Where the Streets Have Names
The sunlight lovingly caressed my breasts as I removed the top of my bikini. Quinn was already completely naked and laying on top of a towel, having quickly shed her tee-shirt and shorts. This wasn't my first-time topless on a beach. Dave and I honeymooned in the south of France, and I'd gone native for a week. Quinn had a complete tan without a single disruptive line on her nearly flawless olive toned skin. My own breast betrayed their lack of exposure by being two shades paler than my face.
Looking around, there were other people soaking up the sunshine, almost all completely naked. I felt overdressed even in the tiny bikini bottom I still had on. I slipped it down my legs and past my feet. I laid on my back and spread my legs a few inches apart. This was my pubic mound's first acquaintance with the soothing rays of the sun. It felt sensual and inviting.
Quinn, also lying spread eagle on her back pointed to my toe nails. We had by pure coincidence exactly the same shade of red nail polish. We giggled at the odd chance that we shared certain things like that in common.
"How did your date with Dave go in the parking garage?"
"Oh, you mean my turn with my meal ticket?"
She laughed at my clumsy attempt to use the lingo of the trade.
"Dave talked about the BJ all the way back to the motel. He said it was the best he'd ever experienced. And it was so easy for me."
She grinned. "You took control. Way to go. Did he get into the watchers?"
"I didn't tell him about those. I sure did. I've been fantasizing about it every time I get fucked now. When we left the attendant was totally leering at me."
"I've been there a couple of dozen times. Some of my tricks get off on other people watching. One guy called it - performance art."
A few men walked by as we chatted away. Some ogled us, but none tried to hit on either of us. "That's what I like about nude beaches, Quinn said. "Everybody's naked and the weirdoes stay away. I can lay here nude all day, and no guys bother me. I put on a swimsuit and go three miles south and I get hit on at least once an hour. I imagine it must be even more for you."
"I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"You know you look like that chick. That pretty blonde on the show about the three nerds. Guys have got to be all over you just for that alone. You even use the character's name for your professional alias."
Quinn wasn't the first to say I looked like a celebrity. I didn't really see it, but I've always been overly critical about my looks. "You might be surprised. I get my share of attention, but I must give off a married woman vibe."
"When has that ever stopped some dude from hitting on a woman?"
My curiosity got the better of me. "Do you have a boyfriend?" I realized immediately; we may not know each other well enough for me to ask.
Quinn seemed unfazed. "Not at the moment. I have periodically, but it's difficult." She waited to see if I'd ask the next obvious question. I was afraid to verbalize it.
She answered anyway. "Some men know what I do. It's a problem when they suddenly decide they can't handle it. It's worse when they like me doing it. Oddly, more men like me fucking other guys for money, than not. As I say, most men are freaks. It's a whole Freudian thing that usually gets complicated."
"What if they don't know?"
"That has its pitfalls, too. There's the obvious deception and explaining the odd hours is difficult. It's hard to find the right balance. When I retire from the business, I'll get a steady guy. Maybe one that isn't all that much into sex."
"There are guys like that?" We both laughed and enjoyed the warmth on our naked bodies.
~ ~ ~
It turned out Dave managed to come up with an idea for our next date. It grew out of the parking garage scenario. I wasn't all that wild about it when he described his plan, but he insisted we try it.
Quinn would have hated the concept. She despised streetwalkers and everything that goes with them. She could go on and on about pimps, white slavery, lack of free will and a variety of other social ills. I never mentioned Dave's plan to her. Even though I was just going to be pretending at street hustling, she'd have tried to talk me out of it. Maybe I should have brought it up.
In theory the plan was simple. There was a section of the city, mostly centered around Broadway, that was known for the late-night activities of street walkers. Dave would drop me off, dressed like one. I'd walk a block west while he circled back. He'd solicite me, and I'd lean up to the car to negotiate my price. After that, I'd hop into the passenger side, we'd find a secluded spot, and I'd provide him with a blowjob that he'd been so taken by. The entire thing should have taken less than a half hour. I'm sure many others have run this pretend sequence successfully with satisfactory results.
Did I mention, I hated the idea? At night, this section of Broadway was seedy and filled with undesirables. When we arrived, the streets were bustling with activity. Dozens of strip clubs, adult book stores, all-night tattoo studios and dive bars lined the wide sidewalks; all with garish neon or ugly backlit signage, advertised their assorted nighttime attractions. Skivvy looking men and a few women milled around aimlessly outside.
A night club at the corner, had a queue of couples behind crimson red velvet ropes waiting to qualify for admittance, as its loud urban music radiated from the open door and drowned out the silence of our vehicle as I looked for a secure location to disembark. In my short black moleskin skirt and backless blouse, I was actually overdressed compared to some of the women standing in the line. Dave suggested this might be a good spot. "Safety in numbers."
"No, I don't want a crowd watching as I proposition a John." I was ready to pack it in for the evening.
