Strip Me Bare

by M. Never

  He savagely rips off his shirt displaying his defined chest and six-pack abs, then he straddles Lila with his face toward the crowd. Taking her hands, he runs them down his glistening pecs, over his rippling stomach, and then his chiseled hips.

  I’m not really sure what’s more shocking, the stage show or the reaction it’s getting. Women are bouncing exuberantly in the leather seats, shrieking and clapping almost like a bomb went off. Is this seriously my life right now?

  Sergeant Striptease continues, standing Lila up, and proceeds to rub himself all over her. Moving up and down against her body, he grabs the dollar bills out of her shirt with his teeth. Lila laughs nervously as she holds on to him by his very nice, very broad shoulders. Very nice shoulders. Then he does something that takes everyone—especially Lila—by surprise. He grabs her waist and flips her upside down, her crotch ending up right in his face. He slashes his tongue between her legs, reducing most of the women in the room into screaming spectators.

  The sounds are bloodcurdling. Jesus.

  He’s raunchy as hell.

  Sergeant Striptease then puts Lila down and whispers something in her ear. She nods at him with a smile, her eyes wide and alight. He sits her back down in the chair and proceeds to take off the rest of his clothes, which is actually just a quick tug of his pants. All he has on underneath is a black G-string with, dear Lord, tassels covering his penis. Where do you even find a getup like that? He does one more bump and grind on Lila, practically naked, and then the show is over. Just like that.

  Emily looks over at me, her eyebrows lifted high.

  “Yeah, girl, that’s all you,” I yell over the music, and she laughs.

  I wonder how much laughing she’s going to do when it’s her on that stage? I suddenly can’t wait to see this.

  Hugo reappears, announcing the next girl, Holly, and she looks absolutely petrified. She, too, has blonde hair, but I think it’s natural. No dark roots. She’s wearing a white eyelet dress and fresh-faced makeup. She looks almost virginal, and I feel sorry for her already.

  Holly sits in the folding chair, wound tighter than a spring, littered with dollar bills all over her body. I couldn’t do it. I could never sit up there and have some guy I don’t know hump all over me. It would just feel . . . wrong. For me, anyway.

  I admire the other women in the room who are raring to go. Maybe I am a fucking prude?

  The lights dim as Holly sits alone on the stage, but no one comes out of the camouflaged door. There’s low, haunting music playing and smoke curling up from the floor. Then I notice Holly’s face turn pale. Everyone turns around to see what she’s looking at. And there, sauntering toward the stage, is a guy dressed in black leather pants and a matching mask covering his whole head, wielding a whip in his right hand.

  Holy BDSM.

  “Ladies, The Dominator,” Hugo announces darkly and Holly absolutely shits. I can’t say I blame her. I’m overcome with the need to run up there and rescue her.

  Once The Dominator makes it onto the stage, he starts moving slow and seductively all around Holly, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back when he finally decides to straddle her, mask on and all.

  My mind goes numb as I watch. It feels like an out-of-body experience; the display is so far out of my sexual scope of understanding.

  Continuing with his routine, The Dominator then pulls Holly to her feet, bends her over, and starts smacking her ass. Hard. If you listen close enough you can almost hear the contact of his palm against her dress. After which, he proceeds to mercilessly hump her from behind, and that is when I’ve had enough, choosing to look away.

  I may be scarred for life.

  Once he’s finally finished, he sits her back down in the chair.

  Holly is so starry-eyed, it looks like she’s higher than a kite.

  The Dominator energetically rips off his mask, exposing his face and once again starts with the intense hip bumping, his crotch square and center, pounding smack dab in front of her face. An inch closer and he may just knock her out with his pelvis. I cover my mouth as I laugh, the effects of champagne kicking into high gear.

  Mr. Dominator isn’t bad looking with his bald head, big, bright eyes, and really nice smile. Like, really nice. It’s endearing, which is weird considering the part he chooses to play. He then goes on to do something that actually impresses me. Somehow, he gets his feet over her head, planting them against the back wall of the stage, his ass facing the crowd, and humps Holly upside down. My neck almost breaks as I try to cock my head a little too far. For a guy who’s tall, bulky, and muscled, he’s limber as all hell, I’ll give him that.

  “Alana, don’t hurt yourself.” Emily nudges me.

  “I’m trying not to.” I laugh freely. This is just all too ridiculous for me. Where’s the champagne?

  When The Dominator is finally done, he kicks himself down and pulls Holly to her feet. The man proceeds to pick out all the dollar bills with his teeth, and then plants a huge, wet kiss on her cheek. Holly was a damn good sport. I would have bolted the moment I saw him walking my way. You know, if you could actually pay me enough to get up on that stage in the first place.

  Now, it’s Emily’s turn.

  “Okay, ladies,” the charming Hugo voices. “You’re in for a real treat,” he announces vivaciously as Jill, Beth, Liz, Jen, and I dress Emily in dollar bills. She’s by far the sexiest, and most trendily dressed girl in the room. Emily is fitted in a tight black bodysuit that’s short sleeved and high collared, paired with a flared mini skirt and black stockings that give the illusion of thigh highs. The outfit is awesome and one hundred percent hooch couture. With her tiny little frame, she rocks the ensemble like a pro.

  By the time we’re done with her, she looks like a scarecrow stuffed with green straw. Even her black bootie high heels have Washingtons sticking out of them.

  “Next up is one of our premier dancers. So, get ready, set, wet for Jack the Stripper!” Hugo proclaims, hopping off the stage.

  The beginning beats of Ginuwine’s “Pony” blasts through the speakers as a shirtless guy with a cowboy hat and eye mask grooves his way out of the black door. Now, him I could be into. He’s tall, lean, and totally toned, with sun-kissed skin and one hot looking mouth. Yum. Emily lucked out with this one.

  I watch entranced as the man more tempting than a deadly sin dances to the stage in a pair of ripped, loose-fitting, blue jeans and the elastic of his underwear peeking teasingly out from under the waist of his pants. As soon as Emily sees him, a big smile spreads across her face, and I breathe a sigh of relief. She’s into him. And seriously, who wouldn’t be? He oozes sexuality and temptation. I honestly didn’t know men like him existed. But here he is, right before my very eyes. A wet dream waiting to happen.

  The melody changes to a house rendition of “As Long As You Love Me” and Jack the Stripper moves seductively to the beat of the music, grinding sensually up against Emily, his fluid body undulating all over her. I’ll admit, I’ve never equated Justin Bieber to stripper music, but this guy makes it work. I sip my champagne slowly as I spy all his enticing hip movements. And, damn, can this guy ever move. My mouth becomes as dry as a desert just watching this.

  The entire room responds to him. Pleasured screams and erotic moans are echoing from every which way as he works Emily over on stage. No wonder Hugo called him premier. It’s as if he knows exactly what a woman wants and exactly how to give it to her. He’s already broken down the entire room with just his confidence and sexuality. That’s damn impressive.

  In the middle of his dance, with his hat and eye mask still on, he lifts Emily’s chair—with her still in it, by the way—and flips her up and around, inducing screams and shouts from the audience. A big, triumphant smile is plastered to his face as he sets her back down and begins to unbutton his pants, teasing her—and us—with glimpses of his ass. Right before he drops his jeans, he rips off his hat and flings it into the crowd revealing thick, wavy brown hair that’s short on the sides
and much longer on top. His bangs spilling over his forehead hipster-style. So fucking hot.

  Holy shit, did I really just think that? I swallow hard. Attraction to a man is hard for me to come by, but this guy has an air. An undeniable pull, like his aura is calling solely to me. Which is preposterous since every single woman in the room is disintegrating right at his feet.

  Jack kneels in front of Emily, his side profile only visible. When he whispers something into her ear, she glances at him oddly then tentatively slides two fingers under his eye mask. When she rips it off she immediately turns white.

  I can’t really see his face from my angle, but whomever he is, he spooked her. They both seem to freeze in place for a fraction of a second, his back muscles tensing, the ornate tattoo on his right bicep rippling. What the flying fuck is going on? Emily nods her head sternly, as if encouraging him on. The man stands up, slowly faces the crowd, and then proceeds to take off his pants, flashing his tassled G-string and all. That’s when my heart drops dead in my chest. It’s cardiac arrest right here on the spot.

  I glance at Emily who’s staring straight at me, a myriad of emotions coloring her face, because we both just witnessed my fucking past strip to life.

  I AM NO longer inside a New York City nightclub.

  I’ve been transported five years back in time to the summer of my freshman year of college. It’s early June, and I just turned eighteen. Emily and I spent every waking hour at the Ocean Club, a beach club on the Jersey Shore that both our families have belonged to for years. It had all the amenities—private cabanas, pools, spas, tennis courts, and an all-access pass to the beach. We also spent every night partying. It was the best summer of my life. New Jersey has an ‘eighteen to party, twenty-one to drink law’ which meant Emily could drag me to almost any nightclub she wanted. She’s four years older than me and more like a big sister than a cousin. She made sure that just because I lived under my father’s restrictive roof, I didn’t always have to abide by his rules. Emily was my saving grace growing up. On the outside I was—still am, actually—the good girl, the polite girl, the girl who doesn’t break any rules, but on the inside, I’m restless. A wannabe rule breaker who lives her life on her own terms. Who makes her own goddamn decisions without any consequence. And one day I will.

  Our favorite hangout was Tradewinds, a dance club right on the beach. One big room with high ceilings, dark carpets, panoramic windows, and an awesome DJ. It was the place to hang out. The place where all walks of life mingled, where spoiled, rich girls and privileged firstborns meshed with your average Joe. No one really cared about your social status as long as you weren’t flaunting it in anyone’s face. You were just there to have a good time. And have a good time, we did. I had only just broken my late-night debauchery cherry when I met Ryan. It was accidental meeting, really. I was outside on the patio smoking a cigarette when some drunken girl bumped into me, sending me flying across the deck and right into him. I ended up burning a hole through his t-shirt and singeing his chest. Ooops. After apologizing profusely, I offered to buy him a new shirt. He said he’d rather I bought him a drink, instead. I laughed and held up my wrist. “Coke or Sprite?”

  I was only eighteen, and everyone knew you were underage if you weren’t sporting a neon wristband. It was sort of history between the two of us after that.

  It definitely wasn’t easy, at first. We fought a lot. And I don’t mean screaming matches, break-up make-up kind of fights. I mean he fought to open me up emotionally, and I fought like hell to stay closed off. But Ryan, he was different, he was everything my world wasn’t. He was warm and caring and energetic. And he was the realest thing I had ever encountered in my entire life.

  I can still feel the emotions he stirred inside me. I’m reliving them right this second, paralyzed in place as he drops his pants in front of thirty screaming strangers.

  Our relationship was short, but it was intense, and physical, and borderline obsessive. And I was undyingly, head over heels in love with him.

  Was, is, still—maybe?

  I’m caught in a mentally destructive time loop. I see Ryan in the present while simultaneously flashing back to the past, reliving our last night together. My chest literally aches.

  It was a hot, August evening and we were alone in my family’s cabana. It was the only place we could steal time away with each other. My father never came to the beach club, unless it was for tennis in the morning, and then he was usually off doing whatever it is judges do. It was basically my home away from home. My place of solace. My escape. The cabana was a modest-sized room, decorated in creams and whites and oranges, with a very beachy feel. A large, flat screen hung on the wall, a stall shower was nestled in the corner, with a wet bar, and an extra-wide couch that could double for a bed, I didn’t need much more. The ocean being sixty yards away didn’t hurt either. You could hear the surf crashing against the shore and smell the salty air as it wafted through the tiny windows. There were candles lit all over the small space, casting a romantic glow. Ryan and I were just about naked and so close to the edge. My body was pulsing for him and every minute touch felt magnified. But for some reason, he was hesitant.

  “What’s wrong?” I remember asking him between kisses.

  “Nothing,” he told me, running his thumb down my cheek, his big, blue eyes shining from the flickering candles. “This is your first time, I just want it to be perfect.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. “It will be, it’s with you.”

  And that was all it took. A short, simple, reassuring sentence catapulted us on our way.

  After one, slow, torrid kiss, he was moving inside me. It was the most concentrated, scorching hot moment of my life. But that was the only time I would ever experience such a feeling.

  My entire body still throbs when I think about it, even five years later. Five years since I’ve seen him last, since he disappeared into thin air only to materialize here.

  Here, of all fucking places.

  “Alana!” Emily pulls on my arm. “Do you know who that was?” she asks frantically. I shift my eyes to look at her and catch a glimpse of Ryan disappearing through that black, camouflaged door.

  “Yes,” I answer vacantly, before I realize my body is on a mission. I take ten insistent steps and burst into that little room, four heads swinging in my direction. Someone yells at me to get out, but I can’t. I won’t. All I can mutter is . . .”Ryan?” as I stand there pinning him with a flame-throwing stare. He doesn’t utter a word as our eyes connect. Those dark blue, cobalt irises that tell me my presence has rocked his world harder than a magnitude seven earthquake.

  I then turn and bolt, straight out the back door and up the stairs two at a time toward the street. I’m going to be sick. I barely make it to the sidewalk before I disappear down the first alleyway I find, losing my dinner all over the pavement right beside the most foul smelling dumpster in the entire city.

  Oh, God. I heave as it all comes projecting out. I wipe my mouth and cough until I finally catch my breath.

  Wrapping my arms around myself, I lean against the wall and bang the back of my head on the brick.

  This cannot be happening. This cannot fucking be happening.

  Suddenly, I hear the bellow of my name. Shit. I glance over to find Ryan frantically searching the sidewalk. He has a small towel wrapped around his waist and a pair of white sneakers on his feet, and that’s it.

  “Alana,” he calls out alarmed when he finally spots me.

  “Leave me alone!” I snap viciously. The last thing I want is him anywhere near me.

  “Hey,” he croons tenderly, as if approaching a hostile animal. At the moment, I could possibly be one. I’m shaking so hard with rage and anger and confusion.

  I can barely look at him without wanting to scratch his eyes out. “Are you okay?” He completely invades my personal space.

  “Am I okay?” I repeat. “Am I okay?” I yell, shoving him away. He doesn’t budge one goddamn inch. He just stares do
wn at me formidably, looking ready for battle. “No. I am not fucking okay! I spent the last five years wondering what the hell happened to you, and when I finally find you, you’re, you’re . . .” I can barely breathe out the words. “Jack the fucking Stripper?”

  If I could cry, I would.

  “This isn’t happening.” I pant rapidly, becoming lightheaded. “I think I need a cigarette. No, I think I need like five. Actually, just shove the whole fucking pack in my mouth and light it on fire.”

  “Hey, it’s okay.” Ryan attempts to soothe me by wrapping his arms around me and I freeze. Like become an icicle right on the spot. I’m a hair splitting in seven different directions. I’m livid and hurt and confused, but I’m also crumbling under his touch, inhaling him like a cigarette, getting swept away in the scent of his sweat and deodorant and just . . . Ryan.

  “Five years,” I mutter angrily against his chest as I lift my hands and rest them against his bare back.

  “I know.” He hugs me tightly, rasping into my ear. “I know. I’m sorry. I want to explain. Everything.” He presses his lips to my temple and my resentment and confusion rapidly grows. “Just not now.”

  “Not now?” I spit. “Then when?” I’ll only admit it to myself, but I’m terrified to let him go. What if he disappears again? Disappears and takes all the answers to my burning questions with him.

  “Tomorrow,” he stipulates. “Will you meet me tomorrow for coffee?”

  “Coffee?” I ask, aghast. “Are you being fucking serious right now?” The guy who disappeared out of my life with no explanation, no phone call, no goodbye, wants to meet casually for coffee? WTF?

  “Now, Ryan,” I demand.

  “Tomorrow, Alana,” Ryan pleads. “I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.” His voice sounds like a dream. A very bad, very intriguing, all-too-promising dream. “I think you’ve had enough bombshells dropped on you tonight.”

  “Bombshell?” I sneer, “It feels more like a meteor hit me.”