by Tawna Fenske
“Evidently.”
I consider whether ponying up four bucks would fulfill item number eight on the list. ‘I kissed a girl, and apparently, I really liked it.’
No. I may not remember every specific detail of the story I told my sisters, but I don’t think a four-dollar motorboat would do it.
Besides, that seems a little weird.
Maybe not much weirder than where we’re standing now. A low stage in the center of the room has three separate dance areas with a tall silver pole at the center of each. At the moment, all three poles are occupied by dancers in varying stages of undress, gyrating with impressive athleticism. I stand there staring for a moment, taking it all in, a little shocked by the spectacle. There are women with small breasts and large breasts and everything in between. There are tattooed women, women with short hair, long hair—no hair, though it’s possible I’m assessing their Brazilian bikini waxes.
“Come on,” Simon whispers in my ear. “Let’s grab a table so we can get out of the way.”
It occurs to me Simon is a lot more uncomfortable than I am. I watch him tug at his tie, and I wonder if we should have gone home to change instead of coming straight from the swanky bar. He leads me toward a wooden table at the edge of the room. The knowledge that I’m the one who came up with this plan makes me feel sophisticated and bold. I’m an empowered, sexually-liberated woman who can take charge of her desires and visit a strip club and ogle other women and—dear God, what is that dancer doing with that man’s eggroll?
“Here’s a spot.” Simon pulls me toward a dark little table in the middle of the room. A wooden bench seat runs the full length of the space, and I take a seat beside him. On one side of us is a burly guy wearing a T-shirt advertising a construction company. To my right is a trio of women giggling into neon-colored drinks. As a topless server in hot pants leans down to take Simon’s order, one of the women next to me catches my eye and smiles. “First time?”
I nod, a little dismayed that my bold and empowered woman vibe isn’t coming through. “Yeah,” I acknowledge. “First time here or any strip club.”
“Really?” She peers around me to Simon, then smiles. She’s wearing a low-cut white top and a tiara that suggests she’s either part of a bachelorette party or a misguided member of the royal family. The redhead next to her wears a crown, so I’m guessing Tiara Girl is a bridesmaid.
“Ah, I get it,” Tiara Girl says. “Lots of guys love seeing their wives and girlfriends sit up front and get groped by the dancers.”
“Wh-what?” I stammer. “No—I don’t—I mean—groped? But no, this was my idea.”
Which I’m beginning to think might be ill-conceived. As though sensing I need a little encouragement, Simon rests a hand on my knee under the table and leans close to my ear. “You okay?”
I nod and meet his gaze. The fizz of nervous energy inside me simmers down, replaced by an unexpected calm. I can do this.
“I’m good,” I tell him.
“Here you go.” He pushes a small stack of two-dollar bills in front of me and offers an encouraging smile. “The waitress just traded me for a couple twenties. She said you’ll need them if you want to sit at the edge of the stage.”
I’m not entirely sure I do want to sit at the edge of the stage. I stare at the spot closest to us, surprised to see more women watching than men. A female customer in a red dress pushes a pile of cash to the edge and smiles up at the dancer, who responds by doing a sexy little shimmy. Another spectator—who looks disturbingly like a woman from my sisters’ book club—takes a sip of her martini and applauds with such enthusiasm she sloshes her drink.
Beside me, Simon shifts on the bench. “I ordered you a lemon drop.”
He’s big and solid beside me, and I feel a rush of gratitude that he’s here. That I’m not tackling number eight alone. “Thank you.”
On my right, Tiara Girl pushes her plate of nachos in front of me and smiles. “Have some,” she says. “They’re really good.”
“They’re—vegan?”
She laughs. “Yeah. Everything here is. The cheese, the sour cream, even the whipped topping on the Spanish coffee. You won’t see any of the dancers wearing leather or fur or anything, either.”
I wonder if I should feel guilty about my own leather boots, then decide it’s the least of my worries right now. “So how does this work, exactly?” I whisper to Tiara Girl. “I need a little help.”
She smiles again, and I wonder if she knows I need more than just tips for strip-club etiquette. That I’m here for a reason, and the reason involves locking lips with a woman I don’t know.
I swallow hard and try to look natural.
“If you sit up front, you put down a minimum of two dollars at the start of the song,” Tiara Girl explains. “The dancer will probably feel you up a little—they know that’s what all the guys want to see—so if you’re not cool with that, just stay right here.”
I can’t decide if I’m cool with that or not, so I pick up a corn chip and take a bite. Beside me, Simon leans in close. “If at any point you’re uncomfortable and want to leave, just say the word.”
I look up to see concern in his soft brown eyes. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“Only because I’m worried you might be.”
“I’m good.” I realize the moment I say this that it’s true, and that much of it is due to the strong, stupidly sexy man sitting next to me. He shoves his glasses up his nose, and I feel an unexpected flare of attraction.
“I can do this,” I say. “I want to do this.”
This is also true. Not just for my sisters, but for me.
When I made up the ‘I kissed a girl’ fantasy for my sisters, I was playing to the cliché. What wild girl in her twenties hasn’t toyed with the idea of a little same-sex flirtation?
Well, me. Because I’m not a wild girl. Not yet, anyway.
But I kinda want to be.
“I’m going up there.” I get to my feet before I have a chance to think about it. On shaky legs, I make my way to the edge of the stage. The song has just ended, and one dancer is scooping up armfuls of cash while another cleans the pole with spray disinfectant.
I don’t know why, but this makes me giggle. My sisters are forever whipping out their antibacterial hand sanitizer, passing it around a table like their version of a crack pipe. The thought of strip club employees being this hygiene-conscious tickles my funny bone in a way that solidifies my desire to sit here. To see what happens when I do.
A slender dancer with long, black hair and impossibly high heels takes her spot at the pole. As I stare up at her, she catches my eye and smiles.
“Hi there,” she says.
“Uh, hi,” I say, or at least I try to say it. My voice seems stuck. But I do manage a smile as I wonder if it’s okay to keep staring at her. Probably, since she’s on stage and all. I can’t help admiring the pale blue lingerie set she’s wearing. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask where she got it, but I decide that might break strip club etiquette.
Someone sits down beside me, and I look over to see Tiara Girl. Relief washes through me that it’s not some creepy dude. It’s not Simon, either, which I appreciate. He must know I need to do this part alone. He’s not pushing or leering. Just hanging back and offering silent support.
“I forgot to introduce myself,” says Tiara Girl. “I’m Kristin.”
“Cassie.”
“Nice to meet you, Cassie. I’m here for my sister’s bachelorette party.”
Something about that personal detail gives me comfort. I glance back at the sister, who looks tipsy and cheerful and a lot like Kristin. I wonder about their relationship and whether it’s anything like mine with Missy and Lisa.
“Thanks for sitting with me,” I whisper, turning back to Kristin.
“Thanks for being ballsy enough to sit here. I’ve wanted an excuse to try this all night.” She reaches down and gives my hand a squeeze. “Don’t be nervous. It’s fun.”
I fe
el a shiver of excitement as the song starts. It’s some techno number I recognize from the radio, and I push my two-dollar bill across the edge of the stage. The dancer does a few twirls around the pole, gripping it with her thighs to do an upside-down spiral to the bottom. I’m as awestruck by her core strength as I am by her perky little breasts, which are on full display as she wriggles out of the sheer blue bra and tosses it aside.
The music throbs, and I tear my eyes off the dancer to see what’s happening around us. A waitress hustles past with a sloshing tray of drinks. Off to the right, a meaty bouncer grabs a tipsy-looking guy by the arm and says something that makes the guy frown. The air smells like perfume and French fries, and I’m a little dizzy from all the flashing lights.
“Here we go,” murmurs Kristin. “Your guy is gonna love this.”
I look back at the stage and get smacked with a burst of excitement. I don’t know about my guy, but I feel a twitch of desire watching the dancer crawl across the floor on all fours, headed straight for me.
She meets my eyes and smiles, and I hear myself give a soft whimper. Nervousness or excitement? I’m not sure which.
“Hello,” the dancer purrs. “May I?”
I don’t know what she’s asking, but I feel myself nodding. She must know from my deer-in-the-headlights look that I’m a newbie, because her smile turns almost kindly as she reaches for me.
“Oh, very nice,” she murmurs as she leans in close. I feel her lips on my ear and her hair tickling my neck as her hands trail slowly over my collarbones. She seems to hesitate for a moment, probably waiting for me to pull back. To say no, this isn’t what I want.
But it is.
I gasp as she slips her hands all the way down the front of my dress and into the cups of my bra. Her fingers are gentle as she glides them over my nipples and purrs into my ear again. “You smell good.”
“Um,” I manage with a thread of desire twirling through the clanging nerves in my center. My heart is pounding in my ears, or maybe that’s the music. This is all so different. So new to me.
The dancer’s lashes tickle my earlobe as her thumbs graze my nipples again. My whole body hums with pleasure, and I glance left to see Simon watching with undisguised appreciation.
The dancer moves back, slipping her hands out of my dress more hastily than she put them there. She smiles at me again, a saucy expression that seems to say, “how was that?”
I nod and smile back as I shove my whole pile of two-dollar bills onto the stage. I’m more turned on than I expected to be, and I glance back at Simon again, wondering if he’s noticed.
The disco ball flickers in the reflection of his glasses, but beyond that, his eyes are molten. His gaze locks with mine, and we stare at each other across the room.
Beside me, the dancer has moved on to Kristin. I hear Kristin giggle when the other woman slides into her lap, but I barely notice. Spectators on all sides of us are cheering, but I’m still locked in Simon’s gaze. We’re twenty feet apart, but I can feel him like he’s next to me. Inside me. I lick my lips and touch a hand to my cleavage, which feels like it’s on fire. He smiles, and mouths three words that send a searing bolt of lust straight through my core.
I want you.
My mouth goes dry. I want him, too, more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life.
Kristin grabs my hand, and I break the force field of Simon’s gaze to turn back to her. “Wasn’t that fun?”
I smile and nod like an idiot. “Yeah. I guess I can cross that off The List.”
Wait. Can I? There was technically no kiss. I’m trying to decide whether to give myself a mulligan on this one when Kristin presses for more.
“You have a list?”
“Yeah.” I give her a sheepish smile and shrug. “It’s this stupid list I made for my sisters. Long story. I was supposed to kiss a girl, but I think getting groped by a dancer is close enough.”
“Oh, sweetie.” She grins and puts her palms on my shoulders. Her eyes are pretty and blue, and she’s close enough for me to see a smattering of freckles on her nose. “See that guy over there? The one by the bar wearing the red T-shirt.”
She gestures with the tip of one manicured finger, and I glance toward the bar. Standing off to the side is a tall guy with a handsomely-stubbled jaw and dark eyes that are fixed on Kristin. He’s smiling a little, but there’s a heat in his expression that reminds me of the look I just saw from Simon.
Simon, whose gaze I can feel on the side of my face.
I turn back to Kristin. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“Husband. It’ll be five years next month. Want to know the best anniversary present I could give him?”
“What?” I’m surprised by the breathlessness in my voice, and I think I might know what she’s going to say.
“To see his wife—a tired mother of two—kiss another woman.”
There’s nothing in Kristin’s pretty features that says “tired-looking,” and my heart pounds with the knowledge that I want to kiss her. Not the same way I want to kiss Simon, but also not just for The List.
I want it for me.
Before I have time to think about it, I lean in close and brush my lips against hers.
She’s soft—softer than any man I’ve kissed—and I feel myself melting into those lips. Suddenly, I can tell we’re both into this. Her tongue touches mine, timidly at first. I respond like it’s the most natural thing in the world, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. She gives a soft little sigh, and I tunnel my fingers into her hair, letting those silky curls slide between them as her tongue brushes mine again. It’s a sweet kiss, but still passionate. Not a kiss to make me swear off men, but one I’ll remember for a good long time.
I draw back first and slowly let go of her. I smile into those blue eyes, and Kristin smiles back.
“You’re an excellent kisser,” I tell her.
She laughs and tosses a look back at her husband. He’s walking our direction, and I suspect Kristin is about to get very, very lucky. “I’ll tell him you said so.”
I don’t even realize the song has ended until several people stand up around me. I get to my feet, surprised to realize my knees aren’t shaking anymore. I scan the room for Simon, hoping he saw the kiss. Hoping he looks at me with even a fraction of the desire I see on Kristin’s husband’s face as he hustles her toward the door.
“Cassie.”
I turn at the sound of Simon’s voice. He’s standing behind me with my coat in his hand and a smoldering look in his eyes. I don’t know what makes me glance down at the front of his pants, but I smile at the evidence that he’s as turned on as I am. My pulse hammers in my ears, and I find myself having a very tough time swallowing.
“Want to get out of here?” His voice is low and suggestive, and I wonder if we’ll even make it home. We took an Uber here, neither of us wanting to drive if we were going to be drinking.
I’m regretting that decision.
I lick my lips and nod. “Let’s go.”
We don’t even make it to the front door. We spot a dark little alcove near the restrooms, and he pulls me into it. I watch as Simon grabs the handle of a door labeled Do Not Enter and I’m too dizzy with lust to question whether this is a good idea. Maybe he tipped an employee for access to the broom closet, or maybe we’re doing something that’s going to get us arrested.
At this point, I don’t care. I might welcome the handcuffs.
I’m breathless as Simon pulls the door closed behind us. There’s no light at all, but I think we’re in a storage room of some sort. I smell pine cleaner and soap and perfume that isn’t mine. It’s warm in here, but not too warm, and I think it might be the heat from our bodies. I take a step back and feel a wall behind me. As I lean against it, I pull Simon toward me, kissing him a lot harder than I did Kristin.
He gives a soft growl and kisses me back, his hands everywhere at once. He’s rougher than normal, but I don’t mind. I crave it.
Gripping the hem of my dress with
both hands, he hikes it up over my ass. There’s a possessiveness in his kiss that stirs something primal inside me. As he breaks the kiss, I hear his breath coming hard in the darkness.
“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he growls.
I stifle a giggle, not wanting to get caught. I feel myself grinning like an idiot as he tugs my panties down my thighs. I kick them aside in the darkness, not caring that they’re my favorite pair and I may never see them again. My mouth waters in Pavlovian response when I hear a zipper being dragged down, then the crinkle of a condom wrapper.
Thank God, I think to myself, grateful he feels the same urgency I do. I don’t want foreplay. I don’t want conversation. I want Simon inside me as fast as humanly possible.
“Hurry,” I whisper, reaching out to help guide the condom in place.
He grabs my hips again, and I give a sharp little intake of breath. I’m not sure how he plans to do this, but I’m eager for anything that gets him inside me. At this point he could ask me to drop to all fours and make animal noises and I’d do the best damn impression of a sheep he’s ever heard.
But that’s not what Simon wants. “Wrap your legs around me,” he says.
He lifts me just enough so I can obey the command, then raises me up like I weigh nothing at all. Pushing me against the wall, he uses it for leverage so he can sink deep inside me in one slick stroke. I gasp, then bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound.
“God, Cassie,” he murmurs against my neck. “You’re so fucking wet.”
I am, and I know he probably credits the dancer or Kristin or the novelty of being in a place like this.
But my body’s response is all about Simon right now.
Clenching my thighs tight around his waist, I grind against him. The angle is pure magic, offering delicious, slick friction against my clit as he drives in deep enough to make me scream.
But I don’t scream. Music pulses beyond the door, and a trill of laughter trails someone into the ladies’ room just outside. I smell bleach and sweat and desire, and I can feel myself getting closer with every thrust.
“Simon,” I whisper.
