I am a slut. That's a fact of life for me: a product of upbringing, experiences and genetics so complicated I've learned not to question it. It's just who and what I am. I'm one of those women who love sex even to the point of becoming addicted. It was one of the reasons my ex-husband Greg and I meshed so well.
Greg was a voyeur, a willing cuckold and an open-minded lover. Nothing made him as aroused as talking about other lovers I'd had or even watching me as I pleasured other men. Say what you wish -- I realize it's not something many men can understand. But it made him happy and since it fit so well with my own urges it became a key ingredient in our sex life.
That night, Greg had decided that he wanted to wait at home while I went out clubbing. He even picked out the outfit I was to wear: a very tight, very short little black spandex dress with an open back and scoop neck that displayed my deep cleavage. It clung to my curves like it was painted on and forced me to choose thin, sheer underthings to hide unsightly lines. He also laid out my newest pair of five inch black pumps, claiming they made me look sluttier. The adrenaline raged through me as I put the outfit on, my hands shaking as I considered what I was about to do just to please my husband.
"Be careful," he cautioned me. "You'll be alone, and I don't want you to endanger yourself. Stay in public as much as you can, but before you come home you are to find at least two men and seduce them into having sex with you." Then he handed me a handful of condoms, "Be safe," he ordered. And with a swat on my derriere, he sent me out the door.
Nervous? You bet. I'm no stranger to the club scene, but most of my past experiences had been in the company of a date or my girlfriends. I knew the best spots depending on whether one wanted a quiet drink, good music for dancing or just to get picked up. This wouldn't be the first time I'd cruised for one-night stands. It would, however, be the first time my objective was to find and seduce more than one man in an evening.
As Greg outlined the evening's task, I felt myself flushing with heat. My heart raced wildly in my chest. Mental images flashed through my brain: me brazenly walking into the men's room or sitting on a stranger's lap. Me, in full slut mode letting the men of the club know that I was available for a quick and dirty fling. Me, coming home feeling moist and used, ready to show my husband how wet and gaping I was after multiple partners.
I caught myself almost hyperventilating as I drove to the first club. Could I really go through with this? Would I act like such a tramp that I could coax more than one man into sex? I swallowed, fighting my dry mouth. I had to try. I was on a mission. I had been commanded.
It was a popular spot near downtown called The Blue Room, so named for the blue spotlights that illuminated the dance floor and pulsed in dizzying circles over the gyrating crowd. I had been there before in the company of my best friend Lacey and remembered that it was usually well-stocked with single guys. As I strolled past the doorman (they have a tendency to wave attractive single girls through without question), I realized my knees were shaking a bit. The club was reverberating with the low thump of techno music, the air hazy with smoke and the happy chatter of party goers. I stopped and took a breath as I scanned the room. The crowd was packed together, elbow to elbow. There was little chance I could see much from the door, so I began edging my way toward the bar.
The chill of the vodka collins soothed my throat and restored my nerve. I turned back toward the dance floor, my eyes roaming hungrily over the crowd. Who wants to be my lover? Who has the courage to walk up and ask me? I silently crossed my fingers that whoever approached me first didn't have bad breath, obnoxious manners or a skin condition. I was prepared to take the initiative if needed.
"Hi, mind if I buy you a drink?" His voice was silken, like melted chocolate. I turned my head and met the gaze of his ice blue eyes. His lips were spread wide in the kind of sincere smile that always intrigues me. Dark hair, nice build -- paydirt, so soon?
As much as I was tempted to blurt out my intentions, I didn't want to scare him away. Men may claim they want a whore in the bedroom, but the plainer truth is that they also like to feel they've conquered a challenge. If I made myself too easily available, the delicate mating ritual would be short-circuited and I would go home empty handed.
His name was Dwight. He worked as a financial adviser for a brokerage firm. To his credit, he didn't go into such laborious detail that my eyes glazed over. He held a stable job and made a good salary; he wasn't an axe murderer -- that was all I really cared to know.
I flirted outrageously. When Halie goes into "full slut mode", it's obvious to all but the most clueless male that I'm available. I don't have to say it out loud. The flutter of eyelashes, the raising of a shoulder, the tilting of my head, the soft laugh and the tentative touch of my hand are all signs. I was throwing all my tricks at Dwight, even putting my lips close to him to be heard over the music -- a time-honored way of breathing warm, moist air into his ear.
"Do you want to dance?" came the predictable question.
No, I didn't really want to dance. I wanted to fuck. My hormones were barrelling around the last turn, throttle wide open and engine roaring. But how do I nudge a guy away from the predictable and into my panties? The butterflies in my stomach were gnawing their way out.
I leaned closer to his ear again, so close my lips brushed the lobe. My voice was husky now, deep with seductive allure. "Maybe we should go somewhere else," I suggested. It was as close as I could get to "Why don't you fuck me?" without crossing the social boundary into "cheap whore" territory. This way, he could believe it was his undeniable charm and Hollywood good looks that had gotten him a free pass into my panties.
He smirked. His chest shook slightly with an amused chuckle. "Ok. Let's go," he jerked his head toward the door. He slipped an arm around my waist as we pushed our way through the crowd. His fingers felt like electric probes as they pressed into the soft flesh of my hips.
As he led me across the parking lot, I prayed that he didn't drive a little sports car. I've had sex in those things and they're a recipe for muscle sprains. But I breathed a sigh of relief when he stopped next to a big, black Navigator. As he unlocked the passenger's side, I smiled quietly to myself: we would have more than enough room to roll around!
I stepped high to get into the car and I know he was watching my ass as my dress stretched up over my cheeks. I didn't care. I didn't rush, wanting to make sure he had a good look at what he was about to have. He hurried to move around the big vehicle and climb into the driver's side.
