Between the Lines

Introduction

This is the opening chapter of my first effort for Literotica and, as you read it, you'll probably wonder why I've posted it in this section. After all there is no wife -- loving or otherwise -- to be found here and, to be honest, no graphic sex scene either. I hope that you'll find it intriguing enough to be worth reading however -- and I promise that the reasons for it being here will become clear in a later chapter.

I welcome comments -- but please remember that I'm a virgin at this - and be gentle!

1.

"My wife stuck her foot up my arse during sex last night," I told them and then, after a short pause, "To be fair, she did come in and catch me fucking her sister."

It worked okay and the 'stag' crowd laughed. Believe me, it wasn't all that easy being the compere/comedian filling in between the striptease acts at this place. I took a pull at the cigarette I was holding, (this was back in the days before the health fascists took control!) and waited a second or two. The cigarette had two uses; it was an excellent prop to help my timing and, by lighting it just before I went out front, it lasted long enough to let me know when it was time to leave and bring the girls back on.

"As a matter of fact," I went on, "I met my wife in a place like this. Funny, really; I thought she was at home looking after the kids."

That one went down pretty well, but the timer was burning down. There was just time for a couple more. "I got an e-mail today from a 'bored housewife looking for some action!' So I sent her my ironing."

Louder laughter followed that, and even a slight ripple of applause, so I went for the big finish. "Okay, gentlemen! It's time to reintroduce you to the gorgeous Penny and Paula but first, just remember, when you're fucking the wife and she says "ooh baby, it's huge! Do not, I repeat, do not return the compliment!"

I went off to much more applause than the weak material deserved, but it was soon drowned out with whistles and cat-calls at the appearance of Margaret and Deidre -- alias 'Penny and Paula.' This was their big number and it meant I had a good fifteen minutes to return to my dressing room and grab a small Scotch before I had to do the closing routine.

The first time I'd seen them perform their routine had been a couple of years earlier and I'd seen it again a couple of times since then. Their first set, in the early part of the evening was pretty standard fare; dancing to music with a throbbing beat, they took turns at removing a garment at a time. I mean, I say 'standard,' but the girls moved so seductively that it was a guaranteed trouser-strainer. Even so, it was the second piece that had the all-male audience standing on chairs to get a proper look.

They would step onto the stage in time to the quiet opening beat of Ravel's Bolero, balletic in their movements and dressed in the ornate costumes that were typical of flamenco dancers. Not looking at the audience, or each other, they would slowly move in circles around the stage and keep as much distance as space allowed between them. The girls did everything in perfect time to the music, using the eighteen parts of the piece (I'm not being clever -- they explained it to me!) to remove their clothes, until they were naked and ready for the blaring finale.

That was when they met at the front of the stage, threw their arms tightly around one another, and engaged in the most sensuous kiss imaginable as the final, deafening note of the piece filled the room and the lights went out. Believe me; my description cannot possibly do it justice! It wasn't just that they were so beautiful; it was the sheer poetry of the act that made it so special. The applause was phenomenal and, when they returned for their final bow (they never took more than one), once more wearing their dresses, the place erupted.

Okay? So now, try to imagine that you're a 'comedian' who has to go out there after that, calm the audience of some 150 or so extremely horny men, and tell them that the entertainment's over but the bar will be serving for another half-hour.

So you think you've got a tough job? Okay, standard jokes when it quietens down enough;

"I'm married to a stripper, y'know? Yeah, she takes her off clothes to tease me, takes all my money and won't let me touch her." There's a ripple of laughter, so: "Dating a stripper is like eating a chocolate bar in church: Everyone looks disgusted, but deep down inside they want some too." Slightly better, one more: "The wife and I were using toys in bed, she asked me to put the big 9-Inch one in her pussy. She said it felt great. Then she asked me to put the small one in her ass. 'What small one?' I asked. 'Your cock!' she said."

That got me enough laughs to make the announcements, say goodnight, and get off the stage. I had a half-full bottle (See -- I'm an optimist at heart!) of Scotch still waiting for me in the dressing room but, despite the gags, I didn't have a wife to go home to.

Closing rapidly on the big four-O, I'd been married and divorced twice. The first was a sweet girl who got fed up with me never being at home, and tired of my jokes. After three years she told me it wasn't the kind of life she wanted and, even though there wasn't anyone else, we split up and went our own ways fairly amicably.

My second was a total slut who fucked loads of people, both male and female (well, I guess you don't have a lot of choice when you're getting loads of money for making porn movies!). The sex, as you might imagine, was terrific but, to be honest, there wasn't much else. She eventually left me for one of the producers, retired, and is now living in a tax haven somewhere or other.

I wasn't bothered at the time because my career seemed to be on the verge of taking off. I was given a summer season at a decent theatre in a seaside resort. I had to tone the act right down, of course, because it was a family show: 'Bawdy, but not dirty,' was the phrase and I didn't have any problem at all with that. Halfway through the season, I got the chance for a TV appearance -- which turned out to be a disaster.

Andy Warhol said we all get 15 minutes of fame. I got 8 minutes - edited down to 6!

I could make a load of excuses: the audience was too 'middle-class,' the cameras spent too much time focusing on the audience's (lack of) reaction, and the host even got my name wrong! He called me 'Jack the Lad.' My name is 'Jack de Ladd' -- I'd had it changed by deed poll because I was pretty sure that 'Bert Smith' was never likely to be memorable -- and the asshole got it wrong.

Afterwards, I went out to a bar and got myself steaming drunk. When you're in that state, asking a young policewoman if she was available for a stag night party isn't the smartest thing to do. I spent the night in a police cell and was lucky to get away with a small fine and a 'caution.'

And that's when everything began to go really wrong. It's strange, but most comedians have egos as fragile as a politician's promise -- and I was no exception. My failure on TV made me seek comfort in a bottle and it wasn't long before my comic timing started to slip, the laughs became harder to get, and some of my bookings after the summer were withdrawn. The more that happened, the more I drank -- until the night I completely 'dried' in the middle of my main spot.

I guess I hadn't got over the session in a pub earlier and I was a mess. Without realising what I was doing, I started using different material. It was neither bawdy nor dirty -- it was total filth! The producer brought the next act on quickly -- then came to the dressing room and fired me on the spot.

My agent insisted on sending me to rehab but, by the time I'd dried out, he'd passed me on to a different agent. It wasn't long before I was back on the cabaret circuit, but this time it was smaller venues (and smaller fees!) even though the 'as seen on TV' tag was added to the publicity material.

Five years later, I was still on the circuit. I'd get a full week at a club sometimes but, more often than not, it was a night or two with a lot of travel in between. I didn't have a home: I stayed in hotels because it worked out cheaper and my possessions were kept in a single suitcase. I wasn't fussy about the accommodation as long as they provided an iron and were capable of sending clothes to the cleaners and getting them back for when I needed them.

So that was my life. I'd managed to control my drinking reasonably well but there were times, like that night, when the sheer futility of it all made me want to dive back into the 'water of life.'

I had three days ahead of me with no bookings (I was beginning to have more 'free time' than a schoolteacher) and my hotel was only a couple of minutes away on foot -- so I chose to sit in the dressing-room and prove to myself that I could just sip Scotch instead of gulping it down.

There was a loud knock on the door, it opened slightly and a voice said: "You got a woman in here?"

"If I haven't, I've wasted thirty minutes of valuable time," I answered in my best Groucho voice. It was the manager of the club and he shared my love of Marx Brothers routines.

"Well, I've a young lady wants to see you," he said, "Just wanted to make sure you were decent."

I was about to snap back a funny remark when he stepped aside and the wonderful vision named Margaret (alias 'Penny') stepped into the tiny room. I vaguely heard the manager's voice calling, "You got ten minutes. Some of us have got homes to go to!" But I wasn't really concentrating. Let me tell you why -- and I'll stick to the name 'Penny' from now on.

She was a striking figure -- 5'9" and put together perfectly. Her hair was long, wavy and reddish-brown; her eyes the palest green imaginable. Her face had a 'hard' appearance to it, except when she smiled -- that was when it changed from a beautiful statue to an impish girl. Her body? Well, we're back to 'statuesque' with that. I'd have guessed her top measurement at 38C -- maybe D -- or perhaps that was because she had such a flat stomach and such a tiny waist. Her hips were full -- my word would be 'womanly' -- and her legs were long and curved in all the right places.

At that moment (I can close my eyes and picture it anytime I want to!), she was wearing a pair of jeans that appeared to have been sprayed on her, topped off with an unfastened, black leather jacket over a figure-hugging, white sweater and her feet were encased in a pair of trainers. She gave me a smile and I nearly spilled my very, very cheap Scotch.

I went to get up and offer her my seat (there wasn't room for another one in there, but she waved me down.

"No, don't get up," she said, "This won't take long."

"That's what my wife used to say," I answered automatically, "Every damn time."

It was a lousy line, but she giggled. I'd never heard that sound before in fact, I'd never spoken to her until now -- it was her partner who seemed to do all the talking for both of them. I desperately tried to clear my mind of the slight alcoholic fog that, a few moments earlier, had seemed so welcome as I said, "So -- what can I do for you, errr?

"Penny," she declared, "that's what I prefer to be called. Is it okay if I just call you Jack?"

What? Yes. Yes, of course!"

Naturally, there was a tiny part of my brain telling me that I must be in with a chance here -- that unescorted females would only come to a performer's dressing-room for one reason. Okay, it had only happened to me twice in all the years I'd been in the business: the first was a woman so ugly that even a sniper wouldn't have taken her out; the second one so fat that her only chance of a threesome would have been with Ben & Jerry's.

Penny, though, was so gorgeous that I'd have been willing to do anything she asked; which was why more than 99% of my brain was warning me to keep calm and try not to make a complete tit of myself.

Looking a bit uneasy, she started off with: "I don't know if you've heard yet, but our act is splitting up. My partner's getting married soon, so we've only got one more gig before it's all over." As she was speaking, she looked so sad, that I couldn't help myself.

"Well, if you're looking for someone to replace her, I have to tell you that I auditioned as a male stripper -- and they said they'd put me on the 'short' list. Bastards!" I said, and the reward was another burst of tinkling laughter.

"No -- nothing like that!" she giggled as she reached into her large satchel and drew out a sheaf of papers. "I really want to ask you a big favour."

Fortunately, I was able to keep my mouth shut and my middle-aged cravings under control by just nodding my head and reaching for another cigarette.

"Em, what is it?" I asked, trying to sound casual but knowing I'd only have to look at her to agree, even if it was a thesis on grains of sand.

"Well," she said hesitantly, "It's actually a pilot script for a TV show. My agent rated it highly -- and so did a pretty hotshot producer."

"So why do you want me to read it?"

"Because they both said the same thing -- it needs an injection of humour. I mean, I'm not looking for the kind of stuff you used tonight -- but I know you're a very funny man."

"Well; thanks, but,"

"Look, please, Jack. Just have a read of it for me? I mean, you'll probably see the kind of humour it needs. And if you can help, I'm not expecting to work you nothing. You'll get paid the going rate and you'll get screen credit for whatever you do. Please?"

I wasn't going to turn away, was I? Somehow, she must have known I had a couple of unoccupied days ahead of me, because she gave me a card with her number on and asked me to call her sometime on Tuesday. I nodded, a bit distractedly, turned to stub out my cigarette and, by the time I turned back again she was almost out of the door. I heard the manager's voice shout:

"Would you mind getting up off that fly paper and give the flies a chance?"

"Aw you're crazy. Flies can't read papers," I yelled back as I gathered my bits and pieces and headed off to the hotel.

**

2.

'I rode a bike for the first time in twenty years today. Looking back I wish I'd married her instead of my wife.'

I put a tick alongside that one.

'I was in bed with my girlfriend the other day, when I accidentally called out the name of my first lover. It wouldn't have been so bad if the name hadn't been Electrolux Power Max Super Hoover.'

No. A cross went beside it. I'd worked this club before and knew what they liked and what would be as popular as a turd in a swimming pool. So, as I prepared for the Saturday night performance, going through some lines I'd thought of (and a few I'd stolen from elsewhere), I was fairly confident that it would be a decent night. It was a mixed audience, but I knew they liked raunchy stuff; strangely, the women seemed to enjoy the 'sexist' ones the most.

'The doctor told me I'd become impotent for a while after my operation. I asked him exactly what that meant. 'Well', it's a bit like playing pool with a rope.' That got a tick, and so did: 'My wife came home with a vibrator, waving it about and screaming, "I don't need you now! I don't need you now!" Guess who had to put the batteries in?'

I sorted the full list into a rough order, putting asterisks against the 'savers;' the ones that could rescue me if another one was poorly received, then sat in front of a mirror to practise the timings and the facial expressions.

On the appointed night I'd made a call to Penny, but that had been some time ago and I was pretty much convinced I wasn't going to hear any more about it.

My opinion was that the basis of what she'd written was pretty good. It revolved around a striptease artist who'd become the mistress of an ageing nightclub owner. His death, in a 'turf war' over the sex and drug supply in the area had come as a shock, but not nearly as much of a surprise as the fact that his will had left the club -- and the living area above it -- to her. Naturally, the will was being contested by his son and daughter -- even though they'd been left a lot of money, several legitimate businesses, and a house worth more than a couple of million. All of which would provide a good element of dramatic conflict.

What appealed most, however, was that the new owner was set on rejecting the seedy past and trying to turn it into a classier venue -- one that wouldn't be using criminal activity to enhance its income. Once again, that provided plenty of opportunity for conflict, in that it was fiercely opposed by most of the staff who'd made good money in 'side-lines:' the bar staff from peddling drugs, as well as the waitresses and strippers who'd made extras peddling more personal services; and a couple of dodgy policemen who 'looked after' the place -- for a price.

It was well thought out and well written, but both Penny and the producer had realised that there was something missing. Their view that it needed an injection of some 'throwaway humour' was almost certainly correct but, as I was making notes and adding some lines, I was still haunted by the thought that it still lacked 'something.' It was only when I was speaking to her on the phone, though, that I realised exactly what that 'something' was.

"There's no sexual tension," I told her at the very moment the answer popped into my brain.

"What? What d'you mean?" she snapped, and then, "It's set in a club that's virtually been kept going by sexual services of one kind or another, and...."

"No, Penny; I'm talking about the main character," I explained, "We're talking about an attractive female -- still young -- attractive enough to have captured a guy who was surrounded by good-looking females. She's free, now -- the men are going to be interested and, from the way you've written her, I can't see her retiring to a nunnery!"

"I don't know," she said, not sounding at all pleased.

"Look, Penny," I said, thinking that I was probably blowing any chance of working with her, but determined to offer the advice I believed was right, "Any drama gets a boost when there's a couple in it who might just get it on together. Y'know, it's that 'will they -- won't they kind of tease that keeps the audience watching."

"I'll have to think about it," she replied, sounding very much as though it -- and me -- had already been rejected; and then, "Look, I'll have to go. I'll think it over and I'll be in touch. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay!"

"Right. 'Bye, Jack!" And the phone had gone dead.

It stayed dead until five minutes before I was due on stage that Saturday night. I had it on silent, but it lit up and vibrated noisily on the tiny dressing table so I quickly answered it.

"Jack?"

"Yeah, is that you, Penny?"

"It is. Are you doing anything later?"

"Not really. I could probably slip past the queue of eager young females outside the door if...."

"Half-past twelve. I'll meet you outside." And then it went dead again!

It wasn't one of my very best performances that night. Unprofessional though it may have been, my mind spent a lot of time wandering and my timing wasn't all that it should be. It didn't help that I was having another go at staying dry -- I hadn't had a drink for nearly a week. Fortunately, I had a heckler. Like most comedians, I love them -- and I have a vast store of put-downs that audiences love almost as much as I do.

By the time I'd finished closing the show, there was just time for a quick wash before heading for the back door and, as soon as I stepped out into the cold night air I heard Penny's voice call, "Over here, Jack." As I looked over, I saw her leaning against the driver's door of an Alfa Romeo Spider which, even under the light of a streetlamp, was unmistakably a series 4 model. I didn't know whether to whistle at the girl or the car -- they were both gorgeous!