by Kirk Alex
The following motion may have been awkward for other girls of her size to accomplish, but not for Peachy. She was graceful, perfect example of fluidity and control, as she arched her shoulders back, and lowered her head down toward the stage floor, so that her presently out-stretched arms and fingers touched it and she eased the crown of her head back this way, so that it, too, rested against the stage and her glorious mammaries were pulled back by gravity to either side of her torso.
Now that she no longer required her hands for support, she lifted them from the floor and swung them in dream-like slo-mo fashion against either hip and inched them ever-so-gradually down toward her outer, then inner thighs and began to caress the outline of the patch of cloth over the swollen mound that was the most-prized, if not priceless, part of her anatomy.
Her delicate and feminine fingers remained down there, along the perimeter of the mound and she began with gentle and deliberate thrusts, pumping the air this way.
She may not have been driving the universe to orgasm, but she certainly was goading the ever-willing crowd in this direction.
What it was about, what it was they had come for. Forget their nine-to-fives for a while, back rent, car insurance that was due, physical and emotional ailments, auto repair bills, money owed the dentist, money owed the ex-wife or some Gardena loan shark, phone bill that had yet to be paid the phone company—and all the other crap that pulled you down. You came here, saw a fantasy woman like Peaches LaBelle roll around on stage in simulated throes of ecstasy and all the weight on your shoulders, all that everyday strife that stressed you out during the week dissipated like a puff of smoke.
The ebony goddess knew well enough and was clever enough not to make them wild, frantic thrusts, instead slow and controlled—and she stayed with it, squeezing every precious ounce out of every move and moan until she had the crowd stomping their feet to the point the Ali Babas on either side of the giant tip glass began to show signs of apprehension. If the crowd turned into a mob and suddenly decided to lose control, they knew in their anabolically inflated arms and pecs that there wouldn’t be a damned thing they could do about it.
Fortunately, it didn’t happen. Audience was having a good time. Nothing out of the ordinary going on, no signs of an actual, impending riot. Crowd was crazy/vociferous, but not insanely out of control. Some wildness was not only to be expected, but had to be accepted. They paid their cash to cut loose a little, let their hair down. Had earned the right.
Bouncers’ foreheads glistened with perspiration, but they maintained. Let it go.
Marvin was yelling. “DO IT, SUGAR-BUSH! DO IT!” Crowd joined in, echoing same.
“HOW MUCH, BABY? HOW MUCH YOU CHARGE TO LET ME PARK MY MUSTANG IN YOUR GARAGE?”
“LIKE TO PUT MY CUBAN MISSILE UP THAT BITCH’S CULO, NO SHIT!”
I just want to be your nasty,
one and only true ho . . .
Ooh baby, baby . . .
Sometimes I like to tease . . .
Ooh baby, baby . . .
It’s only you I love to please . . .
She wouldn’t remove the G-string, which they clamored she do. In fact, she couldn’t, even if she had wanted to, which she didn’t. This was not that type of club, nor was it legal. Never mind that a lot more went on elsewhere in the back that she wanted no part of or wanted to think about.
Peachy did the next best thing, that in all reality, quite possibly worked far better on a psychological level. By caressing her inner thighs, and sitting up, she pushed her breasts together as she had before, gingerly running the tips of her fingers over the presently-hardened nipples behind the pasties, while keeping her eyes closed.
She may as well have been pleasuring herself. What the crowd did not know, would never be aware of, as far as she was concerned, she would have been terrific with or without them being there simply because she was good at what she did because she had to be. It was a job, a job she knew how to be very effective at.
She tilted her head back, sighing, gently thrusting her pelvis, her crotch deliberately aimed at the crowd; and then she rolled over on her belly, lifted her behind in order to give them yet another view of it.
She had been around long enough to know the slightest sign of the culo (aka butt crack) drew a lot of men insane with desire, as much if not more so, as seeing coochie. There was a need to taste, lick, worship a well-built woman’s behind and bury their nose and mouth into the elusive crack within. She knew, was absolutely aware of the value of what she possessed.
The pumping of the buttocks continued. She was leaning forward on all fours. Lifted her belly off the floor some more, her chest as well—to showcase the full hangers as they dangled there, cock-stiffening and beyond their reach. She swung them, up and down, back and forth—rubbing the nipples (within the pasties) against the polished floor of the stage.
It was empowering. All the way. This never escaped her. The fact that they couldn’t have her breasts, her pussy and behind. Drove them nuts with need. She understood the psychology of it easily enough. Been wise to it since childhood. Older men had plied her with candy and cash begging for a peek at her “cookie.” Some of them had been clearly pathetic. Too often that’s what they were. How needy they acted. The more they craved what was hers, the less she was inclined to give it up. She didn’t come cheap; couldn’t be bought that way, either (unless she were inclined, and she rarely was). When it happened, the rare times that it did, it was on her terms, strictly.
Some day she would want to settle down. Start a family. Maybe. Only bringing a kid into this world and what giving birth did to a woman’s body, the way it devastated a woman’s figure, was no laughing matter. Not only the weight gain. That was the least of it. Weakened teeth and postpartum depression. Labor was agony. More often than not. Breasts developed stretch marks and went into permanent sag mode, so did the stomach. Not to mention other side effects.
She snapped out of it. Reminded herself to stay focused on what she was doing. Keep the audience wanting, keep them drooling. Couldn’t deny that deep down she did get a charge out of it. Power she had over them was exhilarating. Wouldn’t have surprised her if some had begun to masturbate; wouldn’t have been shocked if they had their hands down there, playing “pocket pool.”
She was familiar with the expression from having overheard military types use it. Pocket pool. Let them. So long as they didn’t go near her.
She engaged in some additional pumping; and (only slightly) exaggerated sighing, as she despised fakery of any sort.
She turned on her back for more of the same: the gentle rubbing of and around the breasts, and then her right hand gradually slid down in the region of her upper thighs and her hips increased their pumping motion with each thrust and LaBelle of the Ball’s steadily increasing sexual state kept building and reaching its peak and she released a moan to top off the previous ones, and then she collapsed against the stage. Absolutely spent. Lights faded to black. Curtains were drawn.
The crowd cheered, wanting more. Always wanting more. They could never get enough of Peaches LaBelle. Applause grew. Was not about to die down. Spotlight came back on. Curtains parted. The high yellow stood there, upstage. Took a few steps down the center of the stage, swaying those million dollar hips. Paused, took her bows. Blew a kiss to the crowd.
As before, fog materialized from above somewhere, as well as the stage floor, and by the time it cleared, so had the stripper. Curtains were drawn closed to ever-greater applause, not that it yielded an encore. There would be no “extras,” not with Ms. LaBelle. “Always leave them wanting more,” someone had said to her when she first started in this business. It was advice she had taken to heart.
Leave them panting for more. Always, leave them in a state of perpetual hunger, and keep your fee up there. No compromise. Only McCoy was far from generous when it came to taking care of the talent. Sure, he paid—when his arm was twisted, and he had no choice. Or else he came around when he was after something, the lech. Greasy
slob was known for it. Plied the girls with gifts and promises, when he was intent on getting his.
SweatBone slipped into Booker T & The MGs’ Melting Pot in order to give the audience a chance to cool down and recover, catch their collective breath and wipe their brows.
CHAPTER 52
By the time the curtain parted fifteen minutes later, the band was into a lively version of Recado Bossa Nova. Fog materialized up from the stage that formed a circle approximately fourteen feet in diameter in an area roughly in the center of it and this same portion of the stage rose by about a foot, followed by three rising brass poles six feet in height, positioned evenly apart. There was the unmoving form of a single female stationed per pole in quasi-silhouette, eyes downcast, as still as statues. The three women were attired in vinyl, mid-thigh raincoats and pumps that matched each woman’s particular hair color.
The fog dissipated by degrees and the round pedestal began to rotate like a slow-crawling carousel and the curvaceous bodies inside those slick raincoats took their time “waking” as it did, with the crimson-hued spotlight presently showcasing the brass pole in the foreground and the raven-haired dancer in the black raincoat whose stage name the regulars knew to be Lana Da Bottom.
The carousel paused momentarily, as it would for each girl in turn, before moving on.
Lana didn’t “seem” to be doing much, merely stood in place, gently swaying those hips—and yet she did exactly what she needed to.
There wouldn’t be a whole lot to take off here, other than the raincoat itself (that would be discarded eventually).
The gyrations were lazy and deliberate. You didn’t knock yourself out right away and expend your energy within a short span of time. No need to rush. Only newcomers worked themselves into a frenzy and ran out of steam before they were supposed to.
She moved what she had in the thigh and hip area. It soon became obvious (to those who had never feasted eyes on her until now) there was quite the figure within that shiny raincoat. And once it came off, on her third trip around on the rotating platform, after she had done her share of teasing prick and beaver alike, and tossed it off to the side, it was evident why the Latina was called “Da Bottom.”
Although not quite in the same league as LaBelle, not that many were, Lana possessed a dynamic figure and had nothing to be ashamed of. Tits and curves were all there. Long legs and that voluptuous behind. No fat on her. In tip-top shape. Pasties over the nipples, patch of cloth (that was part of the G-string) over the sacred bush. In heels. No fishnets or garter belt.
She knew it for a fact: if not for Pearl, she’d have been the main act here. She had rhythm most strippers could only dream of. Was LaBelle’s equal when it came to having command of her body.
She had her hands on either side of the pole, and she ran them ever-so-gradually up, up, up . . . and down . . . down, as if stroking a massive brass erection. Below tended to accentuate what was happening above: she had her pelvis giving the pole slow and deliberate thrusts. If she were accomplished at anything, this had to be it: fucking. She knew how to please a man and wanted the audience to know it.
Although, for the most part by now, the crowd on the dance floor were engaged in just that: dancing, every so often more than a few of the males would stop to take in what Lana was into up there on that carousel and yell out approval.
The stage rotated, and Da Bottom stayed with what she was doing, in partial shadow or not, as one of the other dancers was eased into the rose-hued spotlight and became prominent. The carousel slowed to a stop at this point. It was Stella Storm’s turn, the henna-haired babe in the fire-engine red raincoat. Built well enough. Lacking genuine rhythm. This was also true. Not that it mattered to the horndogs. She had her share of fans in the audience, and did what she was supposed to to deliver. Her admirers were here to see her in person. Knew her from the hardcore vids she did. Porn starlet was second-to-none when it came to giving head in all those fuck-fests she did on tape. Seeing her live was a treat and a real thrill. Men loved her. Didn’t make a bit of difference to them that she couldn’t dance worth a damn or that better than 50 percent of the video titles she was in were with women.
The disk-shaped pedestal moved again, resuming its slow crawl until the spotlight was on Dione Divine. Color of her heels and raincoat was a shade of platinum and as bright as a Dutch van Gogh sunflower that not only complemented but enhanced the natural, sunny waves of her own breathtaking locks. Marvin liked her well enough. Couldn’t help it when his eyes caught sight of something else he could be interested in: off-stage and a lot closer, possibly approachable, and he made every effort to make eye contact with a good-looking black hostess with violet contacts and a wig with auburn highlights who was not impressed in the least and was not shy about letting him know it.
This did not keep Muck from leaning in conspiratorially, while hustling his crotch. Had a need to whisper in her ear.
“I be packin’ enough for two white mens, or three of them Oriental. You be the judge.”
As far as the woman was concerned, he was as disgusting as they come and made certain he got the message with a look that said as much.
“Yo, sugah-bush. Know why your pussy be close to your asshole? When a ho like you get’ drunk you can be carried like a six-pack.”
“That stupid joke, if you can call it that, is older than the smelly rags you got on.” The hostess proceeded to go about her business.
“Skunk pussy ho.”
Marvin grabbed her by the arm, only to be held back by Biggs in time to prevent a scene from developing. Biggs glared at him, hard, without saying anything, then let go.
“Why we can’t get a real drink, Cecil? Taste of hooch. Anything. Bottle of Michelob. Colt .45. Take the edge off.”
Biggs was no longer looking at him. “I want us both to stay sober.”
“Heard what the bitch said about my skins? Ain’t nothing but a low ho waitin’ table’ in a jive joint and she got nerve to dis somebody.”
“Settle down.”
“I feel like gettin’ tight, man. This ain’t right. See everybody else in here gettin’ down, gettin’ high—gettin’ ready to do the funky-monkey.”
“You just had two beers.”
“Two don’t do nothin’. Don’t even do nothin’.”
Biggs glared at him. “Got any idea what this is costing me?”
“What chu care? You rich.”
Cecil handed him another envelope. Only this one was folded-over and had a plastic baggy in it. Muck stuck it in his pants.
“As soon as Lana Da Bottom and her cute friends finish their number, I want you to go say how-do in their dressing room. Got it? Like we planned.”
“Like we plan’?”
“Yeah, asshole. Like we planned.”
“Got you, homes. What chu want me to say to ’em this time, Brotha Trusty?”
“We discussed this already.”
“Right. I know what chu mean.”
“You better. That shit is not free. I want you to remember that. Use it sparingly.”
Marvin responded with a quizzical look, but then immediately nodded his head when he saw the expression on Biggs’s face that clearly said to get it together.
“Sure thang, Cecil. I could take care of it.”
Muck walked off toward the rear of the club.
CHAPTER 53
The strippers’ dressing room was oblong and disheveled. Left wall was a series of vanities with makeup counter and stools. Closet and john were on the right. Shower stalls were at the far end, also on the right.
Dione Aragon’s lanky husband cradled their eight-month-old daughter Clarissa in his arms (who would not stop crying). The infant did not want the pacifier he wished she would accept. Dione had lit a smoke and was in her bathrobe and desperately craved a chance to unwind.
The baby continued to wave its arms and claw at her daddy’s Stray Cats T, tugging on his collar-length hair and droopy mustache.
“She’s hungry, honey.”
“I know that, Danny. I was hoping to take a shower first. I’m real sweaty. I could use a break.”
Danny nodded. “Sorry.”
Dione kissed her husband on the cheek. She stuck the smoke in her husband’s mouth and took the baby in her arms. She parted her robe and guided a breast inside the kid’s mouth. The baby stopped crying.
“Thank God,” quipped Lana Sepulveda.”Ain’t no place for kids. Really.”
Dione and her husband exchanged silent glances, but said nothing. It would have been out of place for them to object. Circumstances prevailed. It had been a hard two months of day-to-day living, two months of struggle to put enough money together to get their Chevy repaired and think about heading back home. Their number one priority was to get out of Southern California and return to Bakersfield, their home town.
“Why don’t you cool it, Lana,” suggested Pearleen Bell.
Lana “Da Bottom” and Stella “Storm” Martel lit up Virginia Slims and proceeded to empty the huge tip glass loaded with paper money and change on the makeup counter and began to count out the pile that clearly represented a small fortune.
Lana Sepulveda held up Cecil Biggs’s white envelope, flashing the hundred dollar bill she found inside for all to see.
“Motherfucker is loaded. Hundred dollars. Didn’t have to fuck him or suck him off, either. Makes you wonder what the fool would pay for sex these days, inflation being what it is. Should charge him inflation rates for sure.”
“You said it,” Stella said. “I’d like to get my hands on his credit cards. Make him take me shopping on Rodeo Drive.”
“Keep wishing,” said Pearleen Bell. Although the money was just as important to her, she did not take any real pleasure in handling it or even counting it out like Lana and Stella were doing right now. Pearleen’s attitude was: she needed money for life’s necessities; to get by and possibly get somewhere with her stage act. That’s all money ever meant to her. Have a nice little place to live, maybe by the beach somewhere. Maybe a garden to tend, grow her own vegetables, have a cat. . . . She loved animals. Only they were not allowed where she was staying with the others. It was also true, money got you certain other things: toot now and then, when you needed it.
