by Alexis Angel
That Arsen Hawke that you read about in the tabloids. The same one that you see on E! Online. With the chiseled 8-pack abs, rugged face, icy blue eyes, and tattoos designed by some of the most gifted artists of our time. Fuck, I don’t even know why I’m describing myself. You know everything about me. You know that I’m good looking as fuck. That on the off-chance that I decided to stop by your town or city, you would probably tell your husband that you were going out so you could see me signing autographs at the mall. Just catch a glimpse. Maybe you’d hope to see me take off my shirt. Maybe you’d even get close enough to see my ripped physique. Fuck, maybe I would make eye contact with you and flex my pecs for you. Tell you to come closer so you could see my 1% body fat body. You’d be pretty close then, maybe I’d even touch you. That’s when you’d go fucking crazy, because that’s what I do to every girl around me.
You’d try not to at first, but you wouldn’t be able to help yourself from looking at the bulge in my pants. That 12-inches of pussy pleasing pistoning that you’ve read about. Fantasized about. You’d be so close to touching it. Tasting it.
If I told you to get in the limo with me, you wouldn’t even think about anything else. Fuck life. Forget every fucking obligation you ever had. All you’d want to do is get in for maybe the most illicit and exciting moment you’d ever have with someone who is fucking larger than life.
Once inside and in private, I’d take your hands in mine and tell you that this is temporary and it’s nothing permanent. You’d agree. Anything to have a taste of me. Anything for a feel. You’d nod your head, and I’d take my pants off, showing you my thick, pulsing, veiny cock.
And fuck if you wouldn't go fucking crazy. Sure, I’d let you suck it like these two strippers right now, who are both taking turns running their tongues around the tip of my cock. But then, I’d turn you over on all fours and I’d fuck the living shit out of you. I swear to fucking God you would cum enough times that by the time I was done with you, you would be nothing more than a quivering mess of flesh on the seat. Sex coma? Talk about fucking sex amnesia.
And you would do anything for another taste of that cock. Anything I fucking wanted you to do. That’s why I’d want to get the fuck away as soon as possible. But I would leave you with memories that would last a lifetime as I flew off to my next destination. Maybe Singapore. Or, maybe London. I hear it’s nice this time of year.
So, yeah, that Arsen Hawke.
But there's so much fucking more that you don’t know about me. What about the fact that I haven't talked to my dad in 6 years, ever since my mom died of cancer and got no help from him since he had already divorced her. That I’ve been living on my own, at the age of 30 at One57 on Billionaire’s Row in New York City. That despite my body and looks and my fucking cock, I have a fucking brain. Harvard fucking MBA, baby. But, no. You don't know that about me. And quite honestly, I’m not surprised.
“Arsen, I want your cock inside of me, baby,” Sophie moans in her most slutty voice. I look down at her. She sees the look in my eyes and smiles lusciously and takes Heather. The two trade a wet, sloppy kiss for my benefit, and then turn away from me, facing the window overlooking the club. They're both naked—fuck their strippers—what do you expect? But what really blows my brain is when they both bend over, jutting their asses out at me.
“Which one of us do you want to fuck first?” Heather asks, her eyes twinkling with this lust game that their playing for me.
I’m only fucking human, okay? I tear open the condom wrapper and sheath myself as I grab Sophie’s waist with both hands, and push my quivering cock into her pussy. She’s wet, I’ll give her that. But not really that tight. Fuck it, it’ll get the job done.
Within seconds, I have a good, steady clip going, pistoning in and out of Sophie’s canal as she moans lewdly. To further stimulate me, Heather starts licking and sucking Sophie’s tits. I’m building up my tempo, increasing my pace, and I can hear my balls slapping against the underside of Sophie’s ass in tune with the music.
“Fuck me, harder, Arsen!” Sophie screams and I oblige the slut, pounding into her with enough force to topple someone over. It’s a good thing she has the window as leverage, steadying herself as I go mercilessly at her cunt.
Another few seconds and I can tell I’ve gotten Sophie past the point of no return. Three more strokes, two, one, and bingo. Her pussy clamps up around my cock like a vice and I feel her entire body shudder.
“Oh fuck!” Sophie screams and I can tell that her body is being wracked by an orgasm as her muscles clench and unclench.
“My turn,” Heather says and uses her hands to play with my tennis-ball sized balls as I slow down. Heather guides me out of Sophie and leans her back on the window, lifting her leg and giving me easy access inside of her. I slide in, slick with Sophie’s juices and begin the process again as she wraps her arms around me.
I feel Heather’s tits against my chest. Sophie is still quivering and shaking next to me as the new song starts up.
And that’s when I fucking see her.
The new dancer that gets on stage.
She’s new. I know it. I’ve fucked so many of the fucking strippers in this club, they should seriously give me some sort of award for not catching any STDs. But then again, I always protect myself to the max.
But this girl. I’ve never seen her before.
Or have I? She seems so familiar, and she’s so beautiful I feel like I know her.
She’s got blonde hair that comes down to her shoulders. Fuck, her face is so fucking gorgeous. With the sweetest most innocent eyes and the most beautiful face. But so what if her face is sweet and innocent looking; her body is fucking sinful. Tits that are perfectly shaped and big. A perfectly tapered waist. Slender legs. An ass that's…
Fuck, I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum so fucking hard. I need to calm the fuck down. I can usually go forever. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Baby, I just felt your balls tighten up,” Heather says with a wicked grin. “It’s okay, I know my pussy’s tight.”
Actually her pussy is the opposite of tight. I might as well be fucking a plastic bag, but I somehow don’t care at this point in time.
I’ve maybe only fucked Heather for five minutes now but I pull out, and toss off my condom as if in a daze.
It’s because I am in a daze. I’m staring at that girl as she twirls around on the pole.
My heart rate is increasing. I’m not going to last much longer.
Both Sophie—who’s calmed down and returned back to earth—and Heather get on their knees and start jerking me off. They use their tongues to rub the underside of my cock.
And more stimulating than what those women are doing, I look down and I see the stripper from Heaven bent over on the pole, shaking her ass.
Holy fucking Christ.
I can’t take anymore.
I fucking explode.
I shoot out arcs of cum. Rope after rope of cum is leaving my body and I feel electric impulses go from my nuts to my brain, paralyzing me. My muscles freeze and I can only experience the convulsions that tear through my body.
I watch as my semen lands on Heather's forehead, her chin, inside of her mouth, on Sophie’s tits, and on her nose. As I come back to reality, I can hear myself breathing harshly. I look down to see my cum dripping from both of their faces and chins onto their bodies.
Normally, I’d be pleased at my handiwork. But today, I search desperately for the stripper.
But apparently, her song is over because she’s leaving the stage.
I need to go downstairs. I need to talk to her.
But that’s when the phone rings.
My personal phone. My cell phone. Never ignored, because it’s always important.
And only one person usually ever uses it to call me. It’s no surprise that it’s on the windowsill behind the strippers. I reach over and grab it and turn it on. This better be quick. I need to go downstairs and find this girl.
Oh, what a
bout the ones in front of me, you’re wondering? On their knees, cooing and purring and licking my cum?
Whatever. I don’t fucking care what they do tonight. I’m done with them.
“Gerard?” I say into the phone. He usually doesn't call in the evenings. He doesn't usually want to interfere whatever—or whoever—I’m doing.
“Arsen,” the calm off-English voice of Gerard comes through. “You need to meet me at the Plaza Hotel immediately. Your father just died of a massive heart attack.”
It’s like I hear the fucking words, but don’t understand them.
“Arsen,” Gerard says after a pause. “Your father, Sloane, is dead. You are now the sole owner of Hawke Media and you need to come over. Now.”
Well, fuck.
I need to get the fuck out. I need to go to the Plaza and meet Gerard.
Oh, listen, if you’re still here. This seems like it’s going to be a fun ride. You’re welcome to stay along. If it’s not your cup of fucking tea, no harm, no foul. But if you stay on and move onto the next page, then take my fucking advice and go somewhere you can be by yourself. And maybe take your panties off if you don’t want to do laundry. I won’t have time to remind you because I gotta get to the fucking Plaza. Like now.
Ashley
Every other stripper in this club will hate me, but I've got to say it anyways. I like it when I’m on stage. But not for the reason you think. Sure, I’m getting naked and sure I’m getting "rained on." When the customers “make it rain” the club actually changes a $100 bill for them for 100 singles and then lets the customers throw the bills over you, in effect making it rain.
It makes it a bitch to collect though. But I can deal with that.
No, I like being on stage because I don’t have to hustle and work the main floor. I can be by myself. Most dancers—we prefer dancers and not strippers—prefer earning the lap dance cash from the clients one to one. I like being up on stage. Most dancers only use the stage as an advertisement, to catch a man’s eye so when they go down to the floor, people remember them. I wish I could stay up here forever.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I can’t get anyone to agree to a lap dance. It’s actually the opposite. Guys just flock to me. Sometimes they stand in line for me to grind on them.
No, I hate this part of the night because I have zero respect for the guys that come in here.
I mean, if they’re married, what the fuck are they doing in here by themselves? Creeping me out is what they’re doing. I bet their wife or girlfriend will really appreciate them coming home smelling of cheap body spray at the end of the night.
If they’re here in a group, well, that’s slightly better, but still, kinda skeeves me out. I mean, they’re here watching each other get hard as some girl rubs herself on them. Sure, I’m okay to go out with my girlfriends and hit on guys while they’re there. But with women, we know it’s just harmless fun. These guys in the club—they have this glint in their eye and they’re crazed.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not some innocent little virgin who’s never been told the facts of life. I mean, I work in a strip club, right?
But something about the patrons just causes me to want to stay on stage.
Maybe it’s the hundred times a night I have to make sure guys know that they can’t touch me. I can touch them. Or how they’ll try to buck their hips as I’m grinding on them, just so they can go a little deeper.
Maybe it’s because at the end of the day, they’re judging me based on my looks and putting a monetary value on it.
That’s probably it. When I go out with my friends and we talk to guys, I’m not putting a dollar value on how much I’d pay to talk to the guy or flirt with the guy. Even if I make out with him or go home with him, it’s not like I’m asking him how much it costs. But these guys think that they can have me just because they’re carrying fat stacks of $20 notes.
Sure, that’s what I’m here for. Technically, the more I can make them think that, the more money I make, and the more I can pay off the student loans that funded my Art History degree from Yale. The degree that still hasn’t landed me any sort of meaningful job.
It’s been roughly one year since I graduated. I’m now 24 years old, and this is my second month stripping. It got to the point where I had to decide whether not stripping was worth not paying rent and moving out of the city and back home with my parents. I must have sent out at least seven hundred resumes by then. Gone on dozens of interviews. But ended up with nothing.
Not the sexy things you thought were going through my head as I rub myself on the crotch of some 50-ish Wall Street guy with a receding hairline and a pretty big paunch, is it?
I turn my head back toward the guy a little to give him some attention. “You like that, baby?” I ask with a slight pout. Inside, I’m wondering if his wife knows where he’s at. I saw the ring on his finger. I wonder if he has a son or daughter and if he’s put away enough for college. Will his kids have to take out student loans because Daddy gave me their book money this semester?
“Could you, uhm, maybe turn around a little bit, darlin?” Mr. Wall Street asks me, bringing his hands up, but remembering what I said about touching. “I kinda want to see, uhm, your breasts.”
Sure. They all want to see my breasts. They want me to mash it on their faces. They want to stick out their tongues so they can play with my nipples. Whatever.
“I like it just fine sitting here,” I say to him and turn back, grinding my ass on his crotch a little faster.
There have been a few times I’ve made a guy cum just by grinding on him. That’s been funny. He’s had to walk around with a giant wet spot. Especially if his friends were here. Once it was just a guy. He came in his pants. I seriously didn’t even know he did until I felt his pants get all wet. I mean, his cock must have been tiny because I couldn't feel anything. Anyways, he just went back to his table and ordered another beer. Sitting in his own cum. That’s the kind of people that come to these clubs.
“But, your breasts…”
I don't let the man finish. I need to establish who’s boss.
“Do you see that line over there, hon?” I ask him, gesturing my head to the line of guys waiting to ask me to give them a dance. “If you don’t like this, you can go back to the end of the line.”
Surprisingly, Mr. Wall Street has more self-worth than I give him credit for. He pushes me off gently as I feel his hands on my back force me into a position where I’m standing.
“That’s fine,” he says. “Can I have my money back?”
The song isn't even half over and he’s got a legitimate point. But it’s people like him that attract the attention of the floor manager and the House Mom. I know all eyes are on me as I reach into my heels and pull out the wad of cash I’ve collected, peeling off a $20 note and turning around and walking away toward the bar. I can hear the collective groans of at least half a dozen people as they watch me leave. Guys who were waiting their turn to get their cocks stimulated by my hot ass.
Whatever. I seriously don't have any fucks left to give them right now.
I order a glass of wine at the bar, and sip it contentedly for a minute.
“Misty,” a voice says and I don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. “You left a lot of guys unhappy on the floor.”
The face associated with the voice sits down next to me. It’s the House Mom—Yasmine. Every club has a House Mom. We tip her out at the end of the night. In return, she takes care of the girls. She gets us dinner. She makes sure we don't get too drunk. Sometimes she helps with our outfits and tells us when we’re up on the main stage. But more than anything else, she makes sure that we make money for the club.
“It’s not really the best idea to just walk away when you have people lined up for you – especially when some girls have no one to dance for,” Yasmine says again.
I shrug and take a sip of my drink. “I needed a break,” I say.
“You’ve been needing a break since you st
arted, Misty,” Yasmine says, using my stage name again. My real name is Ashley Lane. But on the floor, it’s like I have a pen name. And it’s only professional for her to use it. “Are you sure you want to be here?”
That’s the rub, isn’t it? I graduated cum laude from Yale University. Sure, Art History may not be Engineering, but it’s still Yale. What am I doing at a strip club?
“I need the money, Yasmine,” I say to her for the millionth time. “You know that.”
“Isn’t there anything else you could be doing to make money instead of making yourself miserable every night from 8 pm to 4 am?” Yasmine asks, as she too orders a glass of wine. “This can’t be good for you.”
It’s not a question I haven’t asked before.
But there is one unavoidable truth in America for a woman today that is kind of depressing but still hard to escape.
That truth? Sex will always sell.
No matter what you end up looking like, women can always make money selling some form of sex. Which is basically what I’ve been reduced to because of my financial situation. A sex worker.
“I just wish I could find something that pays like this that didn't involve…” I begin, looking for the proper words, but struggling.
“Having to deal with men?” Yasmine asks, as if she’s in my head. I look up at her because she hit the nail on the head. She smiles at me.
“If I didn’t have to deal with ugly guys all night, I could still do this,” I tell her. “Hell, I could do a lot more.”
Yasmine pauses for a moment, as if thinking to herself. I wonder what’s going through her head.
Finally, she reaches into her bra, and pulls out a business card. I had no idea she kept things in there, but she hands it to me.
“Take the night off, darling,” she tells me as I take the card. “And call these people in the morning.”
“Simulated Pleasures LLC,” I read aloud.
“Same owner as Scorcher’s,” Yasmine says nodding, referring to the strip club. “Only you can work from home and it’s a phone sex line. They could use someone with as much imagination and intelligence as you.”
