Friday night: holiday parties in full swing. And since it's chic and edgy for co-ed groups to go strip-clubbing these days, lots of civilian ladies with their tanned and moisturized civilian flesh hanging out of their civilian clubbing clothes.
The night's a blur, really. I was tired, and I was drinking: Two Bud Lites with an Asian guy who kept chanting "Jesus help me" while I danced, but must have liked it anyway, because he dropped a pretty penny. A Jack and Coke with Brit who wanted to know why some girls like other girls. Shots with some young Indian guys. More beer with some girl and her cowboy boyfriend. White Russians with another Brit.
It was well after midnight. The chairs had all been pushed away from tables, and the tables had all been shoved around, and the whole floor was one vast obstacle course through which I was weaving when I caught the eye of a man so non-descript I couldn't tell you the first thing about him, except his shirt was blue.
He waved me over and I sat on his lap and we were well into negotiations when there was some lady hovering near us whom he introduced as his wife. Strip club ettiquette, such as it is, dictates I offer her the first dance, and I did. She waved me off.
"I've bought about a million dances for her tonight," this dude said. "I want a dance for me."
Fine. The old song ends. The new song starts. I get up. He grabs my wrists and pulls me down. "You know what I like?" he says. "I want you to twist my nipples really hard. Make it hurt. Can you do that?"
Sure, guy. What the fuck ever. I ask if he'd like to go to the private dance area. He hands me $60. "Do it here."
I dance. I pull his hair a little bit and pinch his nips, because I am a dedicated hussy and I aim to please. He gasps. "Oh, you fucking bitch," he hisses. "Do it harder, bitch."
I don't like to be called a bitch, so I slap his face, just a little bit. He moans and tries to grab my tits. Over my shoulder I hear his wife say "You can't do that," but back off lady. I take care of myself.
I grab his wrists and pull them over his head, dig my knee into his thigh, and tower over him so he must lean way, way back. I lean down and whisper in his ear that he's a nasty, nasty boy. A dirty, squirming little slut. His eyes squeeze shut in ecstacy. "Make it hurt," he moans. "Make it hurt, make it hurt, make it hurt."
The old song ends. The new song starts. There seem to me more people around us now. I do his buttons down, reach inside his shirt and take his nipple between ring finger and thumb. I don't know what's gotten in me. I must have tasted blood. "Bitch," he screams, "You fucking dirty BITCH."
I hear his wife again, "You can't do that, Stan" or whatever his name is. I feel a little sorry for her, but I don't give a fuck really, about their nice little walk-on-the-wild-side office party. I don't give a fuck about her Pashmina shawl and salon highlights or their fifteen years of mediocre domesticity. I don't give a fuck about his six-figure job, or his cocksucker boss sitting wide-eyed over there. They're all in my house now. He makes another wild grab at my tits and I slap him again, hard. I whisper sweetly in his ear: "I'm going to fuck you up, asshole."
Then there's another lady bending over us, a blond, the nice friend of the family who volunteers at the homeless shelter and runs in marathons, and she is telling him firmly that he must stop. His eyes are glazed. She won't get anything from him. I push her hair aside and ask if I should disappear. Her looks says she's surprised that I speak English, but it also saysyes and thank you, so I go.
The crowd is thick and it's easy to disappear. The gimp paid me for three dances and got one and a half. Sorry, gimp.
Ten minutes later I'm on the couch in VIP with some guy named Patrick or something. I'm smiling and writhing and he's giving me his phone number and telling me he and his friends are getting together at his house later and I should come.
"Silly, you don't really want me at your house."
"Oh, yes I do," he says.
"Oh, no you don't."