by Nick Molloy
In the meantime, the stripping continued……….
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I had managed to arrange myself a mini tour in Wales and the west. On Tuesday I would play a place in Bristol, on Wednesday a place in Cardiff and on Thursday a different place in Bristol. Money was tight and the succession of jobs on consecutive nights would save considerably on fuel.
Zoe and I were at the most strained point our relationship had ever seen. She was working full time but simultaneously studying for her Masters Degree. I had seen a lot of hard earned cash go up in smoke whilst people seemed to be queuing up to screw me over. We were both stressed in our different ways and it showed.
We have always clashed over the issue of tidiness. I am tidy and organized. Zoe can be chaotic in the extreme. It had produced a few arguments over the years. Whilst I was trying to run a business from home, Zoe’s chaos was starting to over-run my neat organization. Previously, my complaints would be upheld, now chaos was running amok and my pleas were being ignored. My stress levels were rising.
I was enjoying the strip lifestyle and the thought of again renting out my ass as a suit was frightening in the extreme. I had sat down with Zoe and discussed the possibility of us paying off the mortgage within five years with me working full time as a stripper. Work was increasing and I had made some forecasts. I had historically been the one who had earned the money. It was my wage that had supported us both whilst she got qualified, it was my wage that bought the house, the car, the furniture, etc. Now the situation was reversed somewhat. She had a higher wage, but she was fritting her money away on items we didn’t need. I discussed her spending habits and tried to implement a new plan of action given the reduced income. She wasn’t very interested. It felt like in my hour of need I wasn’t receiving the support I had hoped for.
Having arranged the mini-welsh tour Zoe informed me that she would need the car for the Wednesday. I asked why and she said that she needed it for her Masters Project. We established that it was a work expense. I explained that I had gone to considerable effort to arrange the tour and couldn’t just change the date, so if work required her to have a car for that day she would have to hire one and bill them for the expense.
‘But they’ll just tell me to change the date’
‘Well change the date then’ I said applying logic to the situation..
Zoe hired a car from our own pocket thereby wiping out the fee for one of my jobs on the welsh-west tour. To say I was livid was an understatement. It may also have been a decision that changed the course of our relationship…..
As I was driving along the M4 towards Cardiff I had to open the windows to allow the steam to dissipate that was continually emanating from my ears. It had been a considerable effort to line all the gigs up in succession and she had shown both contempt and disdain for my efforts. Besides her monumental nonchalance, I was affronted in the extreme by the fact that we did not have a huge pot of gold to waste. Money wasn’t yet too tight to mention, but it could get there soon if this sort of behaviour continued.
I arrived in Cardiff, lighter for loss of steam, with my self protection mechanisms enabled and working on lowering my internal temperature. The gig the night before in Bristol had passed uneventfully. A small crowd of cautious gay men had produced nothing new to report.
The Cardiff venue was a large, modern, young person’s club. It was a gay club, but the audience was very mixed with many straight women present. At first I made the incorrect assumption that many women in gay clubs were lesbians. On the contrary many straight girls often attend gay venues. They often claim the music is better. That may or may not be the case, but essentially they get left alone and don’t have to continually escape from the hordes of desperate straight men who haven’t got laid in the last quarter.
Many gay men have a ‘fag-hag’ in tow. Fag being derived from the derogatory term ‘faggot’ meaning a gay man and hag being derived from the derogatory term for an evil woman. Fag-hags are essentially straight women who like to hang around gay men. Their kind are on the increase. I’m particularly partial to them. They tend to have adopted certain values, norms and behaviours from their gay brethren. Notably, they tend to be more promiscuous and sexually adventurous with an overall enhanced liberalization to their general attitude.
I was guided to a small personal dressing room, specifically set aside for artists and performers. It was essentially a large cupboard with a dressing room table in it, set back from the stage. Compared to much of what I had experienced so far, this was luxury.
The stage was large and the crowd equally so. The audience, although predominantly male, had a strong female content. One particularly caught my eye whilst I was performing. A young black girl who seemed as focused on me as I was trying not to be on her.
After I left the stage, the manager kindly returned my discarded costume and I performed my customary equipment check. I was a boxing glove down. I didn’t really want the added cost of replacing them so I hurriedly dressed and returned to the stage. It was nowhere to be seen. I went to ask the manager if he had seen where it might have wondered off to. The bouncer was called and he suggested he might be able to track down the culprit. ‘wait there’, he said reassuringly. ‘I think I can find the girl who has it’.
I spent the next 10 minutes or so chatting to some lovely welsh guys at the bar who were far more forward in their sexual advances than their London equivalents. Finally, the bouncer returned with the black girl, beaming sheepishly, my missing boxing glove in her hand.
After a couple of minutes of chatting rubbish I suggested she follow me whilst I dispose safely of the boxing glove. Upon returning to my dressing room, I found that an almost orderly queue had formed of Welsh women who seemed intent on fucking my brains out!
This was simultaneously both flattering and alluring in the extreme. I attempted to diffuse their intent somewhat by playfully suggesting that they were all lesbians. ‘I am normally’ spouted one ‘but not after watching you tonight’ she continued.
I was somewhat taken aback by their bold front, but I wasn’t sure whether to actually believe their intent. In essence, that girl was writing a cheque that her ass couldn’t cash. All three of these newly emerged groupies were individual to each other, that is, none of them were friends. If they were serious, they were unwilling to share and as a result the competition for attention resulted in a frustrating stalemate for them. They cancelled each other out and drifted downstairs leaving the black girl and I alone.
It wasn’t long before we were kissing and shortly afterwards her head was bobbing up and down on my cock. Half way through the act one of her gay friends walked in on us and promptly ran downstairs, screaming in disgust ‘Stef and the stripper are doing it’. A slight exaggeration, but still…..
I gleaned very little information on ‘Stef’ She was 19 years old and from Newport.
‘I bet you get sucked off by all the girls after your shows, don’t ya’ she sniped
‘ No’ I said truthfully’
‘Liar’ she sniped
‘Although it may be hard to believe, I’m not getting on with my girlfriend and this is the first time this has ever happened’ I added apologetically,
‘I bet you say that to all the girls’ she repeated.
In nine years I had never been unfaithful to Zoe, I had never really put myself in a position that would allow me to be so. Yet, here I was. It wasn’t as if the sexy 19 year old she had fell and accidentally landed on my cock. I took the bait when it was offered, in fact I swallowed it whole.
As I drove away that night a chorus of Welshman began shouting
‘LOOK, LOOK AT THE STRIPPER, LOOK WHAT HE’S DRIVING’
The Impreza had flattered to deceive. A legion of Welshmen probably though I was on £500 a show and my celebrity status for the evening was sealed. As I left the club, a leggy blonde had told me I looked incredibly sexy and intimated strongly that she wanted my cock buried deep within her, preferably sometime
within the next 10 minutes. I thanked her for her flattery but declined to push it any further. I had just emptied my balls inside a woman other than the one I loved. It didn’t seem right to do it again less than an hour later and I distinctly remember feeling strangely affronted by her interest. I have never gone for blondes, but my reticence was more to do with a feeling of being a sex object. Although I would probably never feel it again, I felt like saying, ‘I have a brain too you know’.
As I drove away I felt a strange sense of achievement and satisfaction. The guilt would hit me later in the week. I didn’t even have Stef’s number. I don’t know if it was her real name.
The next night I was in Bristol. It was another gay venue and I arrived early. I was virtually the first one in the club. Two girls entered first. They were the only ones to enter the whole evening, but I ended up giving the pair of them a lift home and receiving a blowjob in the back of my car.
The evening had another memorable moment. The bloke that had booked it had seen my picture on a website and clearly wanted to get into my knickers. He was an employee of the club but had no jurisdiction to hire an act. The show wasn’t marketed and had a poor attendance. I was only paid half the fee on the night on the promise that the rest would follow. It didn’t and when I called the venue a couple of weeks later they denied all knowledge (conveniently). I learnt a valuable lesson that night. This industry is a bit fly by night, with its many cash in hand payments. However, in order to protect your livelihood, jobs are always best secured in writing. Strippers attract a lot of attention from unwanted pests. Many of them pretend to be bookers in the vain hope that they will secure a sexual favour on the evening. The minute you talk about contracts these stalker types tend to disappear.
On this particular evening, the booker was especially camp and slimy. The two girls had arrived especially to see the stripper, which was more than could be said for the rest of his meagre audience, most of whom seemed oblivious to my presence. The two girls shouted the loudest and had to be prevented from entering my dressing room (the toilets) afterwards by Captain Slime. Captain Slime was most put out when I went off with the pair of them after the show.
Normally, I would never rub somebody’s nose in it like that, but Captain Slime had hired me for personal intentions and didn’t really care whether I got paid or not. He didn’t care if it cost me £50 to get there and several hours in a car. All that mattered to him was the opportunity to lay me. I had no qualms about turning him down and going off with the objects he hated.
Both girls had annoying tractor accents, but still, my ambition was to play with the pair of them. For a while it looked good, however, the brunette cried off, leaving me to get sucked dry by the blonde. As I dropped her off she babbled something about how she was going to brag to all of her mates that she had sucked off a stripper.
As I drove back to London I had the windows open for a different reason. It seemed to stink of sex. I reflected on what I had done and this time I was repentant. I hadn’t even fancied the blonde. I’ve always fancied girls with dark or red hair and blue/green eyes. The exception on the eyes is black/oriental women. Blondes automatically lose 20% for me and have to make it up elsewhere. This one didn’t make it up, yet I still got a bit wild with her. I pondered why on the drive home ? Was I getting back at Zoe ? Had the well run dry ? Was I just a typical man who couldn’t resist it when it was put on a plate for him ? What did this behaviour say about me ? So many questions and at the time I had very few answers…
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After arriving back in London little seemed to have changed in Zoe. She was still lost in her own private world, a world into which I had little impact. The next night after arriving back I was to perform a private show in a hotel room. I had already performed for this guy before. Some people may find it a bit strange that I perform private shows for men one to one. The first person to contact me and ask me if I would do that was an American guy called Steve. He asked me if I would come to his hotel room and perform my act as I would normally on stage. He was willing to pay my normal stage fee. His only request was that was he able to masturbate whilst he watched me perform. I explained that I was straight and he said that was fine. He didn’t in any way want to compromise my sexuality, he just wanted to enjoy my performance in the privacy of a closed room rather than a club. All these seemed quite reasonable to me so I agreed to do it.
I told a couple of straight mates what I would be doing and they seemed to think I was mad. ‘What if there are 10 of them in the room in the room when you arrive, you could get raped’. This appeared to be their consensual opinion. They might have thought I was mad in taking a risk. I thought they were mad with their prejudice.
Anyway, Steve was a real gent. It was a bit strange performing to one person only, but the money was the same and it was easy money as I saw it. In my first six months, my diary tells me that I performed four of these private shows. Two of them were so bland I can’t even remember them. One of them was unforgettable. The bloke was very cagey from the outset, wanting to meet me at a train station in North London. This I did. He picked me up in a Limousine, claiming to have his own company of Limousines. We then went to a property he rented out where I performed the show for him. He clearly had plenty of cash and when he paid me he gave me £400, four times what I had charged him. The only anomaly was when he began asking whether I would be willing to incorporate some other things into my show – role play situations, dominating him, etc. I politely declined, stating that I didn’t think I could meet his expectations of me. He duly hired me again within a week and again paid me £400. This time he was more explicit in what he really wanted. He offered me £1000 to take a shit and then let him lick out my arsehole. It didn’t really rock my world so I pissed on his bonfire rather than shit in his toilet. He never hired me again, but I had to respect him for making the offer.
Steve however, was more conventional and I again met him that evening. He sensed there was something wrong and before we began proceedings he enquired as to my well being and I told him what had transpired over the last couple of days. I really did appreciate his concern and since then Steve and I have become friends. He might not hire me anymore (he says it would be wrong now we are friends), but we do see each other from time to time and keep in touch. We have a few things in common, most notably a dysfunctionality in our childhoods and I enjoy our time together. The conversations have always been stimulating.
I collected my money from performing and went home. The next day I was performing at a private party. It was for gay men and when I arrived the host, who was Danish, enquired as to my sexuality. I told him I was straight and to my surprise he seemed pleased. ‘You might like my friend Natasha’ he said laconically.
When I emerged into the living room, it felt like a packed roman amphitheatre. A man was tied to a chair in the centre of the room and everywhere else people seemed to be packed in layers, one on top of the other as high as the ceiling. I had little room to manoeuvre and when I turned around with a bottle of baby oil in my hand it was pretty obvious which one Natasha was. Apart from being one of only two women present, she was beaming at me with piercing blue eyes, cropped brown hair with her hand cupped ready to receive the oil to apply to my body.
I finished the act and disappeared to get changed. The host burst in, and encouraged me to hurry so I could be introduced to Natasha.
Natasha was just my type and we chatted somewhat cautiously under the auspices of our watchful party host who seemed intent on match making. I was soon walking up the road with Natasha and couple of burly gay Danes. They proposed going into a club, but my hatred of loud, smoky environments meant I politely declined their offer but wished them well for the evening. Natasha had clearly decided that I was more interesting than dancing and offered to keep me company as we shook off the gay Danes.
‘Where shall we go’ She asked ?
‘How far is your place ? I replied.
‘About a mile’
&nb
sp; Natasha took me gently by the hand and began to guide me through the busy London streets.
‘Is this one of the rewards of your job ?’ she asked after we had been walking for a few minutes.
‘It shouldn’t be I have a girlfriend’ I said sheepishly.
Unfazed by honest reply, she just shrugged her shoulders and continued to lead me through the night. After about 20 minutes we arrived an expensive apartment near Baker Street and I was ushered inside. After chatting nervously for a few minutes, she suggested I take a shower to remove the clammy baby oil. I rose at the suggestion and to the occasion. No sooner had I removed my underwear when Natasha let out a load moan and knelt at my feet beginning what would perhaps be described as phallus worship. Pulling my erect member back it slapped into my stomach with a loud clap before she began to gorge heartily.
It wasn’t the last time I saw Natasha. She stimulated my mind. She had a first from Oxford, worked as a high ranking civil servant and came from a well to do background. Her dad was in the House of Lords and clearly money was the least of her worries. I must admit she fascinated me. She had a very studious look to her, which I liked and the intellect to match. She had a job which amused as well as annoyed me. She was well paid for doing very little and whilst she was a smart cookie she had limited experience outside of government. She was an excellent diplomat but often seemed oblivious to the practicality of real world solutions. Maybe she had been in the political arena too long.
