HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

My pussy contracted, clenching it like a vise.

  His breathing became labored.

  “I’m going to…”

  “So am I,” he breathed.

  Together, magically, we reached the brink.

  I felt as if I burst into a million sensual pieces, showering the room with emotion. I wanted to cry, scream, dig my nails into his flesh, and die, all at the same time.

  Instead, I opened my mouth and said nothing.

  Because I wasn’t able.

  I was frozen in time. It only lasted a nanosecond, but I was frozen nevertheless.

  Almost as if I was hovering over him, looking down upon his climactic finish, I watched as he erupted inside of me.

  His jaw stretched wide, and he let out a growl with the intensity of a powerful beast. His eyes met mine, and he smiled a shallow and slightly guilty grin.

  As countless micro-orgasms shot through me, I collapsed onto his chest, incapable of holding myself up for one more second. I remained motionless for some time, and then raised my head from his shoulder and looked him in the eyes.

  I knew he enjoyed it just as much as I did, but he’d never admit it, and that saddened me. I wanted to hold him, hug him, and tell him how good it felt to fuck him, but I didn’t dare.

  I wasn’t some sappy weirdo who was falling in love after fucking him twice. In fact, I was far from it. But I liked him. I liked looking at him. I liked fucking him. And, I loved how his cock made me feel. I wanted to get to know him, and in doing so, allow him to get to know me.

  I wanted to do all the things he wanted me to do, each one without instruction. I wanted to know his deepest of desires, and hoped I could satisfy each one of them.

  Yet.

  The way it felt knowing all we would ever have was sex crushed those wants and desires into dust.

  For whatever reason, admitting I was nothing but a hole for him to fill hurt me. And, I’d been hurt too many times in the past to allow it to happen again.

  I rolled to the side, stood, and turned toward the bathroom. Facing away from him, I cleared my throat. “Do you…uhhm. Do you mind…would you just let yourself out?”

  God.

  This hurts.

  “Wow. Really?”

  I didn’t bother turning around. I couldn’t allow him to see my face. Hiding my feelings at that moment would have been impossible, and if he knew how I truly felt, any rejection that followed would surely crush me.

  “I’m going to shower,” I said. “I’ll take my time. I’d appreciate it if you’d be gone when I came out.”

  He cleared his throat. “Alright.”

  While I showered, I came close to crying several times. It seemed ridiculous for me to feel the way I felt, but Smokey was different.

  I could sense it.

  I could feel it.

  And, I could see it.

  But. His unique situation wouldn’t allow him to accept anyone in his life that caused him to feel.

  I dried off, got dressed, and walked into the kitchen. Although the home was void of his presence, his scent still lingered in the air. I closed my eyes, inhaled a shallow breath, and shuddered at the smell of him.

  I opened my eyes.

  A folded piece of paper laying on the countertop caught my eye. I walked toward it. On the outside of the note, my name was written.

  I eagerly unfolded it.

  The script was handwritten, and elegant.

  Sandy,

  You satisfied me more in two days than you’ll ever know. If you’re thinking this comment is about sex, you’re wrong.

  It’s about your fun-loving attitude, your great personality, and the way you put up with my shit.

  For a minute, you tricked me into thinking I was normal.

  But, I’m not.

  Probably be best if we called it quits.

  I’m enjoying this too much.

  Smokey

  I read the note, and then re-read it.

  With reluctance, I folded the note, walked to the trash can, and dropped it inside.

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Three

  Smokey

  It had been a week since I’d seen Sandy last, and Cholo and I were a foreclosure property that he’d purchased to flip for a profit. I’d expressed my disappointment in knowing I would never see her again, and Cholo seemed shocked by the decision.

  While I took the last of my measurements, he loomed over me with his hands on his hips.

  “You’re a fucking weirdo,” he said.

  I extended the end of the tape measure to the wall, made note of the dimension, and wrote it down.

  “Says who?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “Says me.”

  “If I valued your opinion, I might give a shit about that remark. But I don’t, so I don’t.”

  “You ever think that having a woman around your daughter might help matters?”

  Cholo wasn’t the Filthy Fuckers Sergeant-at-Arms, but he was the club’s enforcer. A bald-headed former boxer who was built like a body builder, he wasn’t a man to get sideways with.

  Regardless, his comment hit a nerve, and I was ready to fight him, if need be.

  I stood, clipped the tape measure to my pocket, and shot him a laser sharp glare. “And what in the absolute fuck makes you think matters around my house need help?”

  “I’m just saying--”

  “And, I’m just saying that you better back the fuck up, or you and I are gonna tussle, motherfucker. Don’t fuck with my daughter. She ain’t the club’s business, and friend or not, she sure as fuck ain’t any of yours.”

  He tugged against the bill of his cap and shot me a look. “God damn, Smoke. You said you liked that Sandy chick, but that you weren’t going to see her any more. Lex says she’s a damned good chick. I was just trying to say…” He clenched his jaw and shook his head. “Fuck it. I said what I had to say. No disrespect intended.”

  I gave a nod. “None taken. I’m short tempered right now. Sorry.”

  “Something you want to talk about?”

  I knelt, took another measurement, and then wrote it down. “Daughter turns seventeen in three weeks.”

  “Is that a big deal?”

  “Around my house, it is.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She starts dating when she’s seventeen.”

  “Kind of a late start, huh?”

  I looked at him, cocked my eyebrow, and gave him one of Eddie’s famous stink eyes.

  He raised his hands in the air and turned his palms toward me. “Sounds like the perfect age to start dating to me.”

  I glanced at the sheet of paper, did the math, and looked up. “Fifteen grand even. Don’t fuck with me about it, Cholo. That tile that’s got to come up in the back bathroom is asbestos, and there ain’t another flooring contractor that’ll do this job for a penny under eighteen. Make a counter offer, and you can find another tile man.”

  “Fifteen’s fine,” he said with a nod.

  I stood, picked up my notepad, and wiped the dust from my jeans. “Sixteen is too fucking young, if you ask me. And, making her wait until she’s eighteen’s is cruel. So, at my house, seventeen’s the age for dating. She told me the other night I was a sadist.”

  “Your daughter did?”

  I nodded. “Yep. Said preventing her from going on dates was whittling away at the fiber of her being, and the end result was that I’d pummeled her confidence into a pile of mush. She compared what was left of it to a bowl of grits.”

  His brow wrinkled. “What the fuck are grits?”

  “Boiled ground corn. Or hominy. Nasty shit, if you ask me. It’s a southern thing.”

  “Like oatmeal?”

  I shrugged. “Cream of Wheat.”

  “You smashed her self-esteem into Cream of Wheat, huh?”

  “She said I pummeled it. Same difference, I suppose.”

  “Was she serious?”

  “Nope. She’s like me, if you can imagine that. She’s dramatic, full of shit, and rare
ly cracks a smile. People that don’t know her think she’s serious, but she’s laughing at ‘em on the inside.”

  “Sounds like you.”

  “She’s a good kid. But in three weeks I’m gonna start interviewing her potential dates, and it scares the shit out of me. I’ll have my pistol in my lap when I talk to ‘em, though.”

  “I don’t envy you, that’s for sure.”

  “Find out what you and Lex are having yet?”

  “Nope. Can’t for a while. Too early, the doc said. I think it’s a girl, though.”

  I nodded. “Girls are cool. Easy to get attached to ‘em if you ask me.”

  “A boy would be cool, too.” After gazing down at the discolored tile for a moment, he looked up. “You saying you wouldn’t love a boy the same way?”

  “The way I said that sounded bad, huh?”

  He chuckled, tugged against the bill of his cap, and looked at me. “Yeah.”

  “You love Lex, right?”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  “Can you think of anyone that could replace her? Like, step into your life, take her place, and satisfy you as much?”

  “That’s a stupid fucking question,” he snapped back. “Fuck no.”

  “Well, you can take that love and multiply it times a thousand, and that’d be a fucking molecule of the love you feel for your kid. Just wait, you’ll see. Boy or girl don’t matter, you’ll love ‘em, and you’ll get attached to ‘em, too.”

  He lifted the bill of his cap. “What you’re saying doesn’t make sense, Brother.”

  “Girls need sheltered from fuckers like us. Protected, or whatever. Providing that protection draws us closer to ‘em, but it’s different than love. It’s hard to explain. A parent ends up thriving for that provision. To be the one who they turn to when they need something, or when they’re in pain. Girls always need someone to go to. Someone they can count on.”

  “Makes sense,” he said. “Kind of.”

  “We act out of love naturally, but I think it’s the interaction that we become attached to. The conversations we have, and seeing their growth. Bottles to baby food. Crawling to walking. Talking. Learning how to read. Middle school to high school. Oh, and diapers to potty training.” I chuckled. “Wait till your kids drops a fuckin’ log in the hallway and doesn’t tell you, and then you step on it. I about broke my fuckin’ neck one night on one of Eddie’s random turds.”

  “Not looking forward to that.”

  “You say that now, but just wait. A day will come when you’ll wish like hell you had a shitty diaper to change. And, not having it’ll make you sick.”

  For me, that day had long since passed.

  And, I wished like hell it hadn’t.

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four

  Sandy

  Dancing was a job. Some looked at it as more; a stepping stone or gateway to being an actress. I knew better. The club was a place for the dreamers to gather. The dancers who dreamt of something better than what they had at home, and the patrons who dreamt of the same.

  I looked at dancing differently than most people, and while doing so, compared myself to an actress. When I was on stage, I was playing a part. The people who came to watch me were no different than those who flocked to see the latest installment of the Fifty Shades movies.

  I opened the car door, got one foot out the door, and doubled over in pain. Drowning my sorrows in an all-you-can-eat Thai buffet wasn’t a terrible idea, but the hole in the wall I chose to do it at wasn’t one of the best decisions I’d ever made. When the pain diminished, I stepped out of the car and ran toward the back door.

  I knocked on the door three times, paused, and then knocked once.

  Craig pulled the door open, saw me, and smiled. “Out of breath, as always.”

  I pressed my hands to my knees, gulped a breath, and grinned. “Hey.”

  “How’s it going?”

  I wedged myself between his massive thigh and the door frame. “Not good. I ate Thai food at Thai-cos last night.”

  He stepped to the side and wrinkled his nose. “The place that sells tacos on one side and Chinese food on the other?”

  “It’s Thai, not Chinese. Thai-cos, get it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t partake.”

  “It won’t happen again. I’ve been sick all day.”

  Craig was one of the bouncers, and was also a close friend. He was tall, muscular, and looked like a professional wrestler. His head was shaved, he wore a neatly-trimmed goatee, and his skin was as smooth as glass. As with all the bouncers, he was gay, which was one of the owner’s prerequisites for male employees at the bar.

  According to the owner, it eliminated the drama between the dancers and the male staff members. The owners only other rule, no boyfriends allowed in the club, was strictly enforced. This left the club drama reduced to the arguments with the dancers.

  But it was enough drama to satisfy even the most dramatic of the drama queens.

  “Starla didn’t make it,” Craig said. “And Neveah’s still sick. So, we’re short staffed tonight. Might need you to stay ‘till close.”

  I’d been exhausted for the last few days, more than likely the result of slight depression. Nothing would help me get my mind off Smoke more than working until I was exhausted even more.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I can use the money.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I rotate to the stage in a few, so I’ll be on the floor when you’re up.”

  I shouldered my bag and peered toward the dressing room. “Good. I’ll see you in a few.”

  If there was a drama free zone in a strip club, the dressing room wasn’t it. Boyfriend problems, girlfriend problems, baby daddy problems, missing tip money, babysitter problems, and lap dances gone bad were some of the typical concerns. The discussions were never simple, and always seemed to either turn into an argument or a fight.

  After three years, it was getting old.

  Sitting at the vanity preparing for her shift, Nikki glanced over her right shoulder. “Hey, Texxxas.”

  I smiled. “Hey.”

  Diamond turned to face me and widened her eyes comically. “Guess what George did? After you left last night?”

  I tossed my bag on the vanity. “Uhhm. I don’t know, what?”

  She cocked her hip, shot Nikki a shitty glare, and then looked at me. “Tipped me $500, and then asked me out.”

  “Any guy will ask you out if you jack him off in a booth,” Nikki said without turning around.

  Nikki was one to talk, she gave her regulars blowjobs when she could get away with it. I looked at her and then at Diamond’s reflection in the mirror. “Are you going to go out with him?”

  “Yeah.” She gave Nikki another glare, and then looked at me. “Do you know what he drives?”

  I had no idea, and I really didn’t care. I did my best to feign interest and shrugged. “Uhhm. No. What?”

  “Mercedes.”

  “A twenty-year-old Mercedes,” Nikki chimed.

  “She’s jealous,” Diamond said. “Can you tell?”

  Nikki spun around. “I doubt he tipped you more than $10. Form what I hear, your hand jobs suck. And, jealous of what?”

  “Jealous of the $500 tip, and because he asked me out. What do you get? $20 for a blowy, right?”

  Nikki turned around. A strip of eyelashes dangled from the tip of her finger. “No, I get a grand, a ride in a new Mercedes, and a lobster dinner.”

  Diamond picked up her sweats, waved her free hand toward Nikki, and rolled her eyes. “Jealous bitch.”

  “A fifty-year-old surfer let you give him a handy, and then asked you out while you were wiping the cum off his disgusting gut. What is there to be jealous of?”

  “He’s not fifty. And he owns a construction company.”

  Nikki leaned forward, pressed the eyelashes in place, and then fanned her face with her hands. “He’s probably a janitor, and he looks fifty.”

  Diamond cocked her hip. “He’s not fi
fty. He’s got a teenage dick, and a Mercedes.”

  “Give it a rest, Theresa.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Diamond hissed.

  Nikki picked up another strip of eyelashes and then glanced over her shoulder. “It’s your name.”

  “We’re not supposed to use our names, and you know it. Mark will have your ass, you spiteful bitch.”

  My stomach knotted, and I bent over in response.

  “Are you okay, Tex?” Nikki asked.

  After a few seconds, the pain went away. I looked at her and shook my head. “Bad Thai food.”

  “Nothing’s worse,” she said. “Where?”

  “Thai-cos.”

  “Oh my God. Why?”

  “All you can eat. I was in a mood.”

  “A mood for food poisoning.” She nodded her head toward my waist. “You’ll pay for it.”

  Diamond pulled on her sweats, slipped her arms through her hoodie, and then zipped it up. “I guess I’m out of here.”

  “Only reason you stuck around was to brag to Texxxas,” Nikki said. “Go.”

  She grabbed her purse, shot Nikki a look, and then turned toward the door. “Bye Texxxas.”

  I waved. “See ya, Diamond.”

  Nikki leaned forward, checked her makeup, and then looked at me. She batted her lashes a few times.

  “They look good, as always,” I said.

  She smiled. “You’re so sweet.”

  “You always look good.” I said. It was true, she looked great, she just didn’t look her age. She was 21 years old, and looked like she was 35. A really hot 35-year-old, but 35, nonetheless.

  She shook her head lightly, and then looked in the mirror. “You come in here, put on your outfit, and walk on stage. No one else here can think about doing that. We’ve got to work for it.”

  “I’m just a take me or leave me kind of girl,” I said. “That’s how we are in Texas.”

  I wasn’t really from Texas, but none of the girls knew it. I was from New Mexico. The daughter of an alcoholic mother who had a second job as a drug addict, and a father who decided he’d had enough of her when I was six, I left when I was thirteen and went to live with my aunt and uncle.

  When I was seventeen, I graduated high school. I thanked them for their hospitality, loaded my belongings into my Volkswagen, and left. Hoping to land a job as an actress, I made my way to Southern California. Upon arriving, I realized I was no different than the other 40 million people who lived there. Disappointed, but not defeated, I got a job as a waitress, saved my money, and bought a set of boobs.