Firsts And Lasts At The Dance Studio

Feel free to jump in here, or go back and start with "Firsts and Lasts at the Strip Club" if you prefer. This is a direct sequel to that one, but you'll catch on quick enough. In this installment, Dara takes Briony to an "unladylike" dance class for their first real date, outside the club. Like the first one, this story includes graphic depictions of f/f sex, in this case both manual clit stimulation and some first-time anal fingering. Also like the first one, it contains allusions to past religious trauma, which the freshly uncloseted Briony is still working to conquer.

All characters are enthusiastically consenting and over 18. Enjoy!

***

There was no way it was real.

That name. Dara. That little string of numbers written next to it, quickly but with care.

It was all a fiction of some sort. I couldn't let myself fall into believing otherwise.

She was a stripper, the woman who had written out those letters on the back of this business card and pressed it into my hand. Strippers were professional liars.

That wasn't a judgment against them, just a fact. There were all sorts of professional liars in the world, and strippers were far from the worst of them. There were actors, and writers, and company executives, and therapists and bartenders who had to tell everyone they were worthy of sympathy whether it was true or not. I'd even spent my formative years listening to a professional tell me that he knew the will of God, before passing the collection plate.

There was nothing wrong with the pretty little fictions that strippers sold. And there was nothing wrong with buying them, as long as you didn't fool yourself about what exactly you were paying for.

That was where the trouble started, both for you and for the poor stripper who had to decide when to break character and nudge you back to your place, as one audience member among many.

I was lying in bed, on the morning after Glen and Gemma's wedding, turning that card over and over in my hand, never quite managing to toss it into the wastebasket.

I'd fulfilled my duties as Glen's Best Woman reasonably well, I think. My speech was short and full of the usual jokes I knew Glen would like, about our exaggerated history of hijinks, and how he was marrying way out of his league and had better not mess it up. I made sure the DJ honored the do-not-play list, ejected a drunk uncle for hitting on the younger bridesmaids without getting any vomit on my suit at all, and let Gemma's mom talk at me for twenty minutes about how lucky I was to not be attracted to men.

I never corrected her, either about the fact that I was bi, or about how little luck my bisexuality had brought me in my dating life so far.

I certainly didn't tell her that I'd only ever been intimate with one woman, and that she was a stripper.

A stripper named Violet, or named Dara, depending on whether you asked the DJ at her club, or the card folded up in my pocket.

I didn't touch that card all evening. But now I was out of distractions.

I turned it over again.

Dara had to be a fake "real" name. And the number probably went to some other line at the club itself, where I could tell someone how great a job she was doing, and maybe book some more private time with her.

I might as well just get it over with, finding out. It would free up my mind to make a real plan for the day.

I typed the number into my phone, saved it as "Dara?", which still read as more hopeful than I wanted it to, and started a new text.

Hey, Dara? It's Briony. I don't know if you remember me, from the Angel Room the other day?

I rewrote every word of this at least four times, adding and subtracting details, moving punctuation around, and then finally gritted my teeth and hit "send."

The ellipsis appeared immediately -- a reply being written.

Briony!!!

My name was followed by a string of emojis, full of smiles, hearts, and flowers.

I almost thought I wasn't going to hear from you. I thought maybe you'd decided to forget that time you were a bad girl for a few minutes ;)

My heart thumped hard enough to make my head feel light each time I re-read the message. I had to look away so that I could think.

It wasn't real, I told myself, almost like a prayer.

I didn't have a

real

relationship with a stripper.

Strippers didn't... well, of course they

must

have real relationships sometimes, too. They were people, just like anyone else. Was it really so absurd to imagine that this woman might genuinely like me, just because--

Yes. Of course it was. I'd had two, maybe three conversations with her in the course of one evening, all of them paid for in one way or another. And every day, she spent her working hours surrounded by prettier women than me, and dozens of other customers who all wanted to believe the same things about themselves that I did.

It absolutely was absurd to believe that

I

was the one it was true for.

I never want to forget

, I typed, then deleted it and replaced it with something that would get me to the inevitable dead end faster.

Crazy thought: if you're not doing anything today, do you want to hang out?

The ellipsis appeared.

Here it came, I assured myself. The sales pitch. The real reason she'd given me this number. Sure, she'd love to hang out some more, as long as it was at the club. Usual rates applying.

The reply came through.

I'd love to.

My heart thumped madly while I watched the next ellipsis.

I was actually just getting ready for dance class, though...

So maybe I should just come by the club later, right? I thought, squeezing my phone painfully hard into my palm.

I have a free pass for a guest

, said the next text.

Do you want to come with?

I searched her words for every possible meaning.

It's fun. It's got poles, and heels, and boas. I can think of worse places for a first date :)

Dara added.

The pounding in my chest spread down the rest of my torso and out to my fingertips, as I realized that I would not be wrapping up this feeling and putting it behind me today.

Where should I meet you?

I texted back.

Move Me Dance Studio, on Marionberry Road,

said Dara.

12:30. Wear something you can move in

.

#

I almost backed out three times just getting dressed. My entire athleticwear collection consisted of one pair of knee-length gym shorts, two sports bras (only one of which worked), and a handful of baggy t-shirts with too many holes in them to use for anything else anymore.

On the rare occasions when I left my room with the express intention of sweating in public, my clothes had one function, as far as I was concerned: to conceal as much of my body as possible without getting in my way.

Appropriate attire for a dance class felt utterly incompatible with appropriate attire for a date. And a

pole

dance class? The image of a roomful of women with bodies like Dara's, twirling effortlessly in their cute little lacy lingerie pieces, made me want to roll myself up in a blanket and hide under the bed.

But I was going. I might whine at myself about it every step of the way, but ultimately, I was too smart to let my bully of an imagination rob me of an invitation like this.

Eventually, I put on a date-worthy bra and billowy, low-cut blouse, and squeezed myself into an old pair of leggings. The sight of my shape in the mirror still made me cringe, so I added a skirt, which I'd remove when I got there,

if

someone told me to.

I parked on the street and made my way around to the entrance of the Move Me Dance Studio, absorbing the ordinariness of it.

It looked like it had been built as office space and fitted at the last minute with a marquee and some double-doors that would have been at home on an older, grander building. It was run down but cheerful-looking, with nothing overtly suggestive about it. The feminine outline frosted into the windows of those double-doors was clothed, in a full-skirted ballgown.

When I took that last deep breath and stepped into the lobby, Dara was there, leaning on the front desk to chat with the receptionist.

It took me a moment to recognize her, out of the context of the club and its dim, surreal, tinted lighting. Just like the studio itself, Dara looked perfectly at home in the ordinary, daylight world. Her face was unmade-up, her silky hair pulled back in a messy bun. She wore a loose t-shirt, with the sleeves and most of the side seams roughly removed, over a sports bra and panties. They were regular kind that came in a multi-pack and didn't bunch up, not the kind you'd find with a hanger all to themselves in a lingerie store.

She was stunning anyway, of course. I couldn't even say which look I preferred on her.

When she heard the bell of the door, she turned her head, flicking an escaped lock of hair over her shoulder, and rushed over.

"You made it!" she said, squeezing me in a quick hug and then holding me at examining distance. "Just barely. Long drive? Trouble finding the place?"

Her eyes were just sharp enough to say she wasn't counting on either of these explanations.

"No," I admitted.

She smoothed the flowing short sleeves of my too-nice blouse and gave me one of her somberly knowing smiles.

"I'm glad you're here," she said. "Come on, it's about to start."

#

The room Dara led me to had six poles and about thirty women in it, most of whom exchanged familiar waves with her.

The knot in my stomach loosened slightly when I realized that I was

not

in fact the largest person here. The students' bodies ranged from willowy figures like Dara's, to chubby rolls like mine, to gawky skeletal frames and bulky muscle.

One woman nearly twice my size was busy practicing a move where she raised one leg high behind her and pulled off a stretchy stocking over her head.

Another woman, old enough to be my grandmother and with bright pink hair, was slowly opening a corset and looking coyly over shoulder, as if there was no question at all that her imaginary audience wanted to see more of her crepe-textured skin, and the tufts of pink feathers she had taped over her nipples. Honestly, the way she held herself

did

make me want to look at her, even more than I wanted to watch the two cute women about my age, who were spinning around a single pole with one of them standing on the other's shoulders.

Dara gave me an I-told-you-so smirk, and led me to stand with her near the back of a loose formation of women who seemed to be waiting for the real class to start.

A petite woman in her forties was pacing back and forth like stillness was a chore, her rhinestone leotard sparkling under the lights. She glanced at Dara, then at her watch, and clapped her hands.

Everyone who'd been using the space for practice hurried to put on exactly as much clothing as they wanted for class, and gathered into the formation with us.

"Welcome!" said the petite woman who must have been the teacher, scanning the group as if each and every one of us were a particular treat for her eyes. "Welcome, welcome, welcome! Ooh, I just love seeing so many people ready to feel good in their bodies. It's going to be a great day, I can tell. If you've never been here before, I'm Kim, and this is Unladylike Dancing for All Levels. Let's pair up and get limber, shall we?"

Dara took my hands and helped me settle down onto the floor. Before the teacher had to prompt us, she demonstrated spreading her legs apart and leaning forward, into the stretch.

I figured out that I was supposed to mirror her and press my feet against hers, but she could do a full hundred-and-eighty-degree splits, and I could barely get past ninety, so I ended up sort of resting my arches against her calves.

"Tell me if I go too hard," Dara said, fully serious and impish at the same time, pulling me toward her.

She was shockingly strong, and my thigh muscles instantly felt the strain, but I was determined not to back out until I really had to. My body might not be the largest, but one glance around the room confirmed that it was easily the least conditioned for this kind of thing, and yet somehow, I was here on a date with a successful dancer who was also the most beautiful woman in the room. It was a lot to live up to.

I leaned, and pushed, and knew that I'd feel it tomorrow, but I got almost close enough to kiss her.

Dara moistened her lips, and then eased me back up to sitting.

I did the same for her next, pulling her slowly, gently toward me. It was easier for her, of course. She made it far enough to bypass my lips by inches, then my breasts, stopping with her lips hovering just short of, well, where she'd put them the other night.

She let out a warm breath, right when she was closest, and a tingling tremor ran down both my legs, twinging the stretched-out muscles.

When she passed my face again on the way back up, she winked.

The words

first date

were stuck in my head, so as we transitioned into side stretches, I said, "I feel like I should be asking you where you went to school. What you do for fun, for a living, what your hopes and dreams are..."

"We're in school right now," Dara pointed out. "We're having fun right now. And you already know what I do for a living."

We switched the stretch to the other side. I struggled against my love handles to bring my head as close to my ankle as I could, so that we could keep looking each other in the eye.

"Okay," Dara sighed. "I dropped out of Portland Community College. When I'm not dancing, I enjoy going to museums, especially science and natural history, being a fucking sex goddess, and skipping to the good parts of conversations. My dream is to make enough money dancing, being a fucking sex goddess, and skipping to the good parts of conversations that I'll never have to do anything else no matter how old I get. And right now, I'm hoping to find someone I always want to hang out with in my downtime, so that I never have to go through the boring questions with someone new ever again. What about you?"

I rushed to distill the essence of what I'd normally ramble about, if a date asked me about myself.

"I was homeschooled," I said. "I didn't find out that dinosaurs were real until I was twenty-one. I got my associate's degree in business studies without ever setting foot on a campus, and now I make burritos in a mall food court. I've had sex with two people, or three, or five, depending on how you count it. I've never had a serious relationship. I've never kissed a girl. And everything you just said sounds amazing to me."

Dara grinned. "Now you're getting it."

The rest of the class was shifting, in response to some direction I hadn't been paying enough attention to hear. Dara turned around and knelt, facing away from me. She reached her arms up and back, wiggling her fingers in a clear enough signal that I was supposed to take her hands again.

I did so, and she leaned back slowly, using my hands for leverage to control her descent. Her head hung back to look at me, upside-down.

"So, is there anything else you want to ask me?" she asked.

There were plenty more things I wanted to ask, but the one at the tip of my tongue was the most selfish. I should probably--

"Things you actually

want

to ask me," Dara said pointedly, as she lowered herself all the way down to rest her head on the floor, right between my legs again. "Not the things you feel like you

should

ask me."

I took her at her word.

"Why did you give me your number?" I asked.

"Ooh," she looked up at me, as unblinking as if she were watching me play out the crucial moments of a life-changing competition. "Going right from boring small talk to fishing for complements."

"Sorry," I said immediately, looking away toward a bare patch of floor. "I knew I shouldn't have--"

"Oh, I approve," said Dara. "It's pretty

bad girl

. And I'll answer you, but later, I'm going to fish for some compliments of my own. I'm going to do it on purpose, and I'm not going to apologize. Deal?"

"Deal," I said.

She pulled herself up by my hands, turned back around toward me, and waited, holding her own hands up in the air.

I turned away, took them, and began lowering my upper body backward toward her lap. I had to ease in in much slower than Dara had, and I was pretty sure she'd been taking her time.

"Let's see. Reasons I want to know you." Dara cleared her throat. "You understand that it's possible to be respectful

and

enthusiastic. You're good to your friends. But you're not afraid to step up when one of them is being an asshole. You feel the desperate urge to skip to the good parts too, even though you're still fighting it. You give great head, for a beginner. And you're beautiful."

I snorted at this last one. Twisted into this awkward position next to

her

, I couldn't help it.

"I'm not going to argue with you about it," said Dara. "Hearing that you're beautiful isn't how you'll find out it's true. It wasn't for me."

The bluntness of how she said this stopped my already constricted breath in my chest for a moment.

"...How

did

you find out?" I asked.

I was probably squeezing all the blood out of her fingers, while I whispered this plea for mystical knowledge.

Never had I met a woman who believed with such convincing confidence that she was beautiful, though I'd met plenty who objectively were.

She smiled. "Dancing."

"

Unladylike

dancing?" I guessed.

"Yes. That part's important," said Dara. "I sure as fuck never suspected it when I was doing ballet."

"You did ballet?"

"Yeah," said Dara. "Funny how all those boring get-to-know-you details find a way of coming up on their own, once they connect to something that matters."

I let out a breath, part of a laugh. "Yeah. Funny."

Kim clapped her hands, and Dara helped me lift myself upright on my knees, and then on my feet.

"All right, let's shake out those muscles!" Kim demonstrated with a flail of her limbs. "And we'll start things off with ten bevel-bounces on the left. For the newbies, that's one foot in front of the other, heels together, or as close as you can get, toes apart, hands on hips."

I appreciated the "as close as you can get" caveat, as I tried to imitate her posture.

"And a bounce, one, bounce, two..."

She bent her knees, and the offset position of her feet somehow made her hips sway out to the side as she lowered them. Dara mirrored her beside me, and I gave it my best shot. It wasn't easy to throw my center of gravity around over such a narrow foundation, and I wasn't even wearing the high heels that half the class, including Dara, were wearing with their shorts and panties and leotards.

"Close, but give me more," Kim said, pointing at me. "Really make a meal of this little movement. Lean in deep, pop up strong."

I tried, but the mirrored front wall betrayed my continued stiffness, surrounded by graceful reeds bending in the breeze.

Kim put a thoughtful fingertip to her lips while we finished out the ten bounces. She was still looking at me when she continued, "Now a nice long hip shimmy."

The others easily began an impossible-looking move, making their hips move so rapidly in place that they seemed to be vibrating.

"This is just an alternating knee bend," Kim explained, putting her hands on her hips to demonstrate a slightly slowed version.

That really was all there was to it, bending the knees, so that the hips moved from side to side, much like the bounce, only quicker and more symmetrical.

Still, I couldn't get anywhere near the smooth vibrations of the others.

"If you're not getting the amount of movement you'd like, ask yourself if you're fighting the jiggle," said Kim. She had the subtlety to look at a few other people, as well as me. "A lot of the time, we're

trying

to keep everything tight and stiff to match some societal ideal we're carrying around inside us, without even realizing that we're doing it. But this is about doing the opposite of that. We're giving our bodies room to breathe and take up space, and flow into all these beautiful shapes."