It was just past eleven as I dismounted my motorcycle and walked up to the front door of “San Garibaldi’s Own” Club Naw-Tee. Judging by the cars in the parking lot, I guessed the joint was only moderately busy; I liked timing my entrance to catch the early crowd leaving, and the later partiers just arriving.

Louie nodded at me. “Sir,” he said quietly in that mashed-potato voice of his, holding the door as he eyed the drunken frat boys in line. The idiots in line started to protest my skipping ahead. “Who the fuck’s this old bastard,” one of them muttered.

Casually Louie dropped the door. He stepped forward – guy’s built like a big hunk of granite, it’s weird seeing him walk -- and backhanded the young man across the mouth with a loud thwack. Kid dropped like a rock. His buddies started to protest, but another raised hand from Louie sent ‘em scattering.

I frowned. That wasn’t necessary; kids might have become my customers. Still, even though Louie’s about as smart as my right toenail, he meant well. And I did have to feel impressed by his willingness to commit casual violence on my behalf; he’s the only Meat whose name I’d bothered to learn. I nodded at him and slipped him a fifty, and he held the door open again, thanking me politely. Nikki at the cash register flashed me a big smile and a wink as she took some schmoe’s money to get in.

It was gratifying having these babes and mooks treat me with respect, for sure. Funny how that worked, when I’m merely a humble distributor of a product they have an interest in: unadulterated, fentanyl-free, fuck-up-your-shit cocaine. When I promised the club’s owner a decent cut of what I made – and my margin was incredibly high, I could afford it – Rico had Meat look out for me, steering away any undercover officers and generally watching my back. Our relationship, aside from a hiccup or two caused by a poor decision he'd made, was generally good. Although this club was a little dingy, it was a far cry classier than the other joint across town, The Rooster, populated by aged skanks and burnouts I wouldn’t fuck with your dick. I needed a drink.

Cassandra was at the bar, her dirty blonde hair done up tight just like her ass.  Her electric blue latex getup, relatively modest for this dive, looked fabulous on her toned frame. She didn’t like me, didn’t like that the girls loved what I got for ‘em. I’d a theory she was a coke whore in a past life. Just shy of thirty, she’d been a fixture of this place since before I found it: beautiful, but with apparently no desire to have strange jackasses pay her to get naked, or to snort drugs. Terribly tragic character flaws. But I’d long ago given up on getting my dick into her.

“Hello, ‘Sir,’” she said mockingly. One of the early rules I’d made with Rico: none of these people were gonna know my name. They don’t make up a name for me. They don’t think up some kind of cutesy nickname. They called me Mister, they called me Sir. Maybe it was a power thing on my part, maybe it was an added layer of protection, maybe it was just my kink. I really didn’t give a fuck.

Cassandra was already pulling my drink, a special bottle of impossibly expensive whiskey kept in a lockbox. It’s not that I was a liquor snob or anything, but ever since some broke-ass lawyer gave me a bottle of this for a key back in oh-seven, I always drank this stuff. Because I could afford it, and doggone it, I was worth it. Last year with a similar bottle I was keeping here, I’d discovered it used up far faster than it should’ve been. I didn’t get mad or violent… I simply stopped coming by the club. Within days, I had coke whores at my feet licking my balls, begging me to come back and oh so apologetic. By Rico’s order, Cassandra now marked the liquid level with a piece of dated tape, and kept it in a lockbox installed especially to ensure only I slurped this stuff. I could tell she hated doing it, but by god if I couldn’t fuck her, I could at least fuck with her. She slid me my whiskey rocks, I saluted her happily, she flipped me the bird. I grinned, then put on work face as I turned to start my real working day.

Fuckin’ Todd was the deejay again. I hated Fuckin’ Todd. The girls heard me say that a few times, and that nickname caught on, so he wanted to hate me too. Unfortunately, Fuckin’ Todd liked booger sugar way too goddamn much, and due to shall we say some accidental drunken magnanimity a couple months prior, owed me four thousand dollars. If he was getting blow now, it wasn’t from me. I guess he felt my eyes boring a hole into his ugly face, because he glanced up, saw me and went pale. Fuckin’ Todd better have my goddamn money tonight, I thought, before pushing that away. Ah, life’s too goddamn short for negativity, even in a shitty strip club like this one. I readjusted my work face and looked for that familiar need people seemed to have in my presence at these places.

As soon as they saw I'm in the club, a few girls bounded up to me happily, pressing money into my hand for little baggies of blow from my satchel, then kissing me on the cheek before skipping away to go powder their noses. I’ve no great love for the current crop of women Rico’s got now; they’re mostly petite little spinners with small chests but flat tummies. Maybe you find that hot, but I need something to grab onto. Still, these girls don’t seem to mind doing me little favors for flake, and their pussies are usually tight. I often wondered how many other fifty year old quasi-burnouts like me had it twisted to be drowning in young stripper snatch. I did love my job so very very much. 

After the dancers came the schmoes who knew they could hit me up here. These guys may have been occasionally rude or grabby with the girls, but with me it was straight respect, with no bullshit. Getting jacked wasn’t a thing on my mind here; guys who tried to get weapons past Louie didn’t tend to be visiting a lot of clubs afterwards. Despite his numerous flaws, Rico does have a good idea for Meat, and it’s clear Meat knows me, and I have the blessing to sell as much joy dust as these schmoes and hoes can cram up their greedy little noses.

Twenty minutes after clearing the door I'm up five, maybe seven grand, and I’m feeling good as I settle into my anointed home in this shithole. Fuckin’ Todd couldn’t face me, but had one of the girls bring me a) cash, specifically a grand, a quarter of what he owed, Fuckin’ Todd; and b) a blowjob. She looked like she would’ve mostly because she feared Fuckin’ Todd – I’d have to work on that because no physical entity anywhere on Earth ought to fear Fuckin’ Todd – but I demurred and sent her away, too early to fuck yet. She looked grateful, and I thought about giving her a bump, but fuck that.

My open booth was somewhat near the VIP section. I picked it special, so I could glance over and see the schmoes getting felt up and rubbed on, while maintaining a good view of the stage, though calling it that was a stretch. It was little more than twenty feet wide with a pole that never looked entirely clean, nor would I trust its stability. Place is a dive, but I was in my element.

I shed my leather jacket and took in the view in my black, gut-minimizing Ween concert tee and jeans. I’m a simple guy with simple tastes, I thought, treating myself to a little zip off my motorcycle key. I swirled my whiskey and took a sip. Good shit. This drink probably cost more than some of these schmoes pay in rent for half a year, but it was fuckin’ worth it, nice and smooth. It paired amazingly with blow.

“Chantel,” a sweet black girl with mediocre tits but huge dark nipples I kinda dug, was finishing up her second dance. She’s alright, friendly enough, but didn’t indulge herself with my delights too often. Great ass, though; unlike these other skinny bitches, “Chantel” had a goddamn dump truck, and she could twerk it like nobody’s business. It’s a sight, and she had a couple fans up front as she clapped her cheeks around their heads. She looked happy, like she’s having a great time. I was here often enough to see the truth, though she faked it well enough for most of these losers.

Fuckin’ Todd’s smarmy voice blasted out of the speakers.

“Okay, all you Club Naw-Tee fans, thanks for coming out to, San Garibaldi’s own, premiere gentlemen’s cluuuuuub.” I hated Fuckin’ Todd. “That was Chantelll, making her way off the stage and soon to be available just for yooou, twenty dollar tableside dancees, or for just a leeetle bit more, your very own Veeeee Eyeeee Peeee experiennce,” he oozed.  Fuckin’ Todd.

“And now, for her first time on the fabulous Club Naw-Tee main stage” — the only stage, you fucking moron – “let’s bring out a brand new ladyyy, to Club Naw-Tee. Here, for your viewing pleasure, let me introduce – Caaaannndyyyy!”

And then she walked on stage, and oh my god. A big girl, eighteen if she was a day, light ginger-brown hair, glasses, red latex painted over the sexiest curves. She was easily well over two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe two-seventy-five; but most of it had to be her gigantic, round tits or truly bodacious ass. I stared open-mouthed as she walked out on stage. She looked nervous. Fuckin’ Todd pressed the start button on the music a little late; she glanced at the DJ booth in annoyance, but then the music bumped out of the speakers. It was an older song, Soul II Soul’s “Back To Life,” far different from the stupid trap or faux-indie shit these other young girls fawned over. Yeah, I’m impressed by shit like enjoying older music, sue me.

With the pulsing funk hitting her, the nervousness fled. She seemed to take up so much more of the stage than these other whores. It’s not that she was fat, though young stupid boys who didn’t know dick might’ve said so. She was thick, curvy, busty, fleshy, lovely. Be still, my goddamn heart, I thought, as she slowly smiled, and started to sway and move to the beat. I shot a look around the rest of the club, but as of yet none of these other guys had noticed they were in the presence of divinity. This hole was well known for featuring the stick-figure, flat-assed powder puffers I'd done business with earlier, because that's where Rico's tastes ran. Idiot. Yet he'd.had the sense to see value in this tall, heavy, amazing teen shaking now on stage.

Despite her size – I bet she outweighed perhaps three other girls in walking distance – she carried herself amazingly well, and I was mesmerized by her rhythmic waggle. She glanced to the front of the stage, and the smile slipped just a little, disheartened to be on stage for her first time with no guys paying attention. That was just a goddamn crime, and I am well known for my stance against crime. I strolled to the stage with purpose, ignoring “Mitzi” trying to get my attention, and sat down. The big girl’s eyes were closed as I watched her fat ass shimmy; she had a hand on each cheek, bent far at the waist, sticking all that cake out and rolling it around slowly in the air.  “Chantel” had a dump truck, but this girl had a goddamn 747. Feeling almost a little dizzy, I took out a hundred-dollar bill, lay it on the stage in front of me, and plopped in a chair, leaning back to watch what this sexy girl had in store.

Turning back toward the bar, she finally noticed me. She smiled big and it was real, not these fake, of-course-I-love-you-baby-can-I-have-some-more, thin-lipped grimaces I was used to seeing. I think that’s when she really had me.

She slid to her knees, and with a bite of her lip, began to slowly crawl towards me, her hips still undulating hypnotically. She glanced down and it struck her that I’d put down a much larger bill than she’d first thought, and her eyes widened. I’d seen new girls do this before: rather than leave it in place for a moment and keep the mood sexy and light, we weren’t going anywhere, no: her hand darted out to grab. She slid my money – her money, sorry – into a garter with urgency, as if she had to before I could change my mind. Like that was gonna fuckin’ happen. But just as fast as it’d left, the mood was back and she smiled at me. Gosh, she was pretty. 

Stretching forward seductively, she placed a hand on my knee as she reached behind her neck. Then, leaning back slowly, she flashed a goofy grin and wiggled a little bit, causing the top of her dress to fall forward, releasing her breasts.

They were huge. They were amazing. They had these cute nipples that were perfectly proportioned to the rest of her giant fuckin’ hooters. She shook her chest at me, causing them to jiggle beautifully. My cock was really, really hard.

I mouthed, “Wow.” She giggled, and I bet she knew what she’d done to me.

Then her expression changed: she lowered her head to gaze at me over her glasses, and leaned forward for a second. Her boobs hung a bit, and they only appeared even more spectacular. Her mouth opened slightly in a pout as she reached down to lift the hem of her dress one teasing inch. I smiled encouragingly, and she playfully lifted it up slightly above her thighs.  A sparkly silver thong covered her pussy, and she rolled her hips a bit as I watched dumbfounded.

"You are amazing," I whispered, before I could catch myself. It's rare I let a woman see she's got me, but this one was far more fetching than anybody else in this room, maybe this city, maybe more. She had these lips that were just thick enough, not filler-ugly. She had a variety of ways of making these lips appear attractive, though various types of purses, pouts and puckers. The gleam of her sweet smile lit up her face. That face framed by short ginger hair melted my cold, black heart. Her eyes sucked me into big brown pools of rapture, behind these sexy glasses. I know glasses don't indicate intelligence, but they turned me on. I’ve found girls who wear glasses suck cock amazingly well, but don’t believe me, do your own goddamn research. “Candy” was wearing her specs confidently, a choice I don’t think many other dancers would make, much less a newbie. I grinned involuntarily, wondering how bad I’d lost control.

Holy fuck, I realized with a start, she’s blushing. “Thank you... I'm glad you think so,” she sighed. “And thank you for showing an interest in me too. It means a lot.” She turned on that dazzling smile again, and oh my god, if this girl was a con artist she was the fucking best I’d ever seen. And in my business you meet a few.

She began to oscillate her body again, moving to the music with a carriage I’d never seen in big women before. She was slow, sensual, sultry, and a lot of other s-words my addled brain couldn’t produce. Certainly sexy. Other schmoes were taking seats at the stage now. She blew me a kiss, then wiggled to them as well, happily stuffing their bills into her garter. One lucky motherfucker got those glorious tits right in his goddamn face as she giggled happily. Fucking schmoe. I never wanted to be a fucking schmoe so bad. Middle-aged winner walked up nearby, confidently dropping a five. He stood there like she owed him, long enough for me to wonder if I had to teach this guy how not to be fuckin’ rude, or if I’d rather get Meat to do it. But she just smiled like she really liked the guy, and pinched her nipples a little bit, the little minx. He stammered a smile, she picked up his bill, and turned to me. He sensed he was being dismissed, I figure because he fuckin’ was, and he walked back to his seat like a schmoe. I had her attention once more as her first song ended.

The routine at Club Naw-Tee was two songs per dancer, so one more song on stage for her. Local laws said she could get as naked as she wanted down to a thong, before Rico expected her to be wandering among the schmoes on the floor giving lap dances. I put another hundred-dollar bill down on the stage in front of me.

Now, I don’t know if you’re familiar with this other dance song from back in the day. It’s by the Lords of Acid, and it’s called, I Sit On Acid. I know, real creative. Anyway, the way it starts is this light female voice singing one distinctive line.  Remember here that I didn’t know this was coming. 

“Candy” leaned forward again like she had a secret for me. Gravity pulled her heavy tits forward in that oh-so-captivating pose, and she whispered along with the song, staring right into my soul:

“Darling, come he-ere, fuck me up the --” 

The beat kicked in and she grinned like crazy, bouncing and jiggling. Oh fuck. Some other schmuck noticed and he’s quickly next to me, money laid out.

She spun, giving us that voluptuous ass made by some Greek god in his idle time, before facing us once more. Slowly, deliberately, she peeled the latex off of her generous frame. Goddamn, I thought to myself, I love my job, what can beat chicks getting naked? Finally the dress was in a wad on the ground, and she stretched mightily, kicking the air in naked defiance of conformity. Or some poetic shit like that, I’m a simple man and I know what I like. She moseyed as well as she could around the small stage, occasionally grabbing the pole for a spin. I made a mental note to tell her to never depend on that pole after what I saw last year, especially at her size. Fortunately she didn’t use it much, sashaying to pick up the bill formerly in possession of some other fool. Then it’s just me and her, and suddenly there was nobody else in the goddamn room.

As I sat stock-fucking-still, she dropped to all fours, monster tits hanging free. Like a panther, she crawled to me, back arched in a manner designed to display the curves of her ass that much better. You practiced this, I thought, imagining this girl getting naked for nobody in her room, all unassuming and sexy as fuck. 

Then she was close to me, I could smell her vanilla perfume as she brought her face to mine. Is she gonna kiss me, Lizard Brain screamed crazily, she’s gonna kiss me, oh fuck. She closed to maybe a couple inches, looking at me and blinking slowly, maddeningly, when she suddenly pulled back to a kneel. She picked up her heavy breasts and squeezed, winking at me. 

Knock knock, who’s there, not fucking me because I was lost in this vision of a young sexy girl. Let's be clear, this was the first time one of these ladies completely stopped me in my tracks. I was so lost as I mouthed the words "find me.” 

Eyes sparkling, she nodded eagerly. I hoped she was making the mental calculation I presented: having one very-well-tipping older man for the night, probably much better than having to give intimate dances for hours to who knows how many other perverts. As I was telepathically sending that idea at the lovely girl’s brain, the song came to an end, and she bounded up to run backstage.

I sauntered to my booth, making a couple deals on the way. Some other dancers tried to approach, hoping I'd buy their time or dispense a little white, but I waved them off. Soon enough, I was back at my own special area in the rear. Since the bar with the liquor was towards the front, it was a shame I didn’t play poker, because then we’d have… Nobody ever got that joke. 

My waitress Lisa smiled, sorta, as she delivered a fresh drink. Last week I fucked her ass in the janitor's closet for a gram, it went... Okay. Wouldn’t repeat. She obviously would’ve, at least that’s what she was telling the other girls; but I’d eyes for another that night, and there she was, talking to Meat, who pointed my way. “Candy” looked up at me, saw me see her, and turned on that million dollar smile. She was positively sashaying, strolling toward me. Later, I’d look back and wonder if I could have stopped at this point, if I’d wanted to. I don’t think so.

The skimpy black bikini would have looked great on just about any gal with any chest at all, but on her it was astounding. It’s covering very little of her generous flesh, though it pushed her mammoth boobs up and together creating cleavage I wanted to leap and fall into. The shiny material clung tightly to her body, with tiny strings holding pieces in places at her neck and waist. It was working for her, and how.

Lisa gave her the side eye, not bothering to mask her jealousy of the lady I’d obviously been waiting for. I watched “Candy” take a deep breath as she got to us; I guessed she was ready to figure out how much time she’d have to spend with fat old me to get her rent paid for the month. Very little, but she didn’t know that yet.

I spread my arms welcomingly. “Come into my domain, my dear,” I beamed. “That bikini’s lovely on you.” She beamed right back at me, carefully perching on the booth’s sofa. I was just infatuated with watching her move.

“Thanks!” she replied brightly, glancing at Lisa, who continued to stand there glaring at us.

“What would you like to drink, sugar? I’m sure Lisa would be happy to get it for you.” Not happy exactly, I knew, but the club’s staff knew my status here required some finesse and care.

“Oh! Well I’ll get a sea breeze, I guess.” Lisa nodded curtly and stomped away. My boothmate either didn’t see or chose to ignore the display of annoyance, instead choosing to blink at me prettily, fidgeting with the clutch in her lap. “I’m Candy,” she blurted finally.

“I know,” I smirked, “or at least that’s your name inside these walls, huh?” I winked.

“Oh, well, uh, yeah, “ she giggled. When she laughed, the tops of her breasts jiggled. It was really hypnotic, and cute, but even more distracting. 

“How did you meet Rico?” I was keen on impressing this young thing, and if I could manage it, find out how she felt about celebrating Christmas in Mexico. In case it isn’t obvious, I’ve got a fetish for watching hot girls sniff powder. ‘Making Love’ is alright every now and then, don’t get me wrong. But there’s nothing like playing in the snow to get the girls into some sexually ravenous, multiorgasmic fuckin’, free of silly inhibitions like modesty and propriety. Namely, inhibitions about wild sex with a guy decades older with a moderate gut. Four out of five would say anal sex was disgusting, then get wired as fuck and cheerfully give up their virgin assholes. There were near zero hassles about getting their pretty pink tongues deep in my own asshole, either… 

I blink fast, coming back to planet Naw-Tee, where “Candy” is surprised at my question. This hot girl has got my mind in the fucking gutter. That’s okay, because although I don’t live in the gutter, it’s a short commute.

“Oh, you know Rico? I guess you do, that guy whatshisname,” she waved toward Meat, “made it sound like you’re here all the time.”

“Not all the time,” I countered, “But frequently, yeah. I hope getting this job wasn't too... Difficult."  I'd heard rumors of what girls had to do for Rico for a job here. Since this was only one of two boob joints in town, these damsels could make serious bank without trying too hard. The ones I’d asked were either too smart or too ashamed to admit it, but I’d heard rumors of what Rico demanded of his earners.

But it was apparent she hadn’t taken my meaning. "Well," she thought about how to put it. “I actually met Rico through an old friend of mine who used to work here, I think she went by the name, uh, Mona?”

I remembered “Mona.” Goth chick. Liked to be slapped, which is not really my thing, but this girl got all railed the night she met me, I mean sincerely gakked, and said if I slapped her I wouldn’t regret it. And you know what, I fuckin’ didn’t. “She told me about the opportunity and helped connect us." I groaned inwardly at the professional language the beauty used talking about this dump.

“Ah, tell ‘Mona’ I said Hi. I heard she moved outta state.” I don’t know what “Candy” knew about her friend. I knew “Mona” had stolen a shitload of molly from some lowlife degenerate drug dealer, a lowlife who unfortunately knew where “Mona” lived and worked, as well as her actual name. No, not me, dumbass. Anyway, no need to foul up our conversation discussing someone else’s poor choices.

“I will!” If she wanted to talk about her friend’s flight for her life, she made no indication. “So “Mona” called Rico for me, then Rico called me. I just got to town, y’know, like four days ago… I kinda needed something quick. My parents, uh, well…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. “Super, super Christian. And that’s okay! For them! I guess! It’s just, for me?” she held up her hand, pushing away an imaginary Bible. “I think it’s bullshit. I try to be nice, but it’s bullshit!” She looked at me for approval. I raised my glass in salute of sin, so she soldiered on. “And Daddy, well, Daddy didn’t like hearing the real reason I didn’t want to go to church anymore.” 

She took a breath just as Lisa stomped back our way, deposited my conversational partner’s sea breeze on the table with a thunk, and turned and stalked away again. Bitch has been talking to Cassandra again, I’ll bet. This time “Candy” didn’t mask her shock, giving me a “what the fuck?” wide-eyed glance as she picked up the drink and took a tiny sip. Again I dug it: smart girl to drink slow. At least, smart, kinda.

"So he didn't, uh," How to broach this? She hadn’t taken the bait earlier, and I didn't want to scare her away, so I proceeded carefully. "...Make you do anything you didn't want to do? Or, maybe you did want to?" I bounced my eyebrows and winked, wondering if this girl was the prettiest, sexiest thing I'd ever seen.

She shook her head vigorously – now she got it. "No! Of course not!” she protested. “Rico has always been professional and respectful.. He says he believes in me and sees potential."

I fuckin’ bet he does, I thought. Did I see a bit of doubt in your eyes? I mean, it’s a strip club. Unless you’re fresh off the boat from Nebraska or wherever, you can’t not have known that owners of joints like this were almost all straight-up predators. 

Her eyes unfocused for half a second, like she was picking up on my thinking; but she pulled it back quick, and changed the subject. “So, uh, you tipped me a whole lot. Thank you! I really appreciate that!” 

“You’re quite welcome, beautiful,” I raised my glass to her. “I’ll tip you again for a lap dance, later on. If you want to do one, that is. In fact, I’ll make you a deal. I know,” I leaned towards her conspiratorially, “that you’re supposed to be, like, wandering around, entertaining the customers, making money. I know you have to give Rico a buck just to dance here, but that’s covered now. So to get more, you could go do lap dances, or get all your money here with me. If the latter made you richer, there’s not much anybody could say about it, right?” 

She tilted her head. “How much we talkin’, big spender?” So she had made the calculation already. No wonder she got over here so fast. Smart girl, kinda, the way I like ‘em.

I nodded, pulled out my wad, and pulled off a stack. “Pretty sure that’s around… four grand. That’s for you to sit here, talk to me, and not waste your talents on those schmoes,” I waved at Club Naw-Tee’s other clientele. Good people, our customers, but schmoes one and all.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Just talk? That’s a bunch of money for just talk. That pays my rent, next month too.” I could see her eyeing the money, debating whether I was dangerous. I’m not. Okay I am, but anybody I hurt, absolutely positively had it coming.

“Well, I might ask a personal question or two,” I conceded. “I’ll keep my head and arms inside the mixer at all times, I promise.” She didn’t get it, kids these days, but I moved on. “I’m not putting any moves on you that I don’t get consent for, I reserve the right to ask you to give me a private dance for even more money, and if you really wanna grind all over the perverts by the bar instead, I won’t stop you.” I leaned back into the booth’s cushion. I had this one installed special for me, I’m worth it. “But I’m harmless.” That was the only lie. Fortunately, I told it very well.

For a few long moments she considered, glancing between me and the rest of the seedy bar. “Alright,” she finally exclaimed, thumping the table with a knuckle, scooping up the money. “But I get to ask you some questions too. And I got one. I asked the girls backstage about you,” she said, as if I didn’t think that’s the first thing she’d do. Quickly counting, she announced “$4400!” like I gave a fuck. “Do you need the four hundred back, or?” I looked at her, blankly. Like I said, smart, kinda. “Okay stupid question,” she giggled, stuffing the wad in her clutch, before clapping her hands. “Ok! Yes! I have questions.” 

“Fire away,” I smiled. Her tits jiggled when she clapped her hands. It was nice.

“Everybody likes you, but they wouldn’t tell me why. You’re this older guy with a long white beard off your chin, rides up on a, what was that, an Indian?” 

Oh ho, so she’d seen me arrive, and remembered me. I did indeed ride a nice healthy Indian Chief, one of my favorite things to have between my legs. Interesting. “Yeah, an Indian, do you know motorcycles?” I tried to say evenly, but she’d thrown me a little.

It was her turn to stare at me blankly. “It says ‘Indian’ in big letters on the tank, don’t it?” Oh yeah. I shrugged and conceded, but she bulled forward. “And you’re throwing money at me like crazy. This is my first night,” she emphasized, “and that was my first dance, and you just paid my rent for two months. What the hell do you do for money?” She didn’t look irritated, exactly; more like curious. Some of these bitches could be a problem when they smelled cash. But as we’ve already established, couldn’t stop now if I wanted to.

A sly smile crept up my face. “I’m a good friend of Rico’s. Kind of a business partner. I don’t have a vested financial interest in this club, not exactly,” I took a slurp of my nice whiskey; it reminded me that I hadn’t had any hooter in my nasal membranes for several minutes. “But it’s easy to do my business here.” I turned to face the young girl more directly, prepared to plunge forward, damn the torpedoes.

“Tell me, ‘Candy’, if that is your real name,” I said mockingly but with a disarming wink. “Ever get high?” 

I stared at her, waiting for an answer, and she gulped visibly and blushed again. Goddamn, I couldn’t get over that. 

“Yeah, once. Jamie Fowler brought a joint to lock-in one time and we sneaked off. It made me feel funny. He tried to put his hand up my shirt.”

“Didja let him?”

“... Yeah.”

“Didja like it?”

She giggle-snorted. “‘Course I liked it, they’re my boobs. I fuckin’ love my boobs.” 

“Well my golly gee, it’s amazing how much we have in common, my dear.” She giggled heartily for several moments before slugging back the last of her sea breeze. I waved at Lisa, whose brow furrowed when I pointed to “Candy,” yet she quickly started walking toward the bar.

“Candy” noticed the signal and beamed. “Good boy, thanks for the drinks,” she said, “But I might have to dance again soon, I don’t wanna get too lit up before I get on stage again.”

“Do you wanna get on stage again?”

She considered a second. I used the valuable time to imagine her reaction to my tongue in her ear. 

“I mean, I feel like I gotta, right? It’s my first night. I’m already breaking some kind of rule by sitting here talking to you and not out asking those, what did you call them?”

“Schmoes.”

“Schmoes... Good word. Fits. Out talking to those schmoes. Not that I’m not having a good time,” she batted her eyes a teeny bit, “I just don’t wanna get in trouble.”

I nodded sagely. “And I don’t want you to be in trouble,” I said. Truly, any ‘trouble’ would be solved by snapping my fingers and watching Meat jump. “But I am honestly telling you that if you would rather sit here and talk to me, than going back on that little shitty excuse for a stage, with a pole that is gonna fucking fall if your gorgeous ass pulls on it…” She giggled again. “I am the man who can make that happen. Trust me.”  

She stared, her brow furrowing in these cute little lines that just made me weep for mankind. “We still haven’t worked out where you get all this money from,” she insisted. "Instead, you just asked me about smoking dope.” 

“I didn’t say smoking dope, ‘Candy.’ And by the by, do I have to keep calling you ‘Candy’? I know it’s not your name, honey. It’s a great stripper name for you, but it’s not really your name, is it?” Plus saying Candy was reminding me of what I wasn’t currently sniffing into my nasal cavity. I was pushing it a little here, asking her to break another one of the club’s rules. Rico had a real bug up his ass about the clientele getting to know girls outside of the club, and went house on any chick caught fraternizing, as he called it. I called him a dumbass for that and numerous other reasons, but giving girls fake names was stupid. Even worse, in Rico’s mind, nobody’d want to fuck a waitress or a bartender when they could have a dancer, so they used their own names. Like I said, stupid.

“How do you know Candy isn’t my real name, hmm? It’s not so far-fetched, it’s not like ‘Diamond’ or ‘Amber The Living Dream’” – I groaned, I knew that girl, she wasn’t as advertised – “you don’t know, ‘Candy’ could be my real name.” She leaned back and her boobs leaned with her. In my mind I was skiing those slopes already, snorting fat lines off those fat tits until dawn. But I got the feeling that if I pushed this too far too fast, I’d lose it. Better to reel this one in. Isn’t it funny, how I talk about it like I had any semblance of control?

I waited for her to speak again, then finally she did. “It’s not, tho,” she laughed. “It’s Jennifer.” 

Bingo. I bowed my head in gratitude. “Thank you, Jennifer!” I was sincerely appreciative; if there’s one thing I’d grown to hate about this job, other than my daily STD preventative pill, it’s stripper names. Hated that pill. Tasted awful. Better than the clap but still, tasted awful.

“Wait, back up,” she mumbled, putting it together. “What did you say about getting high?” 

“I didn’t, dear,” I murmured. “You said you got high and let Jamie Fingernipple have a feel of these, these,” I lost my ability at conscious thought, and she grinned. 

“My boobs,” she laughed.”You’re confusing me. Answer the question. Or, did you? Wait, see, you are confusing me,” she laughed again. I really liked her laugh, not just because it made her titflesh wiggle pleasingly, but it was an honest, I-don’t-give-a-fuck-who’s-listening laugh. Big fan.

“Alright, I’ll answer the question.” I took a breath. It was rare I had to explain myself like this, but, I was feeling my age with this young, beautiful creature gazing at me. I’d seen schmoes get stripperitis before, and laughed at ‘em. Now who’s the schmoe?

“The reason I asked about getting high is because that’s my business. I help folks get high.” The look she gave back, I had trouble interpreting: was it interest, or disgust? I was taking a risk, but still I was imagining what it would be like to have this girl’s chest as my coke tray. I couldn’t shake the image.

“Mitzi” materialized almost on cue, shifting on her feet and looking at me nervously. She's one that had more trouble stripping sober than others; her asking me for a bump to get her in the mood wasn't weird. She usually knew better than hassling me when I'm with somebody though, and I considered making her understand her error. Then I realized I had an opportunity. “Yes, ‘Mitzi,’ how may I help you?”

The skinny, nervous stripper pushed a lock of dishwater blonde hair behind an ear. “Hey, Sir, I was wondering, uh…” She looked down. “Wondering if I can get a little, uh,” glancing at Jennifer, who was eyeing us intently sipping her drink. “Stuff to make my shift easier, like before, you know I can bring you some money after I work an hour or two…” 

I watched her carefully, trying to determine if “Mitzi” was becoming a problem I'd have to solve. Rico liked it when I “pre-loaded” his girls every once in a while, since it made ‘em get a little fresher with the schmoes. But “Mitzi” had That Look that the ones with a problem all started to get, a base ugly need. I usually saw it on the ones that were about to get shitcanned, free to go try their luck at The Rooster. 

But that was for later. For now, after watching the scrawny dancer twist in the wind a little bit, I pulled a small bottle from my pocket, watching relief wash over “Mitzi” like a cool breeze. From the jar I tapped out a little white girl onto the back of my hand, then held it out for her inspection. In a flash the needy spinner was snorting it up, then licked my skin clean for good measure. She leaned back and squinched her eyes shut as the rush hit, then smiled, need finally fulfilled. Her eyes reopened, then darted between me and Jennifer, the light dawning. “Thanks,” she whispered, and walked away slowly. Yeah, she may be a problem.

I turned my attention back to my voluptuous booth mate, who was still sipping her drink, inscrutably tapping one finger against the glass, like she was trying to make a decision. The bottle was still in my hand, so I gave myself a little tasty treat as well. I considered offering Jennifer one also, but she was nodding as if she'd figured out the puzzle, instead of having the answer painted high and wide in front of her. I capped the bottle, slurped some of my drink, and resumed the exposition. 

“So that's what I do. I help people get high. I'm good at my job,” I added, trying again to read her expression. 

Jennifer was quiet a good while, staring at me through narrowed eyes, tapping her finger again. “That's another thing,” she blurted. “Everybody calls you sir, or mister, or that bearded guy –” I frowned, and she stopped. “What, you don’t wanna be called ‘that bearded guy’?” 

“I mean, there’s worse things,” I shrugged. “I prefer the first two.”

There’s that brow again. “The first two? You mean ‘Sir’” – she held up air quotes – “or ‘Mister’?” 

I smiled, nodding. “Yup.” 

“You don’t tell anybody a name at all, just Sir or Mister?”

“Nope,” I leaned back into the cushion, getting comfortable.

“That’s weird.” She took a big gulp of her drink.

“Normal is boring.”

 She chuckled. “Okay, got me there.” She set her drink down. “Alrighty then, let’s check off what we’ve learned so far.” Counting off her points on her fingers, her arms framed her cleavage such that I had trouble focusing on her big brown eyes behind her eyeglasses. But I struggled mightily. “One, you throw big money at women you like. Or is that just me?”

“... Just you. Unless I was drunk and can’t remember, don’t hold me to it, but yeah. You.”

“Huh. And I should believe you right now because… No, let’s move on.” She looked down at her hands as she counted. “Two, you want everybody to call you Mister. Like you’re what, a ‘domme’ or something?” 

I heard her trying to pretend she knew what a “domme” really was. “Consider it a security measure,” I proffered. 

“Nah, I think you like it. I think it turns you on, having these naked girls call you Sir alla time.” She too leaned back into the cushion, knowing she was right. 

I shrugged. “Maybe. What’s three?”

Her voice dropped many decibels. “Three, you deal cocaine. Use it, too, which I thought you weren’t supposed to get high on your own supply?”

“You heard that in a rap song, didn’t you?”

Pause. “Yeah, but is it not true?”

I looked her in the eye, ready to tell some truth. “Nope. I take steps. I’m not addicted. It’d suck for a few days if I stopped, but if I wanted to, I’d put it down. I have before. I will again. I fuckin’ love it. It’s great stuff,” I grinned.

She bit her lip. “But… you don’t look like a scumbag…”

“Oh gee, thank you.”

“No! I mean,” and she picked up her drink. “I guess everyone has their vices,” she said with a short nervous laugh. 

“True that. Powder’s a fun one, though. Ever tried it?”

“Never,” she shook her head emphatically, but she was smiling just a little bit. I bet tonight was the first she’d ever seen it in person. “I uh, I must admit, I am a little curious about drugs.” She said the word just like they did in middle school health class. “I mean, I've heard stories and seen things on TV, but I've never really experienced it firsthand. What's it like? Is it dangerous? Can you get addicted? These are some of the questions running through my mind right now, y’know?” 

I nodded, once again trying to vice-clamp my gaze to her eyes away from her massive mammaries as she rambled. I wanted to respect her, before I ravished her. 

“At the same time, I don’t wanna fuck this up. Right now, this right here,” she tapped the little white clutch with her cash, ”is my safety net, so thanks for making that bit a little easier. At the same time, I know that indulging in, uh, that…” she waved a little exasperatedly at my hand, the one “Mitzi”’d slobbered on, “could potentially ruin everything – including my life. I can’t fuck this up.”

Whether or not she was faking the whole oh-gee-Mister-you-are-so-nice bit, this was the real Jennifer, I was pretty sure. She was, at the same time, relatively screwed-on-straight for eighteen; and very naive about things like drugs and strip joints. It was endearing, and Rico was gonna eat her alive if she wasn’t careful. I resolved immediately that I didn’t want that to happen. Because if anybody was gonna eat her alive, it was gonna be fuckin’ me.

“And keeping my body healthy and strong is important for my job here, isn’t it?”

“Who you trying to convince,” I chuckled, “Me or you?” Just then Fuckin’ Todd’s skeezy voice informed us that the vision of loveliness before me was due on stage shortly. 

“Alright, sweetness, decision time. Stay here, talk to the most interesting, well traveled, extravagantly tipping guy in the room. Or, go do another set. But it’s getting late,” I lied, “and without you here nearby, I might think of leaving.”

She looked at me a while, her face still. “One more question, then I decide.” She downed the healthy remainder of her drink, took a deep breath, and barrelled forward. “Let’s say I got up and walked away from here, said thanks a lot for the money sucker, imma go get a straight job at seven-eleven down the road.” She was talking a bit faster now, getting animated. It was neat. “Because thanks to you, I could do that now, if I wanted. But let’s say I want nothing more to do with some guy with a chin beard and a coke fetish who can’t stop staring at my tits. Yeah, I’m not that dumb,” she tilted her head, like she expected me to feel guilty. I didn’t. “Now you tell me, Sir, you gonna leave me alone if I do that?”

I didn’t say anything for a minute, and looked at the ice in my drink. Then I looked her in the eye again. “Yeah. Yeah, I would, and here’s why.” My words were slow and deliberate. “I ain’t into the unwilling. I want not just consent, I want enthusiastic consent. If you don’t wanna be in my bed, I don’t want you there, plain and simple. I don’t chase, because I don’t have to. I ask nicely. I hear no, I move on. Like you said,” I waved at the rest of the club’s denizens, “everybody likes me. It ain’t just because I dispense a little zook to these idiots. I don’t go where I ain’t wanted, and ain’t nobody in this room’ll tell you different.” 

I could see her rocking back and forth just a little bit, like she was trying to make up her mind. Then a big smile erupted on that pretty face.

“Okay okay! I wanna talk to you but I wanna go dance too, I mean I was kind of excited to be on stage and having guys drool over me a little bit. Look, let me go dance and I promise as soon as I’m done I’ll come back to talk to you, no other dances for the schmoes.” She grinned, then whispered, “Please say yes.” She had this smile that said both “please say yes” and “I know you’re gonna say yes.”

“Yes. Sure. Don’t spin on the pole.”

She squealed, swooped in and kissed my cheek. “Don’t move,” she whispered in my ear, and reached down and squeezed my dick through my jeans. Then she was practically running toward the door to backstage.

The words “I was not expecting that” don’t exactly convey the shock I was going through. But let’s move on. I waved to Lisa, but she was already approaching with my next drink. 

“You gonna ruin another one?” she hissed at me. Yeah, she’d been talking to Cassandra again. Dammit.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said evenly. My eyes were on the stage, where “Mitzi” spun on the wobbly pole, but kept Lisa solid in my peripheral. For a long minute she looked like she didn’t know whether to serve me the drink, or make me wear it; but then chose wisely, and just shook her head in exasperation as she stomped away again. I looked over and watched her walk away, remembering the way her pelvis hit me all wrong when my cock was up her ass last week. Time to add a bullet point to the agenda for my next catch up with Rico.