Pt. II
Sleep did not come quickly as those early morning hours passed. As Stephanie recounted the previous night and her spectacular encounter, she pondered the meaning of it all. What did finding another woman attractive signal?
She dared not utter the L word, even under her breath. That damn strip club. Why ever visit an establishment like that in the first place? Her thoughts drifted from beautiful Laetitia to the confounding nature of it all. Stephanie could not abscond that dancer's intoxicating smile, those luscious looking breasts or the apple-tini flavor she detected by smooching one of them.
The weight of the perplexing internal discussion almost smashed another startling reality. As she re-imagined the booty shaking performance, her fingers inched closer to her moist cotton panties. Since breaking up with her last boyfriend, Todd, she had decided to make dressing for bed as simple as possible. A plain white T-Shirt capped her current ensemble. Yet, she felt sexier than usual.
Maybe it was intuition. Maybe it was her still fluttering heart. Maybe she was too reflective to make sound decisions. Stephanie slipped her right index finger beneath her panties and navigated the short hairline to her clit. She moaned when she began fingering herself. Self-pleasure had become a viable option since the last relationship explosion, but for whatever reason, she had stowed it until now.
That unforgettable exchange tauntingly danced in her head.
What's your name beautiful? Thank you Stephanie.
Thank you Stephanie? She nearly came while replaying that titillating phrase. Reservation and caution, however, blocked the pending orgasm. She almost exhausted herself trying to prevent the self-imposed climax. This action, of course, prompted a new set of questions.
Why was she trying so hard to avert something her body seemed to want so bad? How could a person feel so sexy yet so restrained? Her fingers darted from the vicinity of her clit and came to rest upon her arched stomach.
She grudgingly forced her eyes to shut and let out one last sigh. After hours of contemplation and restlessness, sleep finally enveloped Stephanie.
Her unplugged alarm clock did not sound, but several birds, engaged in the irritating chirp-as-loudly-as-possible mode, delivered perhaps a ruder awakening. She could see light permeating the closed curtains. She let out a massive yawn, and then slipped out of bed to ascertain the time.
Stephanie stumbled down the hallway to the kitchen. She read the microwave clock first. 11:25. Yikes, she thought. Is that right? The overhead clock confirmed as much.
At first, the daily breakfast routine trumped all else. She opened the refrigerator door to grab her morning dose of orange juice. She threw a piece of wheat bread in the toaster oven, not caring if it was stale. When the timer dinged, she raided the fridge again for butter and apricot jam.
No, it wasn't much of a breakfast, but it sufficed most days. Toast was easy, a simple compliment to a confusing, sometimes hectic life. It would not make her query more facile than confounding.
She could not rub her eyes enough. The haze the previous night created refused to leave. She checked her calendar to make sure she was not neglecting an important weekend activity. A few colleagues at the office indeed planned a volleyball excursion that morning. Forget volleyball, she thought. Who cares about fucking volleyball?
It took almost a half hour for the strip club experience to re-enter her consciousness. Overcoming grogginess and a mild but annoying headache proved a temporary elixir for what really ailed her.
At some point, the flood of questions would return, as would the strange mix of guilt, curiosity, arousal and uncertainty. Of paramount importance: returning to the club to fetch her driver's license. She did not go anywhere far without it. An outstanding parking ticket made doing so a dangerous proposition.
What irked Stephanie more than anything was the knowledge that she left it there on purpose. She wanted to return, but why?
Ah yes, Laetitia. The image of that killer body and her breathtaking voice would not go away.
Stephanie had kissed girls before and even once used tongue. She admitted to having a harmless crush on Katy Perry. That stuff happened in college, though, when boys and bets often overrode common sense.
This attraction was much different. Even the most heterosexual male can admit that a mega movie star of the same gender is attractive. She didn't think Laetitia was attractive. That woman was beautiful beyond description.
A playful, drunken kiss at a frat party was one thing. A sensual smooch relished while still sober was another. The only recourse, she decided, was to hop in the car and face the pole-dancing music. She visited the establishment's tacky but effective Web site to scope the hours. It opened in the next hour. Waiting until mid afternoon, though, seemed like a capital idea.
It frightened Stephanie how familiar she was with the route after traversing it just once. Seven turns and 20 minutes later, she arrived at the scene of whatever it was that happened. A crime? A lustful encounter? A figment of her damned imagination?
Just as she pulled the keys from the ignition and prepared to exit her vehicle, she froze. A new wave of thoughts consumed her. What if Laetitia did not live up to the billing? What if she spent that entire night tossing and turning over a fellow female who was not, after all, that spectacular? What if Laetitia did, in fact, look just the way she remembered? Worse, what if she wasn't there?
Stephanie entered through those imposing double doors and again locked eyes with the calculated bitch standing behind the counter. This time, the woman seemed to have one eye on the register and the other on Stephanie.
"Can I help you?" Even the senile greeter at the nearest Wal-Mart sounded more sincere.
"Sure. I left my driver—"
The woman interrupted. "I remember now. Give me a moment."
The woman returned a minute later with Stephanie's ID. She almost wanted to know this employee's name just to stop calling her "the woman."
"Here you go."
"Uh, thanks."
Stephanie stood there blankly for a moment.
"Anything else?"
She muzzled herself so as not to blurt out the prevailing thought.
Sure, m'am, I want to see if this one dancer is working today so I can decide whether I really want to fuck her brains out or was just really drunk when we touched each other in front of howling men last night.
"What's the cover?" Her watch said 4 p.m.
"It's $10 until 7 p.m."
Nice. A price break for titillation during daylight hours.
Since she did not have better plans that evening, she reached for her wallet, grabbed the cash and handed it to the woman. No guts, no glory, she thought. Every other cliché seemed to pop into her crowded head at that moment.
She trudged to the fancy door, propped it open and sighed before walking into a cash-grabbing abyss. She felt a quiet sense of relief when it became apparent all stages were empty.
Please, no more Lola.
Crude but catchy hip-hop hits blared on the sound system. This early, even on a weekend, the club was a ghost town. Two men sat in a back corner and clinked glasses of whiskey. Another positioned himself in front of the stage, to ready himself for the next show.
She spotted no more than nine patrons and wondered how long the establishment would remain this dead. The bartender called over in a tone that bordered on agitated.
"You want something?"
She walked in that direction and plopped $7 on the counter.
"Sure, vodka tonic."
Just as he began to pour the drink, lights began to flash. A voice boomed over the loud speaker. "Please welcome to the stage, Skylar!"
Crap. Luis again. What a loser.
It took her a few moments to realize she was also insulting herself, since he had volunteered to fork up $10 to come back for a second look at a stripper she knew nothing about, aside from an approximate breast size, memorable facial features and a name that sounded hokier than the hokey pokey.
Skylar was new to Stephanie but all so familiar. She had a belly button ring, a nose ring and later revealed rings on both nipples. Did she poke a hole in her clit, too, and put a ring there?
Nothing about Skylar's routine felt erotic to Stephanie. The poor girl looked like trailer trash with make up on and amateur dancing skills.
Christ. I could out-dance her. Should I go up there and take a few turns on the pole? Wait, no. What was I thinking coming here anyway?
