“You said you wouldn’t quit me,” he reminds me.
“You might want me to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks softly as he slowly comes closer until we’re standing face to face.
“I thought I could handle it tonight. But I struggled with seeing the other women’s hands all over you. I’m embarrassed to say that, Stone! I’m not trying to change you or your life or lifestyle.”
“You already have.”
I let out a breath. “I think I’m cramping your style, and that was never my intention.”
“What is your intention, Emelie?”
The challenge makes me lifts my eyes to his. “I don’t have one.”
It’s too intense. He’s too intense. My gaze falls back to the ground.
“Emelie, I care… deeply for you.” His fingers lift my chin until I’m back to being lost in the blue ocean of his eyes. “I quit the club.”
“You did?” I’m not able to hide my shocked surprise. “Why?”
He chuckles. “Guess, genius.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“For you.”
“But see, I’m trying not to make you change.” Now I feel guilty.
“You don’t remember what I told you when we first started this… whatever it is we have.” He fixes me with a panty-melting stare. “I’m exclusively yours for as long as you’ll have me.”
That’s another one of those things he’s said that I don’t really understand. What does that mean, anyway? I’d ask, but I don’t possess the proverbial balls.
“I’m very human, Stone. I think you’re maybe a robot.”
“My dick is a robot, an evil-brain robot dick. My body, however, beats with a human heart too.”
“I’m sorry you quit.”
“No you’re not.” His hands come up to cradle my face.
No, I’m not.
“You’re a very good stripper,” I tell him in an attempt to be consoling.
“Then I’ll have to give you special VIP performances.”
I inhale a little gasp. My heart is beating so fast I think I may go into cardiac arrest. That’s not safe. I don’t have a defibrillator on standby.
He leans in for a kiss. “Wait!” I stop his descent, remembering that bride-to-be. “Did you… sterilize?”
Stone bursts out laughing. “Half a bottle of Listerine and a few swigs of the club’s strongest whiskey as an added precaution.”
“Okay then, get on with it.”
I’m so grateful my roommates aren’t home, because I’m roaring like Katy Perry.
I obviously can’t get enough of Stone’s love rocket.
He has me lifted in his hands by my thighs—he’s so incredibly, swoonily strong—my back to his chest, my legs pulled apart, and my ass tilted. I’m perched level with his waist and he has us standing in front of my full length closet door mirror so he can watch while he slides his dick over the slickness of my kitty.
Stone holds his beautiful cock in his hand and gently works it into me, stirring up our energy, then pulls it out to rub over my clit. He teases wickedly, putting it back in then pulling it back out again for another rub over my swollen pearl.
“Look how beautiful that is, baby. How erotic…” With his eyes glued to the image of our joining in the mirror, he slams his velvet covered steel back inside me hard.
A scream rips from my throat.
He grunts. “Watch it slide, Em.”
We both stare, mesmerized, at our reflection as he lifts then lowers me over his cock.
It disappears, sinking deep.
He pumps his hips and bounces me, hitting that out-of-this-fucking-universe spot.
“Oh, look at you coming all over me. You’re dripping.”
The view is spectacular. I’ve never had sex in front of a mirror before.
Stone brings his dick all the way out to the tip. “Oh fuck! I love that,” he exclaims roughly.
We can see everything—my pink kitten snuggling the hell out of his behemoth, my thighs spread to absolute face reddening glory! His balls pressing against my ass with his upward thrusts. My tits jiggling with each of his expeditions.
With a groan and the sexiest expression I’ve ever seen, he drives it in full force, burying himself into my pussy.
“Em, I’m going to fucking come!” he moans out all throaty against my ear. “Rub your clit, I want to feast my eyes on you.”
I comply. The sensations culminate, making my head fall back onto his shoulder.
“Kiss me,” Stone urges. Our tongues dance as he grinds my pussy. Then out of nowhere he huffs in a suggestive tone, “You jillaroo with that boomerang?”
I know he’s trying to ask me something—because his inflection at the end of the words sounds like a question—and that it requires some sort of response, but honestly I have no idea what he just said. Probably one of us is delirious with all of this sweltry sex because whatever he just said can’t possibly make sense in any country.
It’s obvious he’s abandoned the slow approach and has flipped the switch to Aussie Tasmanian devil speed—
You know, the cartoon, not the marsupial, because that would just be weird.
His jaw ticks. “I love… fucking you, Em!”
“Oh my God, you are so epic!” I howl.
When it’s over, I’m surprised I’m still conscious—and able to walk.
After I catch my breath, I stumble to the bathroom to wash my face, as my sweaty mascara is burning my eyes.
Stone rolls onto the bed with a cocky Cheshire cat grin, cool and satisfied and understandably pleased with himself.
Once at the bathroom sink, I paw at the facial wash and get the lather worked into my skin—especially over my eyes to remove the makeup. I rinse and then grope for a towel.
There isn’t one on the towel rack. Shit!
Then I remember seeing—through blurry mascara stinging eyes—the pink one hanging on the wall next to the sink, which is odd because there was no hook there before. Stone must have installed one. It’s like he’s made it his mission to make this place homey.
I catch hold of it, dry my skin and—
Startled, I scream and jump backwards to the opposite wall!
Level with my face is the hugest, most monstrous flesh toned dick-dildo ever! It’s inhumanly large—like twelve inches long and three inches in circumference—and is stuck to the wall with a suction cup at the base of its balls.
“STONE!”
“Oh good!” he calls back. “You found it.”
“And…?” my mom asks, all excited.
“And… the LA auditions are in three days!” I squeal. “I’m thrilled for him! It’s so cool, right?!”
“Yeah, it is!” she agrees with equal enthusiasm.
“Thanks for not being upset with me,” I say gratefully. My mom is so amazing.
“I knew you were having fun.”
“And how did you know that?” I challenge. Probably the universe told her in a vision.
“Because when you’re bored or depressed you call me at least twice a day. When you’re happy or involved with your passion, I’ve learned I’m lucky to hear from you before a week goes by.”
“Really? I do that?” She stays quiet and doesn’t answer, like I’m supposed to figure it out. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“What’s he like?” I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Stone is easily the best dancer I’ve ever seen. He’s incredibly disciplined, has mastery in several different styles, and is now working very hard to add ballet to that repertoire.”
“Is he good in the sack?”
“Oh God, yes. The best,” I mutter dreamily then remember who I’m talking to. “MOM!”
“It’s a legitimate question.”
“Not from you! You tricked me.”
“You know, you can tell me anything.”
Yeah, right, everything. I should tell her about the makeshift dildo-towel hook. Oh yeah, no!
>
“Do you like him?”
Too much. “Yes. I like him.”
“Scale of 1 to 10: 1 being platonic—he’s like the long lost brother you never had—or 10—maybe he’ll be the father of my grandchildren—where would he be sitting?”
“Nice, Mom,” I respond flatly.
“Just answer my question.”
“Stone is… complicated.”
“Sweetheart, all men are complicated.”
“He’s different from any guy I’ve known or ever been friends with,” I admit. “He’s playful, talks a lot, and jokes, and is always making me laugh…”
“That’s a great quality.”
“It is. Come on, Mom, I met him in a strip club…”
“Which he quit, for you.”
“That’s because I’m demented and strange and he wants me to keep coaching him.”
“And he’s always skipping out of work to be with you or take you on dates.”
“That’s only because he wants to show me his dancing…”
“I don’t believe that shit you’re shoveling for a second.”
“Hey!”
“Fess up! Neither do you,” she insists. “Men do not rearrange their entire lives around a woman unless they’re seriously invested, and from everything you’ve told me, this boy’s got it bad.”
Her words excite and terrify me at the same time.
“Alright, don’t go all silent on me. I’ll lay off the subject—for now. What about your father? Have you told him you’re working as a coach?”
“No way. Even when I try to broach the subject he won’t listen to a word I say. He wants me back in New York.”
“And with Viktor.”
“Can we not—”
“Talk about ED?” she finishes my thought. “Fine.”
“Beyond everything else, I’m really enjoying…”—I resist the urge to say falling in love—“dancing again. Not just ballet either, all of it! Stone has me doing hip hop and street. I never realized how much fun it could be.”
“I remember your ballet-contemporary performance senior year. You took my breath away.”
“Dad hates anything new or different.”
“He’s just stuck in the past. Your father’s never been good with change. Remember that time the Fry and Die went healthy and switched out his favorite ‘Cajun Bucket o’ Chicken Wings’ for the new ‘Spicy Grilled Breast Bits’?”
I did. He ranted for about it for three months—until he found that new chicken place, Clucky’s
“Except for the word breast in the title, he hated them—even though it was the same spice they used on the other and grilled instead of—!”
“Fried. I get it, Mom.”
“But he still loves chicken, and he still loves you,” she says.
“That’s the most ridiculous comparison in the history of comparisons.”
She ignores my comment. “You’re going to have to level with him at some point. Especially if you stay in LA.”
“You know I’ve been thinking about that?”
“You’ve been more than thinking about it. You’re seriously considering it.”
“How do you—?”
“Mother’s intuition.”
“What if it’s the wrong choice?”
“Even wrong choices can make us better and act as spring boards to our true destinies. But you have to keep moving forward… you can’t be stuck in yesterday, and you definitely can’t let the situations or people that hurt you in the past have a say or clout in your present decision making process, even though sometimes they seem to shout very loudly,” she says. “You also need to have some faith—in yourself and the universe. And, looking at your astrology chart, Emelie, all your planetary alignments are in fortuitous aspects.”
“I love you, Mom.” Deeply, along with her flakiness.
“I love you too. Keep trusting in your inner compass. You’ll get to where you’re meant to be.”
We disconnect the call.
As I get ready to meet Stone for rehearsal I wonder—my compass has been broken for quite some time. Is it really fixed? Completely? How can I tell?
“So, I have this idea.”
“You usually do,” I quip, elongating my muscles in front of the mirror at the studio.
“The dance you were doing on the rooftop to ‘Pillowtalk’…”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been seeing a male lead to what you were doing and want to try it out.”
“Cue it up and show me.”
I keep stretching and warming up.
“Can you get in position, please?”
“What position do you want me in?” I say, all flirty, stretching my leg over my head at the barre.
“We don’t have time for that right now—I mean on the dance floor.”
I crack with laughter. “Ooooo… look who’s all serious today.” It’s only ever been me fighting off the advances.
“The big day is close—I’m freaking nervous.”
“Then, are you sure you don’t want to go over your choreography?
“No, we’ve worked those pieces to death. I want something to take my mind off them.”
“That’s one approach,” I wax sarcastic.
“Just get where you need to be when the music starts.”
The song begins with me on the floor, curled in a ball. Stone bends and curves his body over mine, shielding me, as we rest together like nesting dolls.
He stands, straightens and lifts me by my waist, bringing me against his chest and spins us, as I alternate between holding his arms strong around me and reaching away.
We’re telling the story of passion—maybe our passion. The push, the pull. That romantic back and forth. We come together, we run away. We show ourselves fully, but then in fear, we hide again. Isn’t it what all lovers do?
We dance in unison—in perfect sequence we lunge and kick, and spin, side-by-side, before we come crashing against each other. I perform a series of falls where he catches me in the nick of time. He dips me over his bent knee and pulses his hovering hand over my heart while I allow my breast to follow it—it gives the illusion that he’s making my heart beat and that he controls my body.
This dance is mimicking life. I’ve most definitely fallen hard for him and he has complete command of my pulse. But I wonder if, in real life, he’d ever be able to or want to catch me so securely.
Dancing this here with him is so incredibly intense. It makes everything I feel for him so acutely real—every thought I have towards our relationship comes out here, all of my reflection and speculation are powerfully displayed. I wonder if he can hear it.
Hear me.
This is what it’s like to be stripped.
Exposed to one another in the deepest of ways. Stripped of all false pretenses, stripped of the words and fumbling that become obstacles when lovers talk—when they’re afraid to be seen for who and what they truly are and how they really feel—when they’re terrified to be exposed.
We move and face one another so it appears as if we’re now dancing mirror images.
He lifts me again at the chorus. “I want you to twist like this in my arms.”
“You’re not going to drop me, right?”
“Never, Love.”
I follow his choreography, loving it.
He hoists me high above his head, lets me go so I spin down his chest, and then catches me at the last riveting moment.
It’s an expression of the lovers’ deepest fears and greatest hopes, all brought to the surface. Words aren’t necessary, the dance reveals the truest, purest form of emotional connection.
It is the most intimate of conversations.
We practice a series of turns, lifts, splits, and flips, up over or around his body—all with Stone keeping me safe and secure—in a variety of positions that look amazing, and we discuss where they’d best be placed to go along with the music.
I adore his strong arms around me, protecting me, cocooning me.
I could stay here forever like this. Being one with him in this way.
We start the song over and perform the dance again and again. Hours slip by like minutes.
It’s sweeping and beautiful. The more we do it, the more I love it.
The more I love him.
“For the finish, I was thinking you fall back into my hands, arch your spine, and I’ll lift you over my head.”
“That’s perfect, Stone.”
“You’re perfect, Em.”
Hundreds of dancers wait in line for their chance to get into the Orpheum Theatre. The line goes to the corner, rounds it, and then continues on for another twelve blocks.
Makes me wonder if we’ll even get in.
There’s a tangible buzz, a storm of energy that emanates from each dancer. Everyone is bouncing or moving their bodies. Some dancers are stretching, showing off some of their signature moves, or all-out practicing their dances right there by the curb as cars go by and beep their horns. Others are sitting on the sidewalk next to their duffels or backpacks, talking to their fellow auditionees in line next to them or to the friends and family that came for support.
Staff for Then Prove You Can Dance walk around with video crews and microphones, doing brief interviews. Every now and then they take someone inside for what I assume is a more extensive story.
I get to ruminating on a subject we’ve adamantly avoided.
“Stone, what if—?”
“No regrets, Sunshine.”
He’s uncharacteristically quiet and his form is still. Only his jaw clenches from time to time.
I have a feeling it’s like the calm before the storm.
We’re coming closer to that make-it-or-break-it moment—that sixty second blink in time that will either send him off towards a future he’s so desperately worked and wished for, or crush it.
He’s so brave for doing this.
I’ve come to know Stone, his passion and desires. He’s brilliant and already successful in the field his parents have placed him in, but it’s suffocating the life right out of him—sitting in an office, making business deals. He wants to fly. He needs to.
He was born to.
We finally get into the lobby and inch our way to the registration table.
Stripped Page 18
