In the end, I found a cheap hotel room, plugged my notebook into the phone jack, and looked up all the information I could find out about Powerball and the Indiana lottery that I could find. As I had guessed, the headquarters for the Indiana lottery was right there in Indianapolis, and that was where I needed to go to claim my prize. While I was at it, I also confirmed that indeed I had the winning numbers.
I called up my supervisor's voice mail and told her that I had urgent business and had to be out of town for a few days, and that I wouldn't be in on Monday. I tried calling the number Katie had given me, but discovered it was just the number for her apartment. I didn't want to leave a message, not knowing who would hear it.
Frankly, I didn't want to go back to Chicago, either. I knew my apartment was being watched, and that Ruth saw me as a source of income: I really wanted to avoid being grabbed by a mob - even a mob of eager coeds.
I'll "fast forward" a bit here. Now that I was away from the university, nobody knew of my hidden talent, and I felt like taking a break from exercising my anatomy so intensively. Besides, nothing happens in Indianapolis anyway. Suffice it to say that I collected my lump sum payout, transferred it into a number of accounts I'd set up, and flew out to San Diego. There, I checked into a decent hotel near the beach and went about scoping out the place. I had only been to San Diego once before, and it had made a good impression on me, but I realized I knew next to nothing about it. In particular, I wanted to figure out where the good places to live were, where I could buy a house that would have a decent amount of privacy, but without being too isolated. For that matter, I wanted to see if San Diego was really the best place to land, or if there was somewhere else even better. I emailed Katie a few times, but didn't get a response.
After a month or so in San Diego, I was ready to move on. I headed north a bit to the Los Angeles area, and checked into a hotel in Huntington Beach. HB is sort of on the edge of LA, close enough to drive into LA and the surrounding regions, while still giving me a place to "escape" to. And, it was close to the beach. Had to buy a car, so I got a Porsche: not practical, but I wanted something fairly flashy without being too expensive. Insurance on the Porsche was bad enough. Then, of course, I discovered that half of LA drives Porsches (the other half drives BMWs), so instead of standing out I blended right in. Daytime I spent with real estate agents: night times I spent checking out the bars and clubs.
This was my theory: Los Angeles is like one of the plastic surgery capitals of the universe - everyone here is obsessed with image and appearance. There is also a distinctly seamy side to the culture. I figured that there had to be at least one club or bar where most of the clients were "extra-large" guys or women looking for extra size. I wanted to find a woman who would really enjoy my cock at a larger size: so far, nearly all the women I'd gotten that far with had balked at anything more than 9" long, and anything longer sent them right out the door (sometimes before putting on their clothes). Over the months I had developed a strategy. I would check out several bars and clubs a night, several nights a week, walking around at 12" (but flaccid) to see who I could attract. I quickly learned how to recognize a gay bar, before even going inside. Every now and then, I would try the same routine but at minimum extension. Even at 8" I still had some women balk, but at least I got laid fairly regularly.
Then one night, I wandered into a bar (number 3 on my list for the night), and ordered a beer. After a few minutes, I noticed that the crowd was distributed sort of strangely. The bar was full of women, more women than men. Most of the men were relatively ignored: they were standing around looking puzzled, or trying unsuccessfully to chat up the women. A few of the men, however, were either famous or were private legends: there were dense knots of women around them, vying for their attention. On a hunch, I ran out to 15" and walked up to a woman standing at the periphery who had given up on the knot. She was medium tall, with long, wavy dark hair. Down to her lower back. Dark eyes, high cheekbones. Nice chest in a slinky dress.
"Is that somebody famous? I can't recognize him from here."
"Him? Johnny Onze. And that's Bill Zayn, and in the middle of that is Eric Katorze. Nobody you would know, I'm sure." I barely caught her quick glace south. She was about to turn away, dismissing me, but stopped suddenly. "You're new here, aren't you?"
"Well, I haven't been in here before. Just moved here recently."
"Are you meeting someone here?"
"No, but I wouldn't mind" I said with a smile. "I'm Dennis" I said, holding out my hand.
"I'm Lisa."
"So, what's the difference between those guys" I indicated the knots "and them?" indicating the clueless herd.
She led me toward the bar while she answered. "Well, this is sort of an 'athletic' club. The popular guys are stars, while the other guys are just unknowns."
"A popular sport? I don't recognize any of the stars."
"Oh, it's a
very
popular sport. There just aren't that many who are... equipped like them." She nearly sighed. At this point, we had reached the bar.
"You look like you could be a star too."
"If you're one of the fans, I'd be happy to audition."
"I was hoping you would say that." She turned to the bartender, a large blond woman taller than me.
"Hilda, Dennis here is interested in joining. You'll see if he measures up?"
Hilda looked me in the face, and replied simply "Yup." To me, Lisa said "It only takes a few minutes, and I'll be right here. Go on, you'll enjoy it."
Hilda came out from behind the bar, and led me through a "no admittance" door into a back room. She had to be at least 6'4", and I wouldn't be surprised if she was a professional weight lifter. She wasn't fat, and wasn't overtly muscular, but she exuded solidity. I didn't doubt that she could lift me over her head, and guessed that she probably served as bouncer when necessary.
The room was small, furnished with a desk and a bed. The door shut out most of the noise from the bar. It needed air. Hilda sat down at the desk and took out a bound book, like a ledger, motioning for me to sit down on the bed.
"Ok now, your name please?" I would swear she had a Scandinavian accent.
"Dennis"
"Just Dennis? well, that's OK until you are accepted." She asked several more questions regarding my height and weight, my medical history, my current marital status, where I lived, and how I'd found the bar. Then she asked "Now OK, how long are you?"
For some reason, I was surprised. So far, the encounter had been much like a job interview, or filling out a loan application. "Excuse me?"
"Now you and I both know why we're here. No reason to be embarrassed here."
"Well, how long would you like it to be?"
