by Kirk Alex
She turned again. Tugged at the zipper. Down it went. All the way. Got out of the slick raincoat. Held it out in her hand so that it dangled from her fingertips. Was about to drop it there on the floor, when a couple of dwarfs, miniature replicas of the tip bowl bouncers, in that they were attired like them, hurried out from stage right, carrying a stretcher with the stripper’s gold lamé cape laid out on it like some still and silent anaconda.
They lowered the litter. One of the dwarfs reached up for the raincoat and placed it on the stretcher. They picked up the cape; lifted it toward her. The stripper pretended to refuse to take it—and continued to sing the tune she had paid Petunia Roscoe to pen especially for her:
Sweetie-pie, please don’t be mad at me . .
if all them other boys like what they see . . .
Can’t explain; it’s all in vain . . .
Don’t you see?
All I ever wanted to be . . .
was unassuming lil’ ol’ me . . .
She accepted the cape. As a way of thanking them, leaned down and offered them an opportunity to kiss her on the face, pointing flamboyantly with index fingers that they plant a peck on either cheek. The pouting dwarfs were not inclined. They were interested in kissing something else instead. She shook a finger at them; admonishing: naughty, naughty.
Giving in finally to their insistence, she turned, sticking her rear out toward the audience. Swung one forefinger, then the other at either buttock. Held them there. Ear-to-ear grins appeared on the dwarves’ faces, as they stood on either side of her and each planted a kiss on his half of her behind.
They straightened, while smoke wafted from beneath their turbans and out their ears, up through their collars.
The stripper turned, facing the audience, with a look of exaggerated shock on her face. Watched as the dwarfs lifted their turbans, while down below artificial penises stood at attention. More steam followed—and both dwarfs, clutching at their hearts in mock pain, staggered in place, and fell flat on their backs.
Oh my, did I cause that?—said the expression on the stripper’s face, while two hotties in stiletto heels and short, tight Red Cross nurse’s uniforms rushed out. Rolled the mini-men onto the stretcher and carried them away.
The stripper recovered from having witnessed the dwarves and their “heart-attack” stunts. Adjusted the cape, making certain her goodies were good and covered.
They say I’m too much . . .
Gotta have your touch . . .
It’s plain to see . . .
nothing else works for me . . .
She swayed those hips from where she stood in place, hard, out to one wing of the stage, then the other.
Paused long enough to turn, raised the cape and shifted from one leg to the other, one hip to the other. This is what they were here for: hips and thighs; her long legs, the gyrating pelvis.
When she turned, facing them, leaned forward to give a good glimpse of what was inside that bra. Any man would have gladly given up a month’s worth of paychecks to be able to get his lips around those nipples, then go south for a taste of that juicy quiff and butt hole.
Paper money was dropped into the bowl. She winked to the donors. Crossed her arms, concealing the forty-four-inch bust again with the cape. She turned her back to the crowd, spread the cape, raising it high enough to showcase her killer caboose.
The swaying started anew, and she stayed with it. The crowd encouraged her to the point she felt a strong need to please, in spite of what her attitude was about stripping in a joint like this. It was not a Paris stage, or some fancy Vegas showroom. Still, she was wanted. These were ass-men. Men who knew and appreciated the sight of a great rear end. A lot of brothers and Hispanic males, some whites, mostly European white guys, went nuts over a wide ass with a narrow waist.
This was her type of crowd. She was not only admired for her bosom, but her behind as well.
A lot of white boys in America only tended to go for tits, the bigger the better. Didn’t seem to matter to them if they were fake, either. Didn’t bother them if the woman didn’t have good legs or even any kind of shapely derriere.
She never understood it. Too many strippers had toothpick legs and a boney ass, ugly tattoos and piercings; it was baffling—and yet too many hillbilly types like Roscoe didn’t seem to be bothered by it, so long as the woman had the huge “knockers.” Wasn’t put off if the chick was fat, had varicose veins and a cellulite keister even—so long as she had “major jugs.”
Well, what she had was all real: front and back. Including hair. Would never consider wearing a wig, false eyelashes, or contacts. No reason for it. That was for chicks who had to continually “improve on” what wasn’t there to begin with.
Bottom line: these were her kind of people, men who valued a woman with her unique measurements. The idea was to please her admirers to the best of her ability and she put much effort into doing so. Sure, she would have preferred being in London or some other part of Europe as a member of an extravagant musical review. It would happen. She had to bide her time.
She gyrated some more. Did slow pumping of the air with the pelvis. When she turned to face them, the cape was over the bustier and the 38 EE cups within the bra part. She froze, a hip aimed at the audience. She had a thumb and index finger on the zipper of her skirt and began the slow descent with it. Paused halfway down. Went further.
Had the zipper nearly all the way down, then slowly, gradually, in uber tease fashion, pulled it back up. Took her hand off the zipper and waved an index finger back and forth at them for being not only naughty, but wanting to corrupt her in much the same way.
Moans and groans followed that drew a smile from her.
“My my, you are a nasty bunch, aren’t you?”
Wolf whistles and hoots ensued.
“Take me home, baby.”
“Gimme a peek at that whisker box.”
“Casbah Hideaway is full of horndogs tonight.”
“You breakin’ my heart, mama.”
“ASS TO DIE FOR.”
She turned again, giving them her backside. Went for the zipper once more. And this time, even though she drew it out for all it was worth, she stayed with it all the way and the spandex mini skirt dropped to the stage, revealing black bikini panties and garter belt. She kicked the skirt confidently to one side, and bent over to give them a better view of what they craved.
One of the dwarfs ran out, picked up the skirt, and made a clumsy effort to cover up her behind with it, and was soon hauled away by his diminutive pal, who dragged him off stage right.
You know your body leaves me . . .
craving for more . . .
It’s only you I do this for . . .
She danced, accentuating every move. Covered her body with the cape, then opened it wide enough to reveal what there was. . . .
At some point her hand went to a side zipper on the bustier. Did a slow tug downward, and the bustier came off, leaving her in bra and panties, fishnets and garter belt.
The dwarf was back out again, attempting to cover her up. The other dwarf came chasing after the first. Yanked him away. Had to punch him out and knock him on his butt to stop him, then with the bustier draped over the knocked out dwarf’s face, grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him off stage.
It was time for the bra to go. She had teased and tortured them enough with it. While clutching the cape closed over her bosom and the rest of that part of her body in her left hand, she undid the bra beneath with her other hand, withdrew it, held it above her head and spun it and sent it flying into the same part of the stage the mini men had disappeared off to earlier.
By the time she opened up the cape and revealed the unencumbered tits, the crowd was in hooter heaven. There was something there to please all of them: breast men; leg men; men who liked their women with personality and looks. What LaBelle of the Ball was about.
The fact that her nipples had those heart-shaped pasties over them did not seem to bother her salivating
audience any. They were seeing what they needed to see: full and thick, all-natural 44 Fs, hanging freely, inviting, begging to be sucked and fondled. If only that were possible. Where was the legendary Russ Meyer to see this? Where was the incorrigible tit man? More than a few fans of his flicks wondered about that. Meyer knew how to cast his films. No silicone, no babes with pretzel thin chicken legs or skeletal posteriors, off-putting tattoos and disgusting tongue bars.
Peaches leaned over. Shook her torso from side-to-side, letting them take in her wondrous mammaries as they hung there to be admired by the crowd. She turned, bent over so that her hands were on either ankle, then she ran them slowly up her legs, and back down again. When they slid back up it was inside her thighs that they did so, and over her buttocks and outer hips.
“Mothafuckin’ ho is hot! SHHHIIIIYETTT!”
She rose, facing them. Perched her right hand on her right hip. Hooked her thumb into the waistband of her panties, ran it back and forth, grinning at the crowd, teasing.
“Don’t tell me you’d like to see the panties go next?”
Marvin Muck felt a need to participate. Yelled back for her to do it. “YEAH, BABY!”
“You can’t be that nasty.”
Others in the audience continued to do the same: shouting encouragement. Practically pleading with her to reveal everything.
“Show me some pussy, mama!”
“You don’t really want them to come off. Or need I ask?”
They shouted back in the affirmative. Just as she was evidently about to yank the black panties off, she had that cape over the front of her, and teased them further: should they go, or shouldn’t they? She toyed with them. The band played, spanking her butt. The magic hips swayed from one end of the Cabaret stage to the other.
“I want to hear you beg me to take them off.”
They did. It was not loud enough as far as she was concerned.
“Do they come off?”
“YES!”
“Or do they stay on?”
“NO!”
“I can’t hear you.”
The response pleased her this time. She yanked the panties off, tearing the Velcro strips that held them together at opposite hips, raised them high into the air, and spun them above her head, then flung them at the maddened crowd. Men fought over them. The grateful winner, a horn-rimmed glasses-wearing brother from Hollywood, held them to his nose, huffing as though his life depended on it.
“I can hop the perch now. Don’t nothing be better.”
Peachy pulled the cape back for a moment, revealing the G-string, and the crowd showed their appreciation. More money was dropped into the glass bowl.
The stripper unfastened the cape, bunched the ends into either hand and ran the cape up between her legs, against her crotch. Up and down the cape went, rubbing against the mound that was her cunt. Biggs and Marvin watched in awe. Fought their way to get right up to the stage. There was more to come. Jaws were hanging.
The featured peeler covered up with the cape. Let them all drool and go nuts with desire. This was the trick that so many girls didn’t get: the power is in your hands, not theirs. You controlled the situation, manipulated their hunger for it; intensified their desire by making them go insane with need.
Naughty as can be . . .
Only you can do this to me . . .
Because your body leaves me craving for more . . .
It’s only you I do this for . . .
She happened to look down at the section of crowd directly beyond the foot of the stage for the time being, and Cecil Omar Biggs—with that disturbing clown makeup on his face that he was partial to—like so many males in the lust-filled, rowdy audience, was convinced Peaches LaBelle’s obscenely suggestive gestures were aimed at no one but him.
He believed it enough to slip an envelope to Marvin to place inside the glass tip bowl. Took some doing on Marvin’s part, in that first he had to get past the two steroid-inflated bruisers with crossed arms and Ali Baba outfits and convey his intentions. They didn’t want anyone rushing the stage, like that guy earlier who had assaulted Manic Jello.
Muck paid no mind to the fixed frowns and the shit they wore: turned up pointed shoes, harem pants, turbans, and rhinestone-studded vests that showcased biceps thicker than his neck.
Sissies ain’t all that, thought Base. Could prob’ly kick they fag ass if he had to. Wouldn’t do it, though. Now don’t be the time. Don’t be wantin’ to piss Bigg’ off, neither. Waved to Peachy. Made sure she saw him drop the envelope in the bowl that had lots of cash in it by now.
No matter how intensely the strippers happened to be into their routine, they rarely missed the amount that was dropped into the tip bowl or by whom and were always prepared to wink a thank-you or flash a grateful smile. LaBelle was no exception.
She nodded. Spun around. Swung the cape aside, showcasing the tush and the brown butt crack within, not entirely concealed by the thong part of the G-string.
She turned once again, facing the crowd, revealing the tits—with nothing more than those heart-shaped pasties over the areola and nipples.
Other men dropped bills in with phone numbers attached and the name of the girl they were interested in. Quite a few wanted Peaches, not that they ever would get their hands on her or their peckers in her. All was not lost, though. The luckier ones would soon be visiting some of the other girls in one of the back parlors with a sign on the door that read: Kismet Room — Members Only. PRIVATE.
Pearleen never did like playing that game, never would—to the disappointment of many. She did follow the wink with a come-hither smile (first to Marvin, then to Cecil—whose money she knew this to be). Not that Muck needed the encouragement.
“TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF, PEACH! TAKE IT ALL OFF!”
Instead, she sang:
You know I’m a wildcat in bed, baby,
sex-machine supreme . . .
Sound of her voice, combined with the lyrics, tended to increase the crowd’s existing frenzy.
You’ve got hot moves, baby . . .
that make me scream . . .
and holler for more . . .
Let me be yo nasty little ho . . .
Unlike the other girls, Peaches did it all without need of a brass pole. She had so much natural rhythm that a brass pole would only have hindered her ability to go all out and showcase just what she was able to do with hips and pelvis, not to mention the heavy knockers that hung there like undiscovered natural wonders of the world, which only her audience would soon be privy to gawk at at length.
Strippers like Dione “Divine” Aragon and Stunning Stella Storm, who lacked genuine rhythm, and who truly were only marginally capable as dancers, usually clung to the pole as an in dispensable prop, and did a variety of moves to it, with it, in close proximity of it: humped it, stroked it, licked it as though flicking a massive shaft to orgasm; ran their butts up and down against it—and did lots of swinging from it and around it.
The reality of it was the entertainment-hungry audience didn’t seem to mind, so long as the woman was a hottie and went all out to please with all the salacious moves that she could muster. Peaches was the top-shelf, no question, but there was room for many types—and that niche was filled by the other peelers.
What helped, made a difference, even when the girls were far from impressive dancers, they, to a one, knew how to grind it out, make that luscious mound move; and when they stuck the backside out, to reveal glimpses of butt crack and beaver (thong not withstanding) . . . that was all it took to get the gawkers to start stomping their feet like a herd of buffalo and let go with wolf whistles and shouts of approval.
Pussy still made the world go round; pussy and tits, butt crack and hips. This was what they came to see. Get high, maybe get blown or receive a hand job in the Kismet Room, or else if they arrived with a date, it was step out in the parking lot for more toot and hot sex in the backseat of a car, that is, if they couldn’t wait to get home, or to the motel room.
Peach wouldn’t go near a brass pole. Let McCoy know it when he hired her. Brass pole was nothing more than a crutch. Truth was she had them eating out of the palm of her hand on her own; truth was if the males in the audience, as well as more than a few women, could have had it their way, they would have been eating out something else. And if the stern-faced, two-legged guard dogs in their Pepe La Moco outfits weren’t stationed at the foot of the stage to prevent people from charging it, who knew what might have taken place?
CHAPTER 51
It was time to do away with the cape completely and reveal the tits in their full and optimum glory—sans interruption and/or further psychological torment from here on out.
There was also the rest of her down there: bonus to top all bonuses: G-string, fishnets and garter belt, high heels.
Crowd loved it. The ebony peeler’s wondrous hangers were unencumbered by any sort of actual clothing finally, with the exception of the nipples, which had those heart-shaped pasties over them. Leave something to the imagination.
She turned. Showing more of the backside, while letting the cape dangle from the fingertips of her right hand. Dwarfs ran out and carried it off as if in possession of something holy and precious—and maybe it was.
Peach faced them once more, would never cup the breasts, but did the next best thing; in fact, had just as great an impact as if she had: caressed the areas under the breasts, as well as around, then pushed in from either side against her bosom, hence not only pressing the naturals together this way, but lifting them upwards and leaving the crowd transfixed, practically gasping.
