The Strip Ch 01

If a dog is man's best friend, then surely a car is a woman's best friend. A car gives you independence, safety, pride of possession, status, all those nice things. But the mirror has two faces, and a car can also get into some situations you wouldn't exactly seek out for yourself.

My own black early-eighties Cherokee was my pride and joy throughout my happy years at Hamner. It was old, true, and rather banged-up, but it ran well and I kept it very clean inside and out. It was big enough for several friends to pile in so we could go off on adventures of all kinds, from a trip to Florida to simple midnight runs for doughnuts.

I say it ran well. Until the day I noticed a slight, but nonetheless persistent irritating rattle that seemed to come from the dash. It wasn't constant, and you couldn't hear it at all if the radio was up loud enough, but it was noticeable when starting or stopping the car and especially when turning sharply. I had a look-see under the hood, but my automotive knowledge is limited mainly to tire inflation, tuning radio stations, and pumping gas and all those areas looked to be okay. The washer fluid level was okay.

I had to face the fact that I would have to take my baby in somewhere to be looked at and fixed, and that would undoubtedly cost me bukku dollars, which were not exactly in abundant supply. That's where Krista came to my rescue.

Krista was a girl in my dorm who could always be counted on to know the best place to go to get any goods or services at the lowest possible costs. A lot of people mistrusted her advice after the debacle of the place where you could get dirt-cheap Buffalo Wings that sickened half the dorm, but I went to her with my car trouble, and sure enough, she came through. She promised to do some research and get back to me.

A few hours later, I was sitting in the lounge watching Montell chatting up overweight drag queens battered by their partners when Krista came sidling into the room. She slunk past me and, spy like, tucked a scrap of paper into my hand and then vanished again. She really liked that Mata Hari shit.

I unfolded the paper and read the words "Moe's Motors, ask for Pee Wee." Oh, joy. That was a pair of names to inspire confidence if I ever heard one. Moe's Motors turned out to be located in a rather seedy part of town. I spoke first to an equally seedy-looking character who introduced himself as Moe, who didn't take the toothpick out of his mouth the entire time I talked to him. In fact, I never saw him without it. For all I know, it grew there. "Could I talk to Pee Wee?" I asked. "I've got a Cherokee with a rattle."

"Pee Wee ain't here just now."

"Oh, well, can you tell me when he will be in?"

"Judge says he could be out in eight months with good behavior." I must've looked crushed, because Moe said quickly "Don't worry though, Miss. Duane can take care of you."

Have you ever noticed that, about car types? They never take care of your vehicle, they take care of you.

"Okay, thanks, where do I find Duane?" I asked.

"Right behind you" said a new voice. I turned around quickly. I'm not sure what I expected to see, probably a Moe look-alike. I found myself facing a guy about my own age, well over six feet and very "built." His hair, in my much-admired ponytail, was a little blonder than mine. And the eyes were... omigod, omigod- absolute ice blue, and looking straight down into my dark hazel ones.

I felt my cheeks burning hot pink and had to make an effort not to let my jaw drop or my mouth spread into a silly love struck smile. I am quite sure Duane, and most likely Moe too, took notice of this, though they didn't say anything about it.

I went through my spiel again as Duane and I walked out to my jeep, all the time trying not to stare. He wore jeans that were quite tight, and left little to the imagination. They'd have looked better without that cheesy pseudo-Western shirt he had chosen to go with them.

"Start her up," Duane ordered me and I hastened to comply, only dropping my keys twice. The rattle was not audible outside the car, so I suggested we drive around the block a few times. True to form, whenever I braked or turned, there came that that faint but undeniable rattle.

I was rattled myself, driving around with Duane's blue gaze seemingly pinned on me. He sat sidewise in the seat listening without comment and watching me at the wheel and occasionally asking me to brake or turn. Suddenly, he popped open the glove compartment.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I asked, somewhat alarmed. I turned my head to look at him, and he was holding a metal box of Altoid mints and a wrench.

"There's your mysterious rattle," he said, and balanced the box of mints over two fingers with the wrench propped on it. Sure enough the two metallic surfaces clattered faintly against each other. I have never felt like such a moron in my life. What a fool I was, and an expensive fool at that. Swallowing hard, I asked, in the voice like that of a chain-smoker overcome by fear "How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing," came the reply. I raised my eyebrow at him, skeptically. "Nothing at all. If you'll agree to go out with me some time."

Talk about lucky! No actual car problem and no charge for finding that out, except if you call a date with a hunk a price. I didn't. "Oh thank you so much! You've made my day! Of course I'll go out with you. I could even do it tonight if you wanted." I damn near sang my response.

He did want that, and suggested dinner at Applebee's (he had coupons for it that needed to be used) and afterward maybe we'd hit the Strawberry Moon.

That was fine with me. I didn't know what the Strawberry Moon was, probably some bar or club or other. Strange as it may seem, I was not familiar with every establishment serving alcohol within a fifty-mile radius of the college. But what the hell, first time for everything, right?

As soon as I got into my dorm, I tracked down Krista in the laundry room. "I need your help," I said.

"Again?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, choosing to ignore her tone and the eyes rolled upward. "I need wardrobe advice. I have a date tonight, with a hunk. We're going to Applebee's and then some place called the Strawberry Moon. What do I wear? I've never been to that place before. It's not too formal, is it?"

Was it my imagination, or did the great Krista's expression flicker slightly? Did that eyebrow go up a millimeter, did the corner of that mouth try to turn up in a knowing little smirk? Naaah. Course not.

"Amy Rae," she pronounced solemnly, "The only rule at the Strawberry Moon is and always has been, ANYTHING GOES. Whatever you wear will be fine."

I wondered briefly at her odd emphasis and the now-definite smirk she was wearing, but I dismissed such thoughts, thanked her and left. As I crossed the threshold I distinctly heard her mutter "Some hunk." I put it down to simple jealousy.

Duane picked me up at the front of my dorm promptly at six-thirty. He was driving a Ford truck of the variety I would describe as a testosterone tank. A shorter girl would have had trouble getting up into it, and nobody could have done it decently in a skirt.

Dinner went without a hitch, and Duane told me something I'd long suspected. To wit: men, when they are taking a girl out to dinner, like to see her eat red meat and dessert, rather than pick fussily at a salad and sip diet Coke. It did my heart good to hear it.

"You still okay to try the Strawberry Moon?" Duane asked me. There was a funny little twitch to his lips when he said it. I nodded and said "I'm game"-like deer in the head lights.

So we drove off out of town, a little way out of the Blue Ridge Mountains. By this time I was finally beginning to get the picture that the Strawberry Moon was a disreputable place and good for a laugh. I figured it would be some rinky-dink redneck dive where a lot of fights broke out and guys spit on the floor. Well, I can handle that.

So imagine, if you will, my surprise and chagrin when Duane bulled the truck into a parking space in front of a small squat structure over which, besides the glowing neon-red strawberry, was the bold legend: "LIVE NUDE GIRLS!!! TOPLESS, BOTTOMLESS, GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS!"

After taking this all in I turned to stare at Duane. He sat behind the wheel, the engine still running, apparently waiting for my reaction. Plain as day, I saw I was being tested; a trial by fire, as it were. If I objected, Duane would probably turn around and drive me back home, but I was damned if I'd fail the test.

I took a deep breath and said "I'm gladit's "Live nude girls." I wouldn't be very interested in dead ones." With that, I opened the passenger door and hopped out. Duane shut the motor off and caught up with me, taking my hand as we crossed the lot to the door.

"Nothing much throws you, does it?" he commented.

"Not much," I agreed.

I'd never been inside a strip joint before and I have to confess I was a little disappointed that it wasn't fancier. A big bouncer who looked like Osama Bin Laden's long-lost younger brother gave us the once-over and waved us on in without checking ID. Inside was dim, smoky, noisy and hot. A few dozen redneck types plus maybe three blowsy-looking women were scattered about on straight chairs and at wobbly tables. Onstage, under colored lights flashing in a spastic pattern, a skinny white girl was wiggling and bobbing to the accompaniment of that strip-joint staple "The Thong Song."

The girl wasn't bad-looking, though she was too thin. She had long straight brown hair and at the moment was wearing a Confederate flag G-string and cowgirl boots. I liked the G-string. She was not a good dancer however, with little sense of rhythm, and her boots seemed too cumbersome for her. There was a metal pole at center stage and she would occasionally grab onto it and swing around it, or rub her small pointed breasts up and down on it. The metal of the pole was probably cold, and I could see her dark nipples standing out hard.

I threw back a couple of watered-down drinks while the Rebel Flag girl shimmied out of her G-string. This place wasn't kidding when it advertised itself as bottomless. She'd done something to her pubic hair, shaved or trimmed it into a rough heart shape that she must've thought was cute. It wasn't. She grabbed the pole high up, boosted herself off the floor and wrapped her legs around it, pressing her open cunt against the metal pole. I could tell from her face that it felt good to her. I began to think it might feel good to me too. I was hot in that airless room.

Duane was in a chair next to mine and watching me intently. I smiled at him to show I was cool with this whole situation. He leaned over and confided "That one on now, that's Brandi. Not a bad person but she's got a drug habit and that's how come she's so scrawny."

Brandi finished to polite applause and gathered up her scattered clothing and walked offstage. About five minutes later a blonde girl appeared in a long slinky red gown and started dancing to "Vogue." She was actually”voguing” to it, and was very graceful. Duane told me her name was Roxanne and she'd been a few years ahead of him in high school. I was surprised he knew so much about all the strippers.

While Roxanne was doing her thing, a couple other girls were circulating around hustling drinks, chatting and I saw one of them land on a guy's lap and squirm for a few minutes with her tits in his face. That, I gathered, was a lap dance. And when I saw that, I made my mistake.

"You better not try and get me to sit for a lap dance," I said to Duane, and his gorgeous eyes lit up immediately. Oh, I could watch those eyes all night, would do about anything to get that blue light fixed on me.

Before I knew it, big blonde Roxanne stopped by. She and Duane hugged like the old friends they were and then she nodded at me and said "This one's real pretty, who is she?"

"This is Amy Rae. She's sort of a beginner, never been to a place like this before.""I liked your routine," I added honestly,”You have got some good moves there."

Roxanne thanked me graciously as I slipped a dollar bill into the frilly garter on her thigh. I may have been a beginner, but I'd read enough to know what was expected of me. Then Duane beckoned Roxanne over to him and they went into a huddle, whispering and snickering together in a way I didn't much like.

I had just begun to grasp what was going on when Duane hitched my chair closer to him and Roxanne straddled my lap. I made a single feeble effort to get up from under, but it was too late.

Roxanne was what they call zaftig. She was taller than me by a couple of inches, and very curvy; big breasts with the little sag that comes from extra weight, narrowish waist, long muscular legs and big round ass. Not the Kate Moss type at all, but earthy and quite attractive. Her hair was a light honey-blonde and curly, and her skin was clear and rosy. Healthy good looks, you might say.

She rested her hands on my shoulders and rotated her butt on my lap while keeping most of her weight on her feet, planted on the floor on either side of my chair. Her fleshy tits pressed right up in my face, the nipples a light coffee color and a tattoo of a red rose over the left one. She smelled a little sweaty and also of breath mints and Passion perfume.

I sat stiff and uncomfortable at first, feeling myself blushing deep red. I became aware of men gathering around us to watch and some of them stepping in close to tip Roxanne, tucking the bills into her leg bands or down the top of her boots. Sometimes a hand would brush against me in the process and I had no room to flinch away from it.

Duane must've sensed I was having a hard time, because he got up and stood behind my chair and stroked my long hair, lifting it so it was off my neck and running his fingers through it. It was somehow soothing and I began to see the humor of the situation I was in, and also to enjoy the attention we were getting.

Naturally Roxanne was the center of attention,but I overheard several favorable comments about me from our audience. "Good sport" said one gentleman. "Looks real good-natured" said another. "Nice legs" was another opinion. And suddenly I felt a hand slide between Roxanne and me and stuff a folded bill into the front waistband of my black jeans!

With that, my inhibitions vanished and I began moving my hips in the seat in time with Roxanne's so that we were essentially dancing together. I put my arms around her waist and one hand on her butt and the crowd went wild, and more hands reached between us to tip us. Some of the hands accidentally-on-purpose brushed against her or my breasts, but neither of us objected to the gropes. They were getting their dollar's worth. Duane was still standing behind me and he had slid his hands under my thin purple sweater, with his fingers under the shoulder straps of my bra. The sensation sent chills through my body and I could feel my nipples getting hard and my pussy juicing up.

At last the song ended and Roxanne stood up off my lap, laughing and wiping the sweat off her forehead. I stood up too, and before I could talk myself out of it I reached out, pulled her in close to me and kissed her full on the mouth. She seemed startled, but then hugged me back hard and slipped her tongue briefly against mine. Our fans roared their approval, stamped, clapped and whistled.

I noticed that Roxanne had left a damp spot on my jeans and I headed for the ladies' room to take care of it. On my way, men kept stopping me to give me more tips. I got bold and began lifting my sweater so they could stash the bills in the front of my black bra. It wasn't a push-up bra, so I had to ask Duane to follow me and hold my breasts together to make a cleavage to hold my winnings. Just before I got to the bathroom door, I turned to face the room and made a sweeping bow.

Duane and I rode back to my dorm in a companionable silence. He parked in our dorm's parking lot and we kissed for several minutes. He moved quickly to the next level, kissing and sucking on my neck till he'd raised a hickey. I stopped him when he started to undo my bra. The dorm's porch was lit up and crowded with the usual nicotine addicts, even at that late hour, and some things you don't do where your friends can see you. So we kissed a few more minutes and I finally got ready to say good-night.

"I really had fun tonight," I told him, truthfully.

"You don't have to say that just to be nice. Not too many girls like that kind of thing."

"No, I really did have fun. Plus I made $57. And had a good dinner and some good company and fine kissing." Southern girls always know just how to put a little sugar and spice into it.

As I got down from the truck, Duane said "I bet you could do a great strip dance yourself sometime. It wouldn't necessarily have to be for a big audience."

I smiled modestly and said "Oh I don't know about that." But as I walked into Hilltop Hall, I had the feeling that not only was I capable of doing a strip dance, I also would be doing one fairly soon. For an audience of one.