For some reason, Forebrain was all wrapped up in trying to dig up the key events in my long, weird life that had brought me here. Specifically, Club Naw-Tee, the awfully named second-dingiest tit bar in the state, where I sprawled on my specially installed sofa booth. On my table, my satchel was still quarter-full of joy, yet empty of any cash at all: the bills once and briefly mine, at that moment in the possession of the loveliest, bustiest (how can they be that freakin' big and still demand the word perky I don't understand, Lizard Brain was whining), curviest, filthy-talkingest, most powerful argument for a benevolent God I had ever had the joy of watching snort yak. Better still, she'd just had what felt like an actual orgasm, not the fake shit those no-brain spinners were hawking, against my jeans-covered cock. I think she might have pushed a zipper imprint into my dickskin. Unsure if I was bleeding. Didn't care.
Then she stood, balancing against my knees, naked and free save for one rainbow sock. After a quick readjust of her glasses, her hands were on her flaring hips, which rolled to the sound of AC/DC; one hand reached to cover her crotch, her arm pushing against heavy hanger as she twisted in delicious reverie. Her other hand was high above her head as she sucked in the vibe of the song. Then she focused, bringing the sock-covered foot to rest on my dick, before quickly slipping the fabric off, then reaching forward to stuff it in my mouth.
And with a "watch this" eyebrow waggle, she leaned back and deftly maneuvered her thick, sculpted leg to reach over the table, and karate-kicked the brown bottle into my lap. It was so lovely to watch, I didn't mind her mistake (second that evening, Lizard Brain grumbled) of touching my own goddamn cocaine. She was, however, A) about to ingest a bunch of it with me, and B) once again let me be clear, a goddamn fucking angel of sex; so my forgiveness was swift as she pulled back to plant more firmly, a triumphant sneer on her mouth.
Her smiles were changing from the naïve, oh-this-is-just-my-first-night-Mister beauties I'd admired before. Now they were more I-am-the-hottest-thing-in-this-goddamn-room, with an occasional where's-the-horse-I-wanna-ride. That one I knew real well. Especially glad to see it on this lovely teenager, as she looked from my eyes to the bottle expectantly. Repeatedly.
I yanked her sweaty thin sock out of my mouth and threw it at her, before dispensing some C onto my hand. She leaned in, gazing at me adoringly through half-lidded eyes behind those glasses. I never got over watching the way physics worked on her mountainous mammaries; seeing me looking, she wiggled slightly. I whimpered something about they should have sent a poet, as she sweetly sniffed the generous white pile, softly kissing and cooing at it for a second.
Then she was straddling me again, holding my hand holding the bottle and laying out a generous amount -- too much -- of rocket fuel on the mountains of Olympus, before pulling my head down toward it. After a lot of it went where it needed to, she shoved me back on the sofa rudely, rubbing the remainder all over her skin and nipples, leaning back with ginger hair falling behind her, buzzing happily.
Before I could track she's in my ear again, knockers ballooned out against me, whispering that this is the greatest fucking night of her life before she was back standing up. She had that jacked-up quickness common to the gakked, but she still carried that two-fifty-plus frame of hers like it weighed nothing at all. With the knowledge she was in fact the hottest thing in the room, Jennifer began gyrating slowly to, in my not so humble opinion, the greatest metal blues jam ever to come out of Australia.
Now there are other classic tracks from every generation of rock I could've gone with. Stormy Monday, maybe Erotic City: well-known pantydroppers, always strong picks. I'd already put this club through most of Lovage's Music To Make Love To Your Old Lady By record. Always had a hankerin' to watch a stripper actually enjoy Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's Full Grown. Put it on, you'll get it. Lots of Lizzo, or maybe Make It Wit Chu, Queens of the Stone Age: songs a lot of these girls actually knew, damn near guaranteed good time. And don't get me started on the Cult's Memphis Hip Shake; fantastic track, a dance I've actually experienced, but the dancer was bored, the experience mediocre.
But this was the king of them all, my personal Kilimanjaro. I was saving this one. Night Prowler, serial murderer Richard Ramirez' favorite song, thumped along swimmingly as Jennifer threw her hips back and forth to the unhurried beat, stretching and posing before whispering the lyrics right along with good ol' Bon. The clock struck midnight as she sashayed; she swished around in time to give me her full moon in the sky, with a clever yeah-I-thought-of-that grin. I just tried to breathe, as Jennifer languidly and lovingly maneuvered her naked flesh through the air.
Bon wailed about a rat in an alley, as a chill went up her spine. Someone walked across my grave as she wished the sun would shine; then she leaned forward, wagging her finger in my face slowly... No one was gonna to warn me, or gonna yell attack... Her eyes squinched shut as she silent screamed that I wouldn't feel the steel, til it's hanging out my back.
"I'm your niiiiiiiiiight, prowlah!" she soft sang, stretching her arms to the ceiling. God, she was so tall, too. In my peripheral I could see a couple other dancers staring at Jennifer in awe like I'd been. I turned my head to gawk at them -- did I see a phone aimed at us? -- but with speed my beauty's hand had hold of my chin, angrily pulling me back to watch her and her only. There's that jealousy again. I grinned like a schoolboy as my muse put her foot on my chest, urging me to watch out tonight as I turn out the light. Snuck a peek at her pussy and that shit was glistening in the smoky, dim lighting.
At six and a half minutes, Acca-dacca's ode to the stabby-stabby is a little long for a stage dance. Staff were well aware of my penchant for a request every once in a while, when I felt like hearing a drop of my own excellent taste between bad hip hop and the floaty airy soulless vocals in vogue at that time. Another sad (to them) fact was that sometimes my requests would run long. After one memorable gakfest in which I'd demanded the entirety of the Doors' The End, three times in a row, Rico'd put his foot down and insisted: no more than a single request a night, played once, no longer than eight minutes. He'd had a point, so sure. Now they tended to call them special breaks for the dancers, allowing girls to ask for a little extra for something a little longer, a little more special, a little weirder than the other forgettable nonsense.
Jennifer was, as the kids were saying those days, vibing like a mufuckuh. She weaved her bulk beauty, seemingly featherlight, in wide lazy circles as she provided an impromptu abstract interpretation of the music, ignorant of the audience she was attracting. I saw a flash: though schmoe filming earned quick repercussions from Meat, the ladies had no such restrictions, and there were several phones aimed at us. Looks on faces varied from awe to repulsion, but my lovely didn't care, lost in the snow and the sweet distortion of good rock and roll. My eyes darted around the room looking for Meat to ensure I wasn't gonna get bothered or interrupted, when Jennifer slapped me. Hard.
Wait, what?
"Daaaaaamn," I heard from my left. Lizard Brain was first to start wailing about ruined reputation, lost respect, stripperitis, and above all, retribution. Forebrain nervously counseled patience for a second. I guess the lizard had my expression for a brief period, because Jennifer shifted from playfully dominant to severely regretful in record time.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. She wasn't moving at all. Then -- and she almost stopped herself, I watched it happen -- she began unbuttoning my jeans. Forebrain was nodding saying this is why you listen to me as she coaxed off first my boots, then my pants and underwear. It was almost meditative, Zenlike even. But then she's gently shoving me back down on the sofa, kneeling between my legs, looking up at me prettily from behind my dick.
"I'm a lucky girl, huh," her soft voice floated at me. You have no idea, muttered Lizard Brain as she posed a bit, moving around and eyeing me from behind my despite-all-the-blow-I'm-fucking-Gibraltar cock. Being bottomless was a little further than I let myself get this early on a busy Friday; Lizard Brain said he wanted it known that Rico wasn't gonna be pleased with me. Again my friend, I told it, shut the fuck up.
