The Cooie Crumbles

It's called Karma- the spiritual idea that how you live your life and the manner in which you interact with others, will eventually define your existence. Or simply put, "What goes around comes around." Some people just believe in fate. That no matter what you do, your life is pre-determined. My theory was always, "What the fuck!?! Only the good die young." I've always felt that if you've got it, flaunt it, and let the chips fall where they may. The fallacy of youth!

I wanted to have fun. And when puberty had molded my body, I took a long appraisal in the mirror and decided that the easiest way for me to get what I want, and what I wanted to achieve, would be best accomplished if I just took advantage of the assets that I was given.

My name is Julie, folks call me Jewel. At nineteen I had a body that could turn the head of any man that I passed, (and made that other head take notice too.) I had golden hair that I wore long and wavy. And my lithe fingers ran through it whenever I needed to catch the eye of a stranger. My own eyes were a shade of hazel that my father once remarked, could steal a man's heart.

My lips were plump and full and when necessary, I would delicately suck the bottom one into my mouth like a little girl, but I was way past little girl ideas. I would accentuate them with shimmering gloss so that when I feigned a pout, most people felt sorry for me. And my softly rounded cheeks beamed when I smiled, though it was said later that they were perfectly made for giving blowjobs.

But my greatest attribute was a set of firm full 34Ds that looked demurely enticing in tight sweaters and positively sinful when enhanced with push-up bras or tightly laced corsets. From that time on, whenever I chose to play it up, I never had to pay for drinks or stand in any lines. When I began to buckle on leather gear and sport calf-length boots on my long, toned legs, men just fell all over themselves to do me favors. On the whole, I was one hot sexy bitch. And I knew it!

Though I was a fairly bright student who enjoyed reading and politics, I quit school as soon as I could and seemed forever to make some highly questionable decisions. I was drinking with older men at a young age and spending evenings with shady characters. Amazingly, I never fell into drug-use or was physically harmed in any way. Though I was initiated into the seamy side of life at an early age. Both of my parents tried to keep me on the straight path with references to religion, health and morality, but I enjoyed a much louder, lively existence than they could be expected to tolerate. The common refrain around our house was, "Julie, be a good girl and settle down, please. You don't want to get a reputation, do you?"

When I gave birth to a son out of wedlock at the age of twenty, they became unintended grand parents and guardians while I was just short of an unfit mother. I continued to run around and was rarely home at night. Eventually they wanted nothing more to do with me and we agreed that my son might be better-off if I weren't around. About two years later, I married "Butch," a biker whom I met while dancing at a local dive bar. There were fast times and we had fun. And while I did really like him, there were so many others that passed through at that time.

Butch died in a confrontation with police, leaving me the unlikeliest of widows. A lawyer that I was sleeping with at the time convinced me that I should file "A Wrongful Death Suit." Eventually the case went to trial and some of Butch's riding buddies who were also arrested in the incident, were compelled to testify that I was an "Unsavory Companion," and not entitled to any payment.

It took a few years for the verdict to play out in court, and by then I was defended by a court-appointed lawyer who I was not fucking and couldn't care less about my case. I was sitting at the defense table with my parents and my estranged ten-year old son in attendance when the "friends" of my late husband took the stand. This was the moment that a litany of my past history was dredged-up and my lawyer either didn't know that he could object or didn't care.

One of the guys, "Shake" was granted leniency in his own sentence if he spilled the beans against me. He started fast and it went nitro from there. "Oh yeah, I remember when Butch first brought Jewels into the Club," his story began. "She didn't need no pushing, Butch just told her who to begin with and when to start." There were guffaws all around and the judge banged his gavel like he was Willie Mays. Then, as my folks squirmed in their seats, not believing that these disgusting details could be aired in open court, Shake continued with the tale of how I pulled my first train.

When their attorney asked if I was on drugs or being blackmailed in some way, Shake simply replied "No." He went on, "When we used to go to that strip club where she danced, she would meet us out back between sets, and maybe hit a joint with us. But mostly she would just suck our dicks and tell us we could have whatever we wanted from her, as long as we tipped her well when she danced. She was nothing but a cock-whore!"

The judge pounded his gavel and the jury laughed. There were murmurs and gasps from the crowd. And I saw my mother cover my son's ears with her hands, as she trotted him up the aisle and out of the courtroom. That was the last time that I saw either one of them. My father sat through the rest of the day, his face burning red with embarrassment and rage. He tried to sink down in his seat to deflect the critical stares he was receiving. He could by now, probably have imagined the life that I was leading but he didn't need it amplified and repeated in a way that was certain to create headlines.

Another guy, "Boomer," went into even further detail and the city court will probably never be the same. With a little prodding from their attorney, Boomer attempted to describe exactly what he remembered in his rather "earthy" language. The judge needed to consult a thesaurus to clean-up the crude terms and yet allow the jury to understand every lewd reference and bizarre detail.

In plain speaking, it went something like this: "That bitch didn't mind being naked and she'd sit on your lap or crawl between your legs if it could get her anything. Infact, even when sucking one guy's cock, she would twist and turn so that she could handle another one, while letting other guys fuck her. Sometimes she was working the gang, other times she just enjoyed it. The sex got her off. The kinkier the better.

She didn't care if you wanted to squeeze her boobs, pull her hair or slap her ass, as long as you made her cum and mostly so she didn't have to pay for nothing. I never knew why Butch married the whorey cunt, he was getting more on the side anyway and she fucked and sucked five guys a day." A lot of this was lies. But I had nobody to vouch for me.

Even I squirmed in my seat a few times as I felt my dad's eyes burning holes in the back of my head. And the people in the jury box pointed and stared while my lawyer said nothing. Though a couple of the older men were seen adjusting their cocks in their pants and every one of them leered at my tits. I'll bet they would have handed me their business cards if they could have gotten away with it. I merely sat there in my plain white shirt and school-girl skirt as if this modest outfit would cover my past. There really wasn't much more that I could do, since the stories being told were basically the truth. The strange thing was that my "reputation" had nothing at all to do with the jury's award. I think that the insurance company felt that discrediting me would make the shooting seem somehow justified. I got the money. And my lawyer thought that he should get laid as part of his fee. Sorry dude, you did nothing to earn a piece of me.

I remember the first time that a man brought me into that strip club. It was called "The Pussy Cat." That man was named Charlie, and he was married and had grandkids. Not the first married man that I fucked but probably the nicest (and the richest.) By that time in my life, family and morality held little meaning for me. A whole lot of people didn't find them to be such sacred customs, I don't understand why I was so singled-out. Anyway, this was well before my court case, when I had essentially cut myself off from my folks and if Charlie was having trouble in his marriage, who was I to lecture. He was okay to be with and the sex was quick and easy. I was in this for me.

I wasn't exactly Charlie's mistress. I was actually a bit naive to know that I could have exerted a lot more leverage in our sordid little tryst. Things were fine. He spent money on me and took me places and since I was fucking him already, we both seemed satisfied. He knew that I was not exclusive to him, but I added excitement to his boring existence, and I understood that if I wished to "dine" in upscale spots and wear nicer jewelry, I needed to put-out.

A typical evening with Charlie was a night when his wife was at her bridge game or at the symphony with her girlfriends. He would call me the day before and mention "casual" or "dressy." On formal nights he would take me to some high-brow place where he knew the Maitre d' and had a private table reserved. I would wear an outfit that he bought for me. Often a slinky, satiny dress- low-cut and slit up the side- with jewelry and heels. We would sit in a curtained booth where he introduced me to delicacies like lobster, steak tartar and oysters. And we would have fancy desserts and after-dinner drinks. I would introduce him to public sex.

After a nice meal, he would reach an arm around my shoulder in a move I was supposed to believe, that he was just stretching, and then say something discreetly raunchy like, "You know what would make this dinner complete?" Then I would feel the light pressure on my neck, easing me down to his lap. I would unzip his trousers and take hold of his cock. I had never seen one before that had grey pubic hair and wasn't fully erect when I released it. But I was now used to Charlie. Alcohol really affected him and in fact his cock fully enlarged best, when I whispered dirty things to him or told him stories about other men that I'd fucked.

Charlie only took me to places that his wife would never frequent. Or else, his generous tips bought the silent discretion of people who knew him well. I figured that with dinner, the dress and all, he had easily spent $300.00 on me. That entitled him to a blowjob, no matter how repugnant I might find the procedure.

I understood that the first step to having sex with a married man, was to never wear heavy perfume or to allow any pictures. Plus, when you're "giving head," make certain to wipe-off any trace of lipstick. You can't send a man home to his wife with a red ring around his cock!

So, tenderly gripping his semi-limp organ with my fingers, I casually lowered my head to where it was hidden by the tablecloth. Between darkened booths, dim lighting and full linen, I think that most of these upper-class joints were designed for a sexual rendezvous. I had to hold his pathetic cock gingerly, until I could get it engorged and ready for action. I would begin to lick his rubbery shaft and kiss his wrinkled balls until they began to expand. A few more pumps and my head rocking up and down, then we could both enjoy our desserts. Sometimes, to help the effort along, because though I liked sex and I liked Charlie, when his pants were down and his wallet was closed he wasn't exactly my type, I needed to employ special tactics.

I started to whisper some exotic details mixed with assorted dirty words to stir his interest. "Does your wife tongue your balls, the way that I do? No? Aww that's too bad. I always have to start at the bottom when I'm sucking you, because the head of your cock is so big, it hurts my jaw. If you're going to cum in my mouth, just let me know. Some guys that I've sucked, don't tell me until it's too late and I end-up gagging and spitting the cum all over their shoes. But your cum is so sweet, I like the taste and I don't want to miss a drop."

This silly patter usually helped him along and made for a much smoother night. One time I got a cramp in my fingers from jerking him so long, and we were both terribly embarrassed. If I get him off, he's happy. Later in the car, he can play with my tits if he wants, but if he hadn't been able to cum, he would want to fuck me in the back seat. I think just to soothe his ego. Sex with an old guy in a car, isn't all that great.

Other nights, he would like to take me "slumming." Charlie didn't really know how to dress-down. Starched Chinos or a button-down shirt worn loose at the collar, was as "relaxed" as he could tolerate. But he liked to see me in casual attire. On this occasion, I was wearing faded jeans with a few holes in strategic places and cork-soled platforms with 3-inch heels. On top I wore a hot-pink halter that hugged my body and had a generous scoop front that revealed considerable cleavage and allowed the rounded tops of both boobs to bounce freely, since I knew that he liked to show me off without a bra. My long hair was knotted in a loose ponytail and tucked under a ball cap. And I had on only lipstick and eye liner.

We went to "The Pussy Cat." It was not a modern show bar. This was probably a last-chance dive that had a small, raised dance platform where a pole was added, and a place to spin records. It was dark, old and smelled of urine and pot. The crowd resembled parolees on Spring Break. A general mixture of bikers and construction workers with a sprinkling of dopers and delinquents. But I was always drawn to the muscular, sweaty, boot-wearing outlaw type. For me, it was a target-rich environment.

The dancers came on stage wearing furry cat ears and in spotted or tabby-striped robes, but soon not even that little touch of class was left to the imagination. There were some women in the crowd, but they were more scary looking than the guys. Some were so tattooed that they seemed nearly blue. Chains, piercings and floppy tits were displayed in abundance. They were often putting on a more obscene performance than the dancers. One woman, (atleast I think it was a woman,) was on her knees with her back to me, apparently sucking-off some guy who looked like a sooty Santa Claus.

Charlie seemed highly charged and anxious to gauge my reaction to this "den of perversion" as he labeled it. Possibly, he thought I would be so frightened that I would cling to him. Or maybe he believed that I would become overly stimulated by all of the sexual foreplay, and that I might proposition one of the scaggy dancers.

At twenty-two years old, I had probably been coming to these types of sleazy hangouts, longer than he had. I've eaten pussy and undressed in a room full of men, but only for my pleasure or for money. I knew when we walked in, that Charlie would attempt to persuade me to take the stage, he continually mentioned that it was "Amateur Night." I didn't see that I would get much fun out of the evening, but he made me another offer. He put $200.00 in my purse and stated that he would match whatever amount that I made, if I would dance a set. Now, he was speaking my language.

I was a little nervous when they announced my stage name, "Pink Kitty" and told the crowd that this was my "first time." But I wasn't nervous for the usual reasons. What troubled me was that I was unprepared. Aside from shoes and cap, I was only wearing three articles of clothing. Somehow, I would have to tease the crowd into tossing money on to the stage while slowly disrobing through the course of four songs. I would also need to find a way to appear sexy while struggling out of tight-fitting jeans, all the while pretending to display atleast some measure of dance rhythm, long enough to build a little nest egg, to a crowd that was already witnessing hard-core action right in the seats.

The music started as I climbed the stage. Fortunately, something jazzy and slow. The first thing to come off were my shoes, though a quick thought of the kinds of disgusting residue and stains I was stepping-in, hurtled through my brain. Spinning on my toes and high stepping to the sultry beat, I found my first sucker. As I paraded to the edge of the dance floor, one of the dusty, older worker-bees, mumbled that I had pretty feet. My nails were painted pink like my fingers and lips, in an attempt to co-ordinate with my top. My brows arched and for a brief second, I pondered my bare feet. Nothing special I concluded, they're not flat, hairy goblin feet (thank goodness,) but if this is what he noticed...

From the stage, I concentrated on this guy. The platform that I was on was about three feet above the floor and they were sitting at low tables. I rubbed my feet along his cheeks and my pink toes combed through his hair, I even allowed him to suck on my toes. (I've done worse things for free drinks.) Each time his nasty mouth touched my foot, I hid a revolted smirk, but he threw money on the stage. Soon, fellas on the other side were whistling and begging for my attention. When cash rained down, they caught my eye.

As I danced to that side, I flipped my cap like a frisbee to the audience and took a few cautious spins around the pole, letting my blonde hair fly and swirl around my head. The boys liked that and were quickly hollering for me to take-off something else. I licked my glossy lips and made the universal sign of rubbing my fingers and thumb together, and more currency floated down on me.

I could see that Charlie was warming-up to my performance, and hopefully his little cock was getting animated so that I wouldn't need to work as hard when this shift ended. Tomorrow he would probably be telling close friends about the little stripper-slut that he knew, (without getting to admit that he fucked her, too.) I also captured the eyes of a leather and chain crowd at a small table, and one in particular held out a portrait of Andy Jackson and requested gruffly that my shirt be the next thing that I ditched.

I sashayed across the stage wiggling all of my curvy parts and enticing the boys to toss as much money as I dared, considering that I was still fully dressed. So, I shuffled over to the big one called Butch and bent as low as I could, permitting him to peer down the front of my shirt. Then I tucked my fingers under the hem of the pink cottony material, and slowly lifted it, stopping and starting a few times until the bouncy bottoms of my full breasts came into view. My stomach muscles were taut and glistening with sweat and the heftiness of the soft globes could just be seen as they settled above my ribs.

I was probably the only girl to take that stage who had no tattoos, piercings, scars or implants. Just firm, bronzed skin that shook gently in erotic gyrations as my hips grinded to the sensual beat of the music. Through the "wolf calls" and some rather crude suggestions of where some of them would like to insert their cocks, it was apparent that I had an appreciative audience.

I traipsed over to Butch, watching a small smile form on his lips as his brown eyes met my green ones. He was up and reaching, while I was on my knees and strategically dodging, and a passion heated-up between both of us. His fingertips just brushed against the protruding mounds only barely concealed by my light, sweat-dampened halter. I jumped back and sprang to my feet, spinning on my toes. Turning my back to him I tantalizingly lifted my shirt to my neck. Butch's table could only see my naked back and my long, blonde locks hung half-way down, obscuring their view of that. They hooted and shouted for more. The guys in front of me were pounding the stage with their fists and clapping as they stacked cash on the platform or stuck dollar bills in their mouths tempting me in their direction.