by Kim Karr
Venus leans forward, and at the same time, Brooklyn shifts a little, moving more beside me than behind me. I wonder if he is getting hard. I want to look. I don’t. It would be way too obvious.
Right before her perfect breasts meet Chase’s face, he moves back. Venus doesn’t seem to like that, so she grabs his face and presses it into her breasts. As if that isn’t enough, now she’s spreading her fingers and squeezing her breasts around his face, all the while grinding on his lap.
I laugh to myself, picturing him motorboating between those giant grapefruits. At this point, I truly think the only way this can end well is with her dry-humping him fast enough to make him come in his pants.
And I have to tell you, the thought both repulses and fascinates me at the same time. Not sure if lines are being crossed or not, I honestly do not give a crap.
Still, I consider looking away. This seems so private, and yet we’re in a club, and it is anything but private. When I do finally decide to glance away, Brooklyn’s eyes are on me, not them, and his lips are parted, his breathing forced.
He’s turned on. And that face is so completely gorgeous it makes me realize how wet I am.
Closer.
He moves closer.
I part my lips.
Close my eyes.
Ready myself for the touch of his lips to mine.
Just then the song ends and lights on the stage turn from spot to full-blown white. When I open my eyes, Brooklyn isn’t leaning toward me any longer, and I don’t know if I imagined the idea that he was going to kiss me.
Still, I’m breathless and embarrassed, and yes, turned on. Unable to let him see any of that, I set my gaze on Chase and watch as Venus stands up, smiling at him, bowing at us.
It was a show.
And now it’s over.
Another sultry song starts to thump through the bass, but it isn’t nearly as erotic as the last.
Before I can even snap out of my daze over whether Brooklyn was going to kiss me or not, he’s got my hand and he’s leading me away from the group.
“Hey, James,” Rick shouts over the start of the next song.
Brooklyn turns.
“We’re upstairs,” Rick says, pointing.
Brooklyn gives him a nod confirming he’s aware, but doesn’t go anywhere near the stairs or the elevator. Instead, he leads me over to one of the small leather sofas in the middle of the club that has a perfect view of the main stage. As we walk, his thumb passes back and forth over my skin, and it makes me shiver.
I know I said I wanted him, yet I know he is so not what I need. Landon is what I need—he is a man looking for a relationship. Brooklyn isn’t, or I don’t think so. Yet that doesn’t matter right now because he is so what I am craving.
A look over my shoulder alerts me to the fact that a topless woman with red hair is following us. She isn’t as attractive as Venus, but still she is beautiful, with all her pale skin and the largest breasts I’ve ever seen uncovered. Like most of the girls working here, she has bottles of alcohol strapped around her on belts. Hers, though, aren’t whiskey or tequila—they are Grey Goose.
Instantly, I make the connection.
She’s ours, for the night.
“Hi,” she offers cheerily as we sit, a small gap of space between Brooklyn and me that I’m not certain is intentional or unintentional.
“Hi,” Brooklyn says. “How are you?”
“Oh, I can’t complain. I’m Lana. Can I start you off with a drink?”
Again, we both tilt our heads, and again one spill from a bottle goes down my throat, and another down Brooklyn’s. This time the portion is larger, and I tip my head before she is done, spilling the liquor down my front.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, attempting to wipe it up with her hands.
“It’s fine,” I respond, a little more sultry than my voice normally sounds.
“You sure, hon’?”
I nod, brushing the remaining liquid off, and notice Brooklyn looking anywhere rather than at her breasts.
“Okay then, with that out of the way, do you want a lap dance?” she asks.
When I don’t respond, her head shifts to Brooklyn, and then back. Brooklyn looks at me too, and then as if reading my mind, he says, “Maybe later, okay, Lana?”
“Sure thing,” she says with a wink. “Maybe after the show.”
He nods and slips her a twenty, although I notice he doesn’t tuck it into her G-string, but rather hands it to her.
She takes it and offers another drink, which we both gladly accept.
Once she leaves, Brooklyn leans a little closer. “We’re leaving after the show.”
The alcohol is hitting me, and my inhibitions are low, just not low enough to agree to a lap dance, not yet anyway. “I might not be ready.”
His fingers rap-a-tap to the beat. “I think you’re ready now.”
That last dollop of vodka begins to work its magic, and I run my finger around his pretty mouth, the touch electric. “Lighten up, Brooklyn. I’m buzzed, not drunk, and just because I wasn’t ready for a lap dance doesn’t mean I’m not having fun. I am.”
Suddenly, the lights turn colors, and the beat to another Rihanna song fills the room. This one is “Skin.” It’s louder than before, and as soon as my gaze hits the stage, I know why.
It’s showtime.
I sit a little taller and clap my hands together, waiting with anticipation.
And then the spotlight hits the center of the stage and three girls come out with different variations of little black dresses and the highest spike heels. Each takes one of the poles. The other girls around the perimeter of the stage don’t stop dancing, though; instead, they keep on dancing provocatively to the beat.
It soon becomes clear; these girls in the center are the show. And when they start to move, all eyes are on them. Like a cheerleader routine, they move in the same pattern. First, they turn away from us and bend at the waist with butts out so we can all see their lacy thongs, and possibly a hint more. And then they are doing some kind of split, turning and twisting so they are now facing us. Next, they stand tall with their breasts out and take a step over to their pole, where they proceed to shimmy up and down. Twirling, spinning, moving. Doing splits and bends, and climbing down and back up the pole, they give us a show almost equivalent to Cirque du Soleil.
Then, the routine changes, and the girl in the middle remains in place up high on the pole, hanging there by using only her thighs.
She’s in fantastic shape.
The other two are standing in place, moving their arms and bodies to the beat in sync. Soon the girl on the pole comes down and the three of them pick up their routine once again.
Now, on the ground, they unzip their dresses and stand in lacy black bras and garters. Soon they are bare except for a faint piece of fabric that covers their pussies, their garter belts, and shoes.
Now I can feel Brooklyn’s thigh against mine. Somehow, he shifted closer, or I did. I take a long, shallow breath and have this crazy urge to squeeze my own nipples.
Insane.
The three women move to the beat, bending and turning to face us in a way that allows a tiny glance of the puckered skin of their asses and their pussies. Men start hooting and hollering. Dollar bills are being tossed everywhere. I consider tossing some, but don’t. Instead, I keep watching as a piece of material is ripped away to reveal even skimpier thongs. One of the girls is bare down there, I can tell. The other two have slight hair, as it shows through the sides of the material of their tiny thongs.
The girl who is bare has blond hair and she looks like a Barbie doll. She’s the only one I’m watching now as she arches her back and the tips of her long hair brush the floor. I press my thighs together against the ache of arousal as I watch the girl I’m not interested in, instead of the man I am. I’m not sure what I’ll do if I see the need in his eyes again.
A thick wave of desire prickles my skin, and I swear I feel Brooklyn’s fingertips now strummi
ng against my bare thigh.
When I look down, I’m uncertain. His hand is on his own thigh, close to mine. Was it on mine? And then I dare look up. I know I shouldn’t. And his eyes aren’t on the stage, but rather on me. I lick Grey Goose from my upper lip, and imagine it as the taste of him.
Overcome with so much arousal, my clit is hard and begging for more than the press of my panties against it. I can’t take it. I can’t take the way he is looking at me. I have to turn to watch the show. More crumpled dollar bills are being tossed, and now there are loud catcalls coming from all around.
The strippers’ bare breasts bounce as they grasp the poles and writhe against them. And they move gracefully around the poles, giving us a truly artful show before the song ends. The lights dim on the three center poles, letting us all know the show is over.
The next song begins, and the three girls head into the audience to collect their dollars. When the Barbie-doll-looking one approaches us, Brooklyn tucks some money into her garter, and it surprises me. Then he crooks his finger and she leans close to him so he can whisper in her ear.
Before I know what is happening, she takes me by the hand and I find myself rising to my feet, not sure why. Freeing myself of her hold, I look over my shoulder to Brooklyn, nervous, very nervous, and I notice he is already standing beside me.
“Hi, Amelia, my name is Sparkles. Follow me.”
Before I can protest, she grabs my hand, and Brooklyn’s too, and leads us through the club to one of the doors with the three letters VIP etched in the smoky glass, making the room almost like a tease. You think you can see inside it, yet you can’t.
With each step closer the three of us get, the more my stomach jumps.
Sure, I’ve been in a VIP room before…
But never like this.
15
Vertigo
Brooklyn
Men go to strip clubs for many reasons.
They go to see boobs, and in some cases, pussy. They go to hear the classics, like C+C Music Factory and Crazy Town. They go to spend their money on expensive, watered-down drinks, and get lap dances that are high school in nature, with their dry humps being a giant, never-ending tease.
And they go to celebrate or commiserate the passing of bachelordom. Personally, the latter is the only reason I’ve ever gone. And I’d never admit this to anyone, but I’ve never said yes to a lap dance.
Come on, did you see Chase’s face? His, like all men’s faces during lap dances, was the portrait of welcomed yet unwelcomed want—why the hell would I sign up for that?
Strippers tease. Fuck, their dances are called stripteases. The last thing I want in my life is a tease. Still, I make the best of the fantasy of it all, and happily tip the ladies with the bouncing ta-tas.
Amethyst, Cherry, or Candy, or whatever stage names they have given themselves, have never interested me. At least with all of my fangirls, we actually get to fuck. With strippers, you leave with the same bunch of men you came with, and go home alone—to jerk off.
No, thank you.
Yet, watching Amelia, watching the way her body reacted to the show, the feral vibe in the air, has made this scene all fresh and new.
The vodka has liberated my views, downplaying how truly wrong it is to fuck my friend’s sister. Not saying I plan to do that, but watching her is so fucking hot.
Remember, too, everything everyone does has a reason.
Amelia wanted to come here to have fun and be wild—I know this. I can read her pretty well. And since we’re here, I intend to make sure this little outing is just that.
The etched glass door swings open, and never having been inside one of these small rooms, I take a quick glance around. The walls are painted purple and the room is lit by black lights. The white leather bench glows fluorescent, and when the stripper turns, her eyes shift from Amelia to me. “Come on, don’t be shy.” She beckons to us.
There are tables on either side of the seating area with ice buckets and more liquor bottles. Amelia is hesitant. I lean in close enough to brush my lips across her temple, yet I don’t; instead, I whisper, “Sit down, Amelia.”
She does. I grab a bottle and take a long pull on it before I sit beside her, this time making certain to leave no space between us. Inhibitions low, I allow my attraction toward her to take the lead, and am willing to see where it takes me, takes us.
There’s a stereo set up in the corner, and the stripper is over there.
“What’s her name again?” I ask Amelia quietly.
Big, wide eyes look over at me. “Glitter, I think.”
With a laugh, I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s it.”
She shrugs, and her smile alone intoxicates me. With the bottle still in my hand, I consider offering it to her, but I think she’s had enough, so instead I set it back in the ice bucket.
“What do you want to listen to?” the stripper asks from the corner, looking at me.
“You pick,” I tell Amelia.
She shrugs. “I’m not sure. Maybe something old?”
That makes the stripper’s face light up. “How about nice?”
Amelia doesn’t seem to care, so I answer, “Sure.”
“And rough.” The stripper winks.
Uncertain how Amelia will react to the stripper’s sense of humor, I’m happy to see she shrugs the comment off with a haughty laugh.
Just then, the room fills with Tina Turner’s version of the classic “Proud Mary,” and Amelia throws her hands together in excitement. “I love this song.”
Heat sweeps up and down my body in waves as I watch her move—Amelia, that is, not the stripper. In this moment, I wonder if it would be rude if I asked the stripper to leave and ask Amelia to pop my cherry on the lap dance front.
Already knowing it wouldn’t be allowed, I sit back and watch as the stripper approaches Amelia. I already told her this was solely for Amelia, so she knows I’m off limits.
She starts slow, circling the bench, swaying her hips, leaning down from behind us to blow glitter all around.
“Like magic,” Amelia remarks.
“They don’t call me Sparkles for nothing.” The stripper laughs.
Tiny speckles of gold and silver land on Amelia’s face, and she smiles, her grin bright white in the black light.
Sparkles turns the corner near Amelia and tips her chin up. “You a virgin, baby?”
“No!” Amelia exclaims, sounding more nervous than ever.
My mouth finds her ear, and she smells so good, I have to take a breath before speaking. “She means for lap dances, not sex.”
This makes Amelia laugh too, and flush as well. “Yes.”
Sparkles’ smile is wide. “I’ll be nice, but not so easy on you,” she says, in a Tina Turner–like voice.
At least this time she didn’t say rough, because to be honest, I didn’t care for that bit of humor.
Amelia grabs my hand when Sparkles hovers over her lap, and I don’t shrug away. Instead, I hold onto it, the feel of her small hand in mine is so good, I almost think it belongs there.
The lights dance along to the beat, and so does Sparkles. Amelia, though, looks over at me, and I catch her gaze, allowing the atmosphere to pierce me in ways I know I shouldn’t.
Breathing heavy, hands clasped, thighs touching, the woman dancing seems to fade away, and it’s just Amelia and me. Mouths parted, eyes locked, lust swirling around us. By the very last chorus of the song, I finally allow myself to admit—I am going to fuck her.
By the time the song ends, I have to say, Sparkles took it easy on Amelia. Not really touching her, but moving around her, making her know this is about her, and her experience. Nothing else.
As soon as Sparkles walks over to shut the music off. Amelia lets go of my hand and stands. I look up at her. She is flushed, and otherwise unreadable.
“Hey,” Sparkles calls from the door.
So lost in Amelia, I didn’t even realize she’d moved from the corner. I stand up and look over
to her.
“Thanks!” she says, opening the door. “Come see me anytime. Since you already paid, you have three minutes. See you out there.”
She’s gone, we’re alone, and the door is open.
My lips curve into a smile, and I find myself inching closer to Amelia. “We have three minutes.”
Her gaze flicks over me. “I think more like two and a half now.”
Glitter is in the air, and it lands on the two of us. This makes me smile even more because she looks almost enchanting.
Hungry for her, I reach for her and grab her by the waist. I am already opening my mouth when she angles her head. And then I’m moving closer, clutching her hips, pulling her to me, feeling the touch of her beneath my fingertips. Finally, after what seems like a lifetime, our lips touch and I’m kissing her. Moving forward with something I know better than to do, and yet, with her soft, warm, lips on mine, I can’t seem to care.
She lets out a gasp, a moan, and I’m lost. Fuck me. This is so much better than all those years ago.
She’s delicious.
Perfect.
I’m so fucked.
My hands slide around to her ass, and I push her body into mine. At the same time, her shaking fingers run up my shirt, clawing at my skin, and then pressing into my chest when our bodies mold into one.
The way her body reacts to mine makes it impossible to keep the tempo between our mouths slow, and I can’t stop myself from kissing her hard. Then harder still.
And for the remaining two minutes, it’s just the two of us, spinning in the magic of the room…in the magic of our first kiss.
“Let’s get out of here,” I find myself saying, as I pull away more than breathless, and more than aware we’ve been here way past the time allotted.
And that’s all that needs to be said to start a chain of events I hope to God doesn’t break me…or her.
16
