No — that's fine," I said.
"In fact, I'm going to get myself off to them tonight. Is that OK?"
I wasn't expecting this. I knew Vivienne was going to make copies for her girlfriends, but they were an abstraction. Here, in front of me, was a stranger telling me she liked the very hardcore photos of me. And that she was going to jerk off to them. I thought this is what porn stars much feel. To meet someone fully clothed, but to know they already knew what you looked like completely nude.
"Sure," I stammered. "That's not a problem."
"Good," she said. "I hope to see you again."
I thanked her and put the envelope in my bag. I turned and walked towards the door.
"Hey, Peter?" she said in a loud voice. "I liked your cum shots the best." I blushed.
By the time I got back down to the street, my head was swimming. I was thrilled by what had happened, but it had left me very horny. I decided I needed a drink, and headed downtown to the Manhattan Gentlemen's Club, an East Village strip club which had opened up down the street from where I lived.
It was housed in an old bank building, but the bank was long gone. In the Eighties and Nineties, it had been a dance club called, unimaginatively, the Bank. But the Bank was no more, and the strip club opened up shop about six months ago.
I went several times when it just opened, and liked it. The owners had another, fancier club in Midtown. But with this club, they were going for something more "downtown." This meant a more relaxed atmosphere, and a much, much better music — a good mix of rock, grunge and rap, with an occasional club tune thrown in for variety. And the girls were great — very attractive, very sexy, but also very nice and fun.
In fact, when I stopped by after an absence of many weeks, they asked me where I'd been. I explained that I was spending too much money there, but they wouldn't hear it. They said it was fine if I didn't get any dances, and the bartender told me she'd put me on the 'Friends and Family Discount." Business was always slow at the beginning of their night, so she was running her own informal happy hour, just to get fiends of the staff to come in and drink. Just like a regular bar, but with a bunch of very lovely, half-dressed women always hanging out there.
The doorman opened the heavy, original door, and I walked in. I said hello to the coat-check girl and walked around the velvet curtain to the main room. At the far end of the room was a large, raised stage, and to the right of that a small-ish bar. In front of me was the sea of low tables and club chairs where the lap dances went on.
I saw that Angie was bartending, and Kim was sitting at the bar, with her high-heeled feet resting on the stool next to her. Angie was cute — short, auburn hair. With small breasts and a compact ass, she gave off a tomboy kind of vibe which I loved. She knew I had a crush on her, and often teased me, rubbing her ass against my leg, and touching my thigh. Occasionally, she'd give my cock a squeeze when I came back to the bar after getting some lap dances. But it was only for a second or two — just enough for her to let me know she knew I was hard.
Kim was a short, Korean-American girl. She was working in commercial real estate up in Westchester, but business was slow. So a couple of times a week, she'd drive into the city and make some extra money as a stripper. She was a little hottie, with a very good figure (and a terrific ass, for an Asian girl). But what I really liked about her was that she was a dirty girl.
When I got lap dances with her, she'd start by kissing my neck and face, her mouth hidden from view by her long, black hair. She'd usually end that part with a kiss on the lips, but if she'd been drinking with me for a bit, she'd slip me some tongue.
She'd remove her dress slowly and turn around, sticking that delicious ass right in my face. If the bouncers weren't around, I'd give her some soft kisses, flicking my tongue over her gorgeous butt. Then she would stand up and, looking coquettishly over her shoulder, slowly roll down her g-string over her ass. At first, she'd only go half-ways. But she got more daring over time, and now she'd roll it all the way down to her thighs.
Then she'd stand up and turn around, looking for the bouncers. If they were occupied, she'd roll down the front of her g-string, revealing a nearly trimmed bush. If she was feeling especially brave, she'd roll the g-string all the way down to her knees. Then she'd spread her legs and finger her clit. This was clearly against the house rule, so she'd roll her g-string up quickly. But then she'd put her finger in my mouth, so I could taste her pussy juice.
But even that wasn't Kim's best move. Having readjusted herself, she'd sit on the side of the club chair. With her back to the bouncers, she'd lean in closely, reach into my pants and adjust my cock so that it was pointing straight up towards my belly. Properly positioned, she'd slide into my lap and start grinding on my cock, wedging it between the cheeks of her ass. She never made me ejaculate, but she would make me soak my boxers with pre-cum.
And then she'd stand up, and we'd see Angie looking at us with a shit-eating look on her face. She always enjoyed our little shows.
I sat down and put my bag on the bar. "Whoa," said Angie. "You look flushed. You feeling alright?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine," I said. "I was just out running some errands."
"Where'd you go?" asked Kim, spinning around on her stool.
"Oh, I had to by the photo district to pick up some prints ...." I said.
"Are these them?" asked Kim.
I'd forgotten to zip the top of my bag shut, and the cardboard envelope was sticking out. Before I could say anything, Kim grabbed the envelope and pulled it out.
"Can we see?" asked. "Please? Pretty please."
"They're actually kind of explicit ...."
"That's even better!" said Kim, opening the envelope.
"Oh," she said, "these are photographs of you! I thought you were the photographer!"
She started flipping through the prints.
"These aren't too bad," she said, "and you look good."
The photos from the soft-core session must have on top.
"Oh, wait," said Kim. "Here we go."
"Let me see, let me see," asked Angie.
