10 February 2011

Pretty Woman

My dad had a subscription to Playboy Magazine. Not infrequently, I'd grab a couple of his magazines, lock myself in the bathroom and study the photos. To this day I remember the April 1969 issue: Brigitte Bardot.

Va,va, va, voom! She was the most beautiful creature I'd ever laid eyes upon. I stole away to the bathroom with the Brigitte Bardot issue not once, not twice but multiple times.

I was ten, a girl and, as it turns out, totally straight. Still, the naked Brigitte Bardot mesmerized me. I hadn't yet discovered masturbation (that wouldn't come for another two years), so I did the only thing I knew to do... sit on the toilet and stare.

I wonder what it was about her that so beguiled me....

22 December 2010

A button for...

19 May 2010

My favorite erotic line in a non-erotic movie

The winner is Harlem Nights. An EXTREMELY underappreciated movie that was written by, directed by and starred Eddie Murphy. It's one of my favorite movies. And, there's a bit in it that goes: " I've got a girl who's pussy is so good, if you threw it up in the air it would turn into sunshine."

... Guess who I wanna meet?

05 October 2009


OK -- after several false starts. We are back to stimulate your collective libido! Stay tuned.

06 March 2009

We're Baaaack!!!

We like sex, but more importantly, we like to look at sex acts and write erotica. For the young man -- I assume -- who likes to masturbate to us. Great! Tell your friends! The moregy the merrier.

And, we are never averse to posting pictures of folks who are at or above the age of consent!

27 February 2009

The 16 Most Overrated Sexual Acts of All Time

By Beth Mann

Here’s the long-awaited (by whom?) and much anticipated (oh really?) list of the most overrated sex acts of all time. You know, ideas that really seemed good at the time.

Thanks to our fine group of contributors and their astute commentary.

1. Sex on the Beach

“It works in the movie but in real life the beach is sandy, the temperature unpredictable, the mosquitoes, the jellyfish, the police…

“Even the drink sucks.”

2. Sex in Watery Places

(This includes hot tubs, baths and yes, even showers.)

“There’s a constant power play going on. Who gets to stand under the shower head? For how long? Then there’s that awkward changing of positions.”

“Hot tubs, ew. There’s a bacterial, chlorinated element that just shouldn’t be part of any sexual experience. Besides, lubrication is a good thing, not something you want to wash away.”

3. Porn Style Sex

“Porn sex is the Olympics of sex. Lots of head tosses, loud moans, constant flesh pounding. It’s more of an extreme sport than a sexual act. Getting banged hard and repeatedly can have its high points but limits as well.”

“Women lose sensation from too much rough sex. Most guys don’t realize that.”

“There should be a sub-category here for girls who have learned how to give head from watching porn. They try to do that head-corkscrew thing...gimme a break.”

4. One Night Stands

(There was a wide array of views on this. Some found one night stands to be quick, easy, carefree and hot. Others found them to be awkward.)

“Well there’s usually too much booze involved. And weird next morning regret.”

“Is she supposed to stay overnight? I don’t want her to stay overnight. What if she stays overnight?”

“I think it takes a little time to discover someone sexually. It’s kind of a long shot that it will all magically fall into place on the first or only night.”

5. Orgies

“Orgies are a total free-for-all and a little too diplomatic for my tastes. You can’t just say, ‘You get your hands off of me. But you, come here.’”

“There can be hurt feelings, big bellies and overall 70’s pervy weirdness.”

“They kind of gross me out.”

“Who has orgies anymore? Didn’t they fall out of vogue when Rome collapsed?”

6. Sex Involving Food

“Two great tastes that don’t taste great together.”

“Some guy poured hot fudge all over me once. It got all over my new sheets, my blankets…I could’ve killed him. I don’t even like hot fudge, man.”

“Food can be the sexiest thing ever…but before the act itself.”

7. Drug Addled Sex
“Drugs make you feel like the Superman of sex. Unfortunately they can also be the kryptonite. It’s like a sexual mirage in a desert…you want it soooo bad, but…you…just…can’t…get…it.”

“Coke makes you think totally unsexy things are sexy. Next thing you know, you’re asking some chick to hit you in the head with a frying pan to get off…gets real weird.”

8. Sex in Tight Quarters

This would include cars, bathroom stalls and coffins (when you house-sat for your friend whose family owns a funeral parlor.)

“Sex needs a little breathing room.”

“Just make sure the car doesn’t have a stick shift.”

"I had my first gay experience in a closet...how cliche."

9. Sex with a Really Hot Person

“Really hot people are notoriously lazy in bed. Just ask Nicolai in Paris, who had everybody’s head turning. I was so excited he wanted to be with me but when we finally were in bed together, he assumed this corpse-like position, as if to say, (in French accent) ‘You are lucky to have me. Do what you may! I am sleepy. I am pretty.’”

Giving up the need to have sex with a really hot person is how you know you a) are growing up and b) have had enough sex to be able to tell the difference.”

10. Sex involving Clothes Ripping

“Every once in a while, this caveman act works. But most of the time, I think, ‘You ass, you just ripped my good shirt. Ass.’”

11. Sex Involving Video Cameras

“It’s this little thing I like to call THE INTERNET!”

12. Sex on a Waterbed

A little dated at this point, but man, what a design backfire. The whole raison d’etre for a waterbed was hot sex yet it eluded you at every awkward oceanic turn.

13. Tantric Sex

“This is when white people do a lot of hair stroking and face-cupping. And scented candles. No thanks.”

“One guy I was with prided himself on never coming…or circular orgasming or something like that. Cut to 4 in the morning and I said ‘Dude, give it up. There’s a person down here who needs some sleep!’”

14. Sex with a Large Member

Now this one created a stir. Yes, size does count but the female jury states that width counts more, in the long run. A really large penis limits positions (“Ouch, that hurts. Not that way!”) And bladder infections are never sexy.

15. Sex with a Rock Star

“Well, there's the height factor. All rock stars are 5 feet tall, tops. It’s a well-known fact. Prince is only 3 foot 7 inches. There’s also the neurotic ego element that comes into play [see Sex with a Hot Person above.] Rock stars do make great masturbators, because of their extreme self-involvement. I guess its nice to know you can leave the room in the middle of it all; go make yourself a sandwich, watch TV, whatever. Chances are, you won’t be missed.”

16. Sex with the Legal but Young

“I don't really understand old guys with hot young girls (i.e. Hugh Hefner.) It involves a level of denial that I just can't sustain. I always think, "Don't they know how pathetic they look?" It doesn't seem sexy, it just seems sad.”

“I don’t think age matters much. I’ve been with young guys who seem really sexually savvy and much more ‘experienced’ guys who seem clueless. It all comes down to tuning into someone. If you can do that, it doesn’t matter what the age.”

--Beth Mann's Blog

09 July 2008

You're a peep-show time traveler...

Click on image to get a closer peek.

Then, look to your right and vote for your fave.

25 June 2008

Peep Show

by Jamie

"It’s the Saturday of the show, and I feel awful, my stomach tied in a knot. In the afternoon I stop by the Lusty Lady, hoping to relieve my anxiety over reading a story about jerking off to strippers by jerking off to strippers. Sass isn’t here, and I’m not turned on by any of the other women, so I go into a video booth and watch porn, jumping from channel to channel: women’s bodies, a mouth on a cock, cum spurting onto artificially enhanced breasts. I have to pull hard and fast to get there, but eventually I have a weak, twitchy orgasm. My anxiety is lessened somewhat, but also compounded by guilt and shame.

I go home and shower, put on a pair of old cords and my favorite vintage button-down shirt — a simple, nonconfrontational outfit — and head over to the theater with both “Close” and the “nice” poems under my arm, just in case.

A big crowd is already filling all the chairs and spilling out almost into the hallway. The audience is more mixed than I’d expected: maybe 65 percent women, maybe 30 percent of them with some degree of leather, chains, piercings, or elaborate tattooing. And then there are my friends and neighbors, my little support group. Most of them have no idea what I’ll be reading either, and I worry about their reaction, too. I say hi to G., who tells me I’m scheduled to read at the end of the first half. I’ll be great, she says. (Oh, how I hate when people say that.) She tells me to relax and gives me a big hug, and I just want to melt into her embrace and disappear. I haven’t told her what I’m reading, and I begin to imagine her fury and embarrassment when she hears it, perhaps even my ritual hanging-in-effigy to close out the evening.

The readers who go on before me include a very young, beautiful, gay Asian man and a lesbian poet who is not only leather-clad and angry, but palsied and in a wheelchair to boot. The boisterous crowd is loudly supportive of both of them. And then G. introduces me.

As I step onstage, the audience gives me what I hear as a decidedly lukewarm welcome. I feel big and male and straight and ungainly. The blood begins its mad rush to my face, as if I need to be red to be seen. I arrange my papers on the music stand, adjust the mike, look around the room, mumble a hello, give a spastic laugh, and take a deep breath.

“This is a short story called ‘Close,’ ” I say. My amplified voice sounds very loud. “It’s . . .” I stifle the urge to explain or apologize up front. “It’s the journal of a museum guard named Henry.”

I take a deep breath and look around the room, searching for friendly faces. Then, just as I’m about to look down again, I see her. Unfathomably, in the back left corner of the room, leaning against the wall, is none other than . . . Sass. I look down, blink twice in what feels like slow motion, and think, Hey, I just imagined I saw Sassafras in the audience. How wacky is that? I look up again. She’s still there. I did not imagine it. She can’t possibly be here, and yet there she is, looking right at me — I mean, of course she’s looking right at me. Where else would she be looking?

Her presence is actually not all that improbable. San Francisco is like a small town within its artistic communities. In fact, I know several women — one a writer, one a dancer, one a budding academic — who have done stints at the Lusty Lady. The Lusty Lady has always been an offbeat, radicalized strip club (it’s the first of its kind to be worker-owned) and, accordingly, it attracts intellectual, artsy employees, including women who just want to try stripping to see what it’s like.

So to run into a stripper in my life outside the Lusty Lady is not so unlikely. But to see Sass in the audience when I’m about to read “Close” for the first time is no less than breathtaking. She is my perfect erotic dancer, my dream — and nightmare — audience member. As much as I’ve always wanted to be seen by strippers, I never imagined this. Here she is a real person, wearing clothes, perhaps even a writer like me. But also not so much like me at all, more like the women in front of whom I’m so petrified to read my story.

For a moment I hold my breath and ride that fine masochistic edge between exquisite pleasure and almost unbearable discomfort. I begin to wonder if there’s enough blood in my legs to hold me up. I am petrified, thrilled, nauseated. I think to myself, Don’t lock your knees. I remember marching in a Columbus Day parade as a kid, standing and waiting for hours in a hot woolen uniform, and being told: Don’t lock your knees. That’s when you pass out. So I bend my knees a little, look down at my pages, and begin to read:

April. The weather is getting warmer. The other day I was walking home after my stop off, and I looked through the window of the old office building on West 52nd they’ve gutted and are turning into a Sure-Guard Storage. They finally installed the shiny corrugated lockers. I looked through the window and just happened to be right in front of number 1354, which is also the last four digits of my Social Security number. This may mean something. Or not. Sometimes these coincidences mean things.
I look up from time to time at the listening faces. I don’t look toward the back left corner. A page or so in, I pause, take a sip of water, slip out of Henry’s edgy persona, and smile as if to say, Hey, everybody, don’t forget: that’s Henry; I’m Jamie. I think of the clich←d advice offered to nervous public speakers — imagine the audience naked — and I almost laugh out loud. I’m feeling more naked than I imagine Sass has ever felt in front of me.

About two pages in I get to the tough stuff: “After work, I stop at Babeland.” I feel as if I’m about to freeze up — or throw up — but I manage to keep reading:

Today Nadja is there. I feed the machine an extra bill and give her five bucks through the window even though it only costs three to touch. I tell her “high” and she kneels down so I can reach her. I hold one breast gently with my left hand and jerk off with my right. I like how heavy it is. The breast. I like that she kneels so we’re at eye level. I like to feel the weight, the warmth. . . . Sometimes she holds my face in her hands and calls me “baby.” I know it’s an act but still it feels good. “Baby,” she says, “my sweet baby.” I always forget to bring tissues.
The audience laughs at the “tissues” line, and I’m starting to feel a rush. I’m becoming Henry, slipping deeper inside his clipped, anxious voice. The final pages go by with a kind of rich, elastic slowness that I’ve never experienced before, onstage or off.

At the end of “Close,” Henry accomplishes something monumental for him: he spends an afternoon with a woman without a plexiglass wall between them. I feel as if I’ve broken down some barriers of my own as I read his story: I’ve done something difficult and monumental for me, and done it as clearly and honestly as I can. I notice my pulse slowing, my sweat cooling me. The story ends, and I say thank you.

There’s a pause, then a roar as the audience begins to whoop and whistle and clap. My applause probably isn’t any longer or louder than any other reader’s, but to me it feels like absolute thunder. I say thank you again and step offstage.

G. announces the intermission, and several people, among them a couple of the women I was so afraid of offending, come up to tell me how much they liked the story. A tough and talented writer tells me she’s “heard a lot of crap on that subject” but that my piece was “really pretty OK,” which I’m later told is high praise coming from her. And G. gives me another hug and, with a proud grin, tells me I did a great job.

Suddenly I remember that back left corner. I wheel around and look for Sass, but she’s not there. I scan the room like Rocky, punch-drunk and reeling, searching for Adrian after the big fight. And then, over by the door, I spot a familiar face, and the woman I know only as Sassafras gives me that sweet, sly smile, turns, and is gone."

08 June 2008

I looked at the photocopied government form...

... and dancer contact-sheet… the final pieces.

Why was I doing this? I made a cursory attempt to examine my motive for coming here; strove – for one, obligatory moment -- to construct a narrative that would explain this new behavior.

Nothing came to mind but I felt the tingling sensation in my sacrum return.

I put the clipboard on the couch, stood up and walked over to the bulletin board. Written in red marker on the back of a Chinese astrology placemat was an appeal for a roommate … “share studio, split rent… talk to Tamara.” Next to that was a staff meeting announcement… “Wednesday 10am… this is mandatory girls!” and the shift schedule, a checkerboard filled with a variety of fantasy dancer names soft, seductive and silly. “Sheree” 10-4; “Dusty” 12-6; “Cherry Bomb” 2-8.”

I tried to think of a name for my new, scantily clad alter ego; something exotic without sounding too made-for-TV-movie-of-the-week.

I was about to turn away when I noticed a flyer taped next to the bulletin board with a picture of Velvet pressed into a microphone and the words “Velvet Underwear” printed in big, black, block letters. Underneath that, in a smaller hand-scrawled font, was “Pin-Ups of Punk.” I studied the muddy photocopied picture of Velvet who was nearly doubled over, her eyes closed tight and fist drawn into her chest. She wore a black fishnet tank top, the same Leather wrist cuffs I’d noticed on stage and a pair of velvet bikini underwear. Thursday and Friday at the I-Beam.

“Velvet Underwear. That’s funny,” I thought. And then, suddenly getting the reference to Lou Reed’s “Velvet Undeground,” snorted, “Ah.”

“Guys throw quarters on stage whenever she performs.”

I turned around. A woman with windblown Shirley-Temple curls wearing a torn and faded denim jacket and jeans plopped down on the couch, dropping a dusty backpack next to her feet. Then she carefully leaned a battered, brightly painted skateboard against her knees.


“Guys recognize her from here and they start throwing quarters on stage. It’s a riot!”

“Huh.” I was beginning to appreciate San Francisco in a new way. Here, it wasn’t what you did, so much as the level of irony with which you did it.

“So are you new?”

“Yeah. Celeste just hired me… this is my very first shift,” I said sitting on one of six stools in front of a large dressing mirror.

“Cool. I’m Gypsy.”

“I’m… Linda. How long have you been here?”

“Coupla weeks.”

“So how do you like it?”

“Let’s see… It’s better than some bullshit office-temp job. It’s better than some bullshit telemarketing job. And it’s better than asking my dad for money.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“No really. The people here are pretty cool, you can basically name your own hours and the money’s not bad. It gives you the freedom to do whatever else you want to do.” Gypsy tightened her grip on her skateboard.

I smiled and nodded, wondering what this would afford me the time to do that I hadn’t been doing before.

Gypsy stood up, wiggled out of her jean jacket and pants and pulled her tank top over her head. I lowered my eyes and swiveled my stool so I was facing the mirror. Then I picked up a plastic tray of Max Factor eye shadows lying on the counter and, after a moment of indecision, pressed my pinky finger into a cake of dusty blue powder. As discreetly as possible, I watched Gypsy’s transformation from skateboarder chick to voluptuous exotic dancer and considered my own transformation (a casual conversation that led to a phone call that led to an audition that led to a W-2 form and a yet-to-be-determined, fake name….)

Gypsy was tall and big, but not big and soft like Persephone. Gypsy was all muscle and curves. Her pubic hair was shaved into a perfect thin strip as if pointing the way to Nirvana. She pulled a string of ribbons out of her backpack and tied it around her waist. Then she clasped a string of bells around her right ankle and inserted long dangly moon and star earrings into her earlobes. Finally, she pulled out a silver can and, lifting her chin, dusted herself with an aerosol spray. When the cloud settled she had an icing of silver glitter over her chest, breasts and shoulders. When she’d completed her costume she walked over to the mirror, tossed her tee shirt over a stool and sat three seats away from me.

“One thing, though,” Gypsy said as she opened a tube of lavender lipstick. “Guys will try to get you to go out back with them. Just remember, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

I realized I’d never considered the possibility that anyone would expect anything other than simulated sex. My jaw dropped.

“I’m just sayin’… some girls do,” Gypsy said shrugging her shoulders. She looked up at the clock on the wall, then stood and said, “gotta go.” She stuffed her backpack, skateboard and street clothes into a locker and secured it with a Master lock.

“See ya on stage,” she said disappearing around the corner.

“Yeah. See ya…”

I turned back to the mirror and then surveyed the random items strewn across the dressing table: a curling iron with long strands of fuchsia hair trapped between the metal tongs, an empty Chinese takeout carton and companion soy-sauce spill, a jar of mysterious neon-blue goo and, sitting atop a paperback book, an ashtray overflowing with lipstick stained cigarette butts. I pushed the ashtray onto the counter and rotated the book 90 degrees. It was Armistead Maupin’s, Tales of the City. I stared at the familiar cover art, a 1940s, art-deco rendering of a woman with suitcases staring up at one of the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Then it came to me and it was simple. I wanted to be -- like Velvet and the quarters -- a tiny piece of San Francisco lore. I wanted to walk away with a story to tell or, even better, to be part of a story that someone else wanted to tell.

I picked up the clipboard and thought for a long moment. Finally, chuckling to myself, I put pen to paper and printed my new name.


I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror. Then, I untied my g-string and let it drop to the floor.

I’d do it.

Well… the rest of this shift anyway. We’d see after that.


18 May 2008

Ask a Stripper

Dear “Anonymous Said,”

Thank you for visiting the suggestion box.

This is a rather tall order. Let me make sure I’ve got it right. You’d like:

1-An advice-dispensing stripper (you didn’t say whether she [or he?] had to be currently gainfully employed as an erotic dancer.)

2-Someone to arrange an introduction to a lesbian willing to beat up your nuts.

3-A hand job.

Hmmm. I’ll give it some thought. In the meantime, pull down your pants, have a seat, give YOURSELF a hand job and finish reading my story.


“You’re up,"...

... Velvet said as the petite blonde – Jasmine – re entered the room. “Linda. You get a 15 minute break.”


I backed away from the window and turned to Persephone.

“My scarf?” I said putting out my hand.

I watched as Persephone unwrapped the fabric from around her thighs, waist and crotch. A vision of the scarf -- freshly laundered, folded and bundled in blue paper by M. Lee’s Chinese laundry -- floated through my mind.

“Thanks, do you have any more?”

“No. This is all I brought,” I said opening my arms to display the lavender g-string, lace opera gloves and sparkly leg warmers I’d picked up at a Polk Street lingerie shop the day before. Persephone tossed the fabric into the air as if she were releasing a bird and watched as it parachuted to the floor. Then she turned away.


“No, baby you need to bring your own shit. Nobody wants your stuff all over their clothes.”

Persephone spotted a new customer and rushed to his window. “Hey darlin’,” she yelled, putting her hands behind her head and offering up her breasts.

…I feel for you, I think I love you…

I’d figured out the slutty bridesmaid walk that kept everyone circulating through the room and made what, I believed, was a graceful exit, except that I didn’t step down when I passed through the curtain and lost my balance. For reasons I’d yet to discover a spool of toilet paper was attached to the wall next to the stage entrance. To catch my fall I grabbed onto the spool, unraveling several yards of toilet paper as I staggered down the steps. I quickly tore the ribbon off at the roll and crumpled up the remaining tissue. As I was searching for a wastepaper basket Celeste entered through the door to the theater.

“Wow. That wet already?” she said spying the fat wad of tissue in my hand.

“Oh. Um… no. I was just looking for the trash.”

“Right there,” she said pointing to a plastic can at my feet.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Let’s talk about your performance,” Celeste said turning toward the dressing room. “It’ll just take a few minutes and then you can finish your break.

“You want some coffee?” She paused at a standard office-issue Bunn coffee machine. I marveled at the ordinariness of the set up -- coffee filters, napkins, mugs, stir sticks, artificial sweetener. What had I expected, after-all, gold-toothed pimps stepping out from the shadows dispensing little pink and blue pills?


She grabbed a stained mug that bore the message, “Carpe Diem,” and filled it with a brew so pungent I felt my gut tighten.

“Make sure, if you start a new pot? To put it on the warmer after it’s brewed. Otherwise it’ll burn and taste like crap.”


She handed me a cup of crap-coffee.

I followed Celeste into the dressing room. From behind, she looked like a typical office employee. In fact, she reminded me of my Pro-Temps placement counselor, Maggie.

Celeste wore a white silk pantsuit and carried a clipboard in one hand and a felt tip pen in the other. But, whereas Maggie favored low, square-heeled pumps, peeking out from the cuffs of Celeste’s pants were sharp, red, three-inch heels. Under her suit jacket was, not the pastel Liz Claiborne blouse that Maggie might wear, but a red lace push up bra. I doubted Celeste – like most employed women caught on the streets between 8am and 5pm -- changed into comfortable walking shoes or clutched a canvas tote bag containing work shoes and tuna salad on nine-grain.

No, rather than negate the dramatic effect of her outfit with a pair of scuffed Rebocks and ankle socks over L’eggs pantyhose, Celeste would confidently navigate the city hills in her heels and uncompromised sexuality.

I felt something like awe at the authority the image evoked, followed by excitement at the thought that I might soon belong to this club of bold women.

“Have a seat,” Celeste said gesturing to a purple velour couch.

I looked around for a towel to put under my bare butt and when I didn’t see one, wrapped my scarf around my hips and sat.

“Well? How did it feel? Any comments, concerns, questions?”

I tried to think of something smart and street-wise to say but drew a blank… worse than a blank. I felt like an exceptionally slow first-grader staring at a high-school SAT.

“Um… no.”

She eyed me for a long moment, sea-sawing the pen between her thumb and index finger. I suddenly felt more naked than I had inside the mirrored room and tugged self-consciously at my scarf.

“I thought you did fine,” she finally said. “There are some things we need to work on but, basically, you did fine.”

I was surprised to find that I felt disappointed. I guess I wanted Celeste to recognize some special and heretofore untapped quality in me. Deep down I wanted her to praise my performance as the best the theater had ever seen -- a left coast Jennifer-Beals-in-Flashdance, even.

Yet I knew the reality was that I looked out of my depth.

“I’d like to offer you the position.”

I took a sip of coffee and puckered my lips as the bitter brew hit my taste buds.


“We start every dancer off at seven dollars an hour. As you get better, your pay increases. Raises aren’t automatic… you have to earn them. The top dancers earn ten an hour. You work a four- or six-hour shift and rotate a fifteen-minute break with the other dancers.

I could tell Celeste was used to giving this spiel and I wondered about the turnover rate.

“The g-string is going to have to come off,” she continued. “Do you have a problem with that?”

For the first time I noticed the hand-lettered affirmations that were taped to the dressing room walls.

I take pleasure in my job and that puts perfection in my work.

I move my body with poise and confidence.

I am positively adventurous and outrageous.

I felt comforted – if slightly confused -- by the trite positivism.

“No, I think I can handle it.”

I could sense myself getting closer to a crossroads. One way led back up the hill to my cramped rent-controlled apartment, yesterday’s want ads tucked under my arm. The other way led… someplace for which I had no referents, only shallow assumptions gleaned from 70s television dramas starring such falling child-stars as post Brady Bunch, Eve Plumb and post Exorcist, Linda Blair.

“You’re sure? There’s no wiggle room with that. Our customers expect it.”


“We have weekly, mandatory staff meetings,” Celeste continued.



“I’d like you to finish off this shift… that’s another hour and a half and then…” she looked at her clipboard, “can you come in Friday morning, work the ten-to-two shift?”

I thought for a moment, even though I knew the only thing I’d written on my calendar in three weeks were the details of a job fair that I’d, ultimately, blown off.


She scribbled something and then stood up.

“I’m going to give you the locker on the end – locker one. You’ll want to bring your own lock. I’ll need you to fill out your emergency contact info as well as a W-2 form.” She handed me the clipboard and pen.

Again, I felt comforted. I hadn’t wandered so far off the morality-map that Uncle Sam would call off the search for me.

Celeste continued, “You can pick your check up at the front desk… Fridays after ten. The schedule will be with your check. It will also be posted on the bulletin board.” She pointed to a wall of corkboard from which a variety of postings hung.

“Congratulations and welcome to the Lusty Lady. Just get the paperwork to me before you leave.” And then she left the room.

To be continued....

27 April 2008

I tried to pretend I was just dancing with my college pals...

... and squinted my eyes until the room was a blur of colors and shapes – repeating splotches of pink and brown punctuated by little black triangles. Positioning myself as far away as I could from the bank of slowly winking windows, I tried an abbreviated version of my standard club move but my limbs refused to bend naturally and I stumbled, brushing against a dancer named Velvet.

“Hey,” Velvet said and backed up as though someone had just tossed her a dog turd.

She rolled her eyes and turned away when I opened my mouth to speak.

“Sorry. I’ve never done this before…”

“No shit,” Velvet said as she turned her backside to one of the windows, bent over and pressed her ass up to the glass.

The sarcasm might have rolled off, had I not already identified the sturdy, porcelain-skinned amazon as the alpha female of the group. Wearing nothing but leather wrist cuffs, thick black eyeliner and black nail polish, she looked down on her pack with a mixture of vigilance and aloofness. Her shoulder length black hair was highlighted by a white stripe on either side of her face. I had decided she was the perfect combination of feminine symmetry and rock and roll attitude. Everything I thought wanted to be.

I heard snickering coming from the opposite corner and felt the un-sexy grin on my face morph into an even un-sexier grimace.

The only Black dancer in the room -- toned and hairless except for the tight curls on her head -- smiled sympathetically. “Don’t sweat it,” she said. “By the end of the shift, this will feel so natural, you’ll walk out onto Kearney in nothin’ but your pumps.”

She grabbed her breasts, squeezed them together and flicked her tongue towards her left nipple in perfect time to Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.”

… you’re the kind of woman who believes in makin’ out once, love ‘em and leave ‘em fast….

“You new?”

“Yeah. I’m Linda,” I said.

“I’m Coffee. That your real name? You may want to pick a stage name… it helps keep this out of your real life,” she said pointing with her eyes to the windows.

I decided not to tell her I’d come to the Lusty Lady looking for a real life. Instead I said, “Well, I haven’t actually been hired yet. Celeste is evaluating me right now.”

Coffee put her hands on her hips, backed up and looked me up and down for a long moment. “Don’t worry, baby, you’re hired. You don’t need a degree from Julliard to work here. You just need to look fuckable. Sometimes not even that…”

“What?!” Coffee suddenly yelled at the corner window, “you wanna see some pussy?”

A pink, goggle-eyed man wearing a white dress shirt with a red tie flung over his left shoulder was holding his alert penis in one hand and gesturing impatiently towards Coffee and me with the other.

“Watch this,” Coffee said winking at me.

She shimmied up to the window just as the screen was coming down, turned and leaned her back against the pane. When the window reopened, the viewer was greeted by a wall of brown flesh.

I heard pounding and stifled curses from the other side of the window.

“You gotta let them know who’s in charge here,” Coffee laughed. “They’re paying for the privilege of seeing you in all your feminine glory. If they don’t show the proper respect, don’t show ‘em nothin’! This is YOUR show!”

Show? Say, I liked the sound of that. It made me feel less like I was dabbling in pornography and more like I was pursuing a real – if forbidden -- art.

“Shut the fuck up!” Coffee yelled and thumped the wall with the back of her stiletto-heeled foot.

The window closed and didn’t reopen.

“Damn right,” Coffee said and moved on to another window.

…baby you’re much too fast….

Emboldened by Coffee’s act of feminist indignation, I ventured out of my corner and stepped into the middle of the mirrored room. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other to the beat of the music and watched as the other dancers bent and twisted their bodies around the windows, offering A- and B-side, gynecological views of their nether regions.

I knew I was expected to ‘work’ the windows and wondered whether I’d be able to find the courage to approach the sweaty, slack-jawed faces peering in at me. They creeped me out. In another setting – say, a coffee shop, bank or grocery store – I might not even notice these men. They had all the trappings of normalcy – shirts washed in Tide, glasses prescribed by optometrists; watches by which appointments were kept, wedding bands by which loyalties were promised. But in this context, they might as well have had “Deviant” scrawled across their foreheads. (And what, I wondered, was scrawled across my bare butt? “Education: Some College?”)

Without meaning to, I made eye contact with one of the booth occupants… a young African American man whose trousers lay crumpled somewhere out of view. He kneaded his penis, which lay curled under a pair of women’s white lace panties. The delicate fabric was so bright against his dark skin that I paused for a split second to admire the effect. This was interesting. I realized that I knew a secret about this stranger that his mother, brother and guidance counselor probably didn’t know.

There was suddenly something about the glassy eyed rapture of these men, dropping their sticky quarters into slots just to get a look at my crotch, that piqued my curiosity… in that, ‘is-that-a-birthmark-or-just-an-ugly-tattoo’ sort of way and I knew I was going to have to loosen up if I wanted to stay for the duration of this experiment (for that’s how I’d come to think of it… even if I had no idea what it was I was trying to prove).

I began to study Velvet, hoping to cultivate a version of her cool indifference. Even with her face inches from whatever man she was entertaining, she seemed unmoved by the stirrings within the booths... didn’t even flinch when a wad of semen splattered against the window pane like some giant science fiction bug. She seemed unaware that she was interacting with anything but her own reflection.

I realized I was beginning to mimic her body movements and caught myself when I noticed Velvet watching me watching her in the mirror. Now I had a bright red face to compliment my stupid grin.

… The way you make me feel… You really turn me on… You knock me off of my feet…

A faded, pink curtain separating the “stage” from the entrance hall parted and a short, thick woman with frizzy dark hair and large, low hung breasts entered the mirrored room. A petite blonde quietly laboring on all fours next to a corner window abruptly stood up, turned away from the dazed face in the window and -- leaving her seventy-five-cent-suitor hanging -- exited through the same curtain.

“It’s her first night, too,” Coffee said indicating the new arrival. Percy… Perry… baby, what’s your name again?”

“Persephone. Greek Goddess of the underworld…”

“Right.” Coffee rolled her eyes. “This is Linda.”

“Awesome scarf,” Persephone said reaching out a plump, unmanicured hand. Fingering the purple silk wrapped around my waist she said, “Can I play with it for a minute?”

“Uh… sure… I guess.”

“Jesus Christ. You don’t have to give up pieces of your costume,” Velvet said. “That’s not cool… Per-seff-PHONY.” Velvet emphasized the third syllable and gave her a what-the-fuck look.

I felt the warm glow of social advancement wash over me.

“Just for a sec,” Persephone said unfazed. Grabbing the scarf, she snaked it across the floor, between her legs and around her waist. Then she hopped from one window to the next, shaking her shoulders and dragging my scarf behind. One by one, the windows -- which had been opening and closing in 15 second intervals – closed. Except for the one next to Velvet, none of them reopened.

I noticed with relief that, with the arrival of Persephone, the pecking order seemed to shift. Watching the woman lurch around the room like an amateur log roller, I no longer felt the most awkward, least talented, unsexiest dancer in the room. Compared to Persephone’s short bruised legs, mine were long and elegant. My previously unremarkable hair, soft and silky next to the home-permed nest on top of Persephone’s head. When one of the middle windows reopened, I moved forward in slow, slightly more confident steps until my torso and crotch filled the frame. Grabbing the handles on either side of the window, I moved my hips in long languid circles and glanced at Velvet. when, after closing, the window immediately reopened.

…pull up to the bumper bay-bee….

To be continued....

20 April 2008

And that’s how I found myself standing mostly naked in a mirrored 12 x 6 room with three other mostly naked women.

This was the ‘technical’ part of the interview. The verbal part – which took place over the phone – consisted of five easy-to-answer questions:

1-How old are you?
2-How tall are you?
3-How much do you weigh?
4-Have you ever “performed” before? And,
5-What is your race?

I knew I should be uncomfortable with the last question, but decided there was a different set of rules in play on that side of the morality divide and that I’d better adapt if I was going to go through with this.

“Cauc… er, white,” I answered.

“OK. You understand we have to ask that question,” Celeste the interviewer said with a brand of politic I’d come to recognize as particular to San Francisco. By way of explanation she added, “We like to keep a nice balance.”

“I understand,” I said, unsure whether being white worked in my favor and wishing I could claim a mixed race complexion.

Celeste was now sitting with clipboard and pen in one of eight booths encircling the stage, her reactions obscured by a two-way mirror.

‘Just do what comes natural,’ she instructed, ‘and have fun.’

I doubt the frozen grin on my face evoked a sense of fun so much as mortification, but I couldn’t make it dissolve. Every time I caught a glimpse of my bare breasted reflection, my mouth stretched tighter and wider, which only deepened my embarrassment.

This was not the same girl who -- 14 years earlier, in an offhand moment of puritanical posturing -- tattled on Grizelda Buttes for pulling down her pants in front of the boys on the Riverview Elementary School playground. This was a girl who might have headlined such a show by dropping her own Sears Toughskins and shouting, “Your milk money for a peek!”

Not that I was overly prudish. I’d been raised by openhearted, if dysfunctional, Democrats in the time and place of Hubert Humphrey, Robert Pirsig and Mary Richards. From my untested worldview there was little about the human experience that couldn’t be parsed or pardoned.

I was just shy. Not unlike Grizelda, I wanted the kids on the playground to take an interest in me.

Grizelda’s misguided strategy to get the kids to look past her unfortunate name and notice her inner Karen (Sue or Kim) had backfired. It earned her a permanent seat at the untouchable’s lunch table.

Would my attempt to showcase my inner Gypsy Rose Lee end similarly?

Also, there was the pesky question of family dysfunction. What did this brand of attention-seeking behavior say about the emotional health of my relationship with my parents… especially with my dad?

But these were questions best left until my 30’s – once I had several more disappointing relationships and at least one 30-day program under my belt. Right now they would only repress the sense of bawdy fun I was supposed to be projecting.

I would conquer this.

Well… the technical, at least. We’d see after that.

To be continued....

11 April 2008

"Have you ever thought of stripping?"...

Rose put one hand on her hip and, drawing the other to her mouth, took a drag on her little brown cigarette. “It’s easy money,” she said exhaling clove scented smoke.

I was sitting on the front steps of my apartment building, sipping a bottle of beer and reading the July issue of Rolling Stone when Rose posed the question.

The reason I was drinking beer and reading Andy Kaufman’s rock-and-roll obituary at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning is because I was unemployed, having quit my temp agency job sorting bills of lading into neat but inexplicable piles.

I’d tried to come up with ways to make the job less tedious – listening to up-tempo tunes on my Walkman, taking umpteen trips to the bathroom, jotting down insipid poetry that described my angst – but the only thing that kept my head from hitting the table was the daily dose of White Cross speed a fellow temp-worker had convinced me was the perfect antidote to boredom-induced oblivion. That proved an expensive and, increasingly elusive solution.

I told myself that I didn’t move half way across the country so I could spend my days devising ways to survive the quarter hours between coffee breaks. So one miserable Monday morning, I walked away from my fiberglass cube for the10am break and never returned.

Three weeks later, I’d yet to discover for what I’d moved half way across the country, but then, I really hadn’t put forth much effort. Self-loathing was a lot easier to live with than I’d expected.

The way I saw it, I wasn’t officially slacking as long as I was out of bed by noon. Every morning my alarm went off – even if a little later each day -- so I could make sure I was up and on the other side of my apartment while it was still, technically, morning. Beyond that I wasn’t making any promises.

But try as I might to ignore the bothersome realities of unemployment, my dwindling savings and the upcoming first of the month were beginning to weigh on me. I knew my next six-pack would be a 40.

My neighbor, Rose -- an Australian whose words always carried the heft of certainty simply because she spoke with a self-assurance foreign to my Midwestern ears -- showed no sign of embarrassment at suggesting a sex trade career. Not wanting to appear unworldly, I nodded knowingly as though stripping was the next item on my to-do list, even as I felt the heat rise in my face.

Rose wasn’t fooled.

“Americans are so uptight,” she said. “Europeans? They have a much healthier attitude about the human body.”

Rose told me she’d been a professional Flamenco dancer and had filled the time between European tours with two and three month stripping gigs. I had no reason to doubt her story, having seen black and white glossy photos of Rose in a Flamenco dress casting a dramatic Flamenco pose -- so at least half of her story was true. Anyway, why would anyone's flight-of-fancy alight on a seedy strip-club stage?

“It’s liberating,” she said, “you’ll learn a lot about yourself.”

Imminent poverty and its’ ability to cut short my great Armistead Maupin inspired, San Francisco adventure, made me predisposed to seeing the logic in that statement. Taking my clothes off in front of strangers might, I reasoned, displace some of my Midwestern meekness. As an added bonus, I might become privy to some of the city’s most tantalizing secrets. When that happened I might begin to feel more like a wizened San Francisco insider and less like a wide-eyed, if slightly dejected, suburban interloper. It seemed a sound plan.

But then, I was a 23-year-old college dropout who’d arrived on a Grey Hound with $550, a few flimsy resumes, a bunch of college-radio airchecks, a boyfriend who was about to dump me and not a single job prospect. What the Hell did I know about sound plans?

“Call the Lusty Lady,” Rose said. “They’re in the book…”

“OK,” I said as the tingling sensation that had been percolating in my sacrum began to work its way towards my extremities.

I’d do it.

Well… the phone-call at least. We’d see after that.

To be continued....

01 April 2008

O Tania...

"...where now is that warm cunt of yours, those fat, heavy garters, those soft, bulging thighs? There is a bone in my prick six inches long. I will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big with seed. I will send you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned inside out. Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a cunt. I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent. Your Sylvester is a little jealous now? He feels something, does he? He feels the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores a little wider, I have ironed out the wrinkles. After me you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, drakes, St. Bernards.... I am fucking you, Tania, so that you'll stay fucked."--Henry Miller

25 March 2008

Our subprime mortage

Up until December of ‘06, the House of ErotiqueArte had two occupants… Consenting Adult Girl and Consenting Adult Boy. For two madcap years, Girl and Boy romped naked through the house acting out whatever sexual fantasy came to mind. The House of ErotiiqueArte saw sex on every piece of furniture, in every room and with every conceivable accessory.

Then some stuff happened and… well… long story short, somebody changed the locks.

For the past 15 months Girl has been able only to peer through the fogged-up windows from the street… watching helplessly as the empty pizza boxes, crushed beer cans and used condoms piled up in the corners.

(Yeesh. Talk about a jizz fest!)

Recently, however, Girl obtained a new key. The House of ErotiqueArte will, once again, reflect not just the XY, but also the XX porn aesthete.

+ + +

Before moving forward, there are just a couple of house cleaning items…


Regarding, “My Favorite Woman and Me:”

So what is it???

A- Boy Photo-shopped on top of Gillian Anderson
B- Lost footage of Boy and Girl
C- Boy and Boy’s dick
D- Boy and some House of ErotiqueArte interloper


Regarding, “Rate That Pussy:”

Girl was flattered to read that Boy thought her pussy “… so far above the scale, it’s not even on the same counting system.” But her satisfaction fizzled once she got a load of the competition.

That poor, overworked poom-poom is about as appetizing as off-brand meat sold door-to-door. But maybe that’s just Girl’s XX sensibility.

Say, I know...

24 March 2008

Let's play: RATE THAT DICK!

Do you choose:

A-This sturdy, smooth, cream-dripping chocolate bar? Or…

B. This half-eaten hot dog found under a picnic table at Valley Fair?

07 June 2007

American Ingenuity at work!

Who thinks of this shit... and how can I thank them?

Well, I'll be!

Now, if that isn't a beautiful sight!

.. Bike Riding, cont.

Is that what I think it is on her seat?

While We Tabulate Results, Why Don't You Enjoy a Nice Bike Ride?

Wow! She seems to be in some distress from riding her bike. Cramps, maybe?

04 June 2007

Final contestant in... RATE THAT PUSSY!

Our third contestant has a little added flavor and it's obvious that her partner is enjoying it. Now, audience, please... RATE THAT PUSSY!

01 June 2007

Contestant #2 on... RATE THAT PUSSY!

You've seen the scrumptious "apple pussy" in the previous post, now, introducing bald pussy galore. Girls and boys, check your scores and let me know where this full-bodied pussy rates on your scale!

A poem in textures and tones

Enjoy... but remember to play "RATE THAT PUSSY" it's fun for the whole family.

Let's play: RATE THAT PUSSY!

I don't want to prejudice the balloting, but on a scale of 10; this is... an apple. So far above the scale, it's not even on the same counting system. But, hey! Let's hear what you think.

31 May 2007

More more more... it's a sex thing

... you wouldn't understand!

Eating Pussy

... an homage [i.e. I stole it!]

The Clitoris Suck
Expose her clitoris by spreading her lips and lightly pulling back her hood. When her hood is pulled back, make sure it's really her and not the cleaning lady, put the hood back and readjust your own hood in case her's falls off again. With her clitoris exposed, give it a quick little suck. Now when she tells you that you suck, you can take it as a compliment! This is a lot like licking a bit of cake batter off of your pinky, except not as tasty and it shouldn't bring back fond memories of Mom. We recommend not using your teeth nor using heavy suction (i.e. vacuum cleaner) when starting out.

The Clitoris Hold
Take her exposed clit into your mouth and gently suck on it, simultaneously flicking your tongue over and around it. Don't gag on it. Swallow what you can and close your eyes and make believe you're not really there. When asked if you like this, grunt an affirmation. Go to your happy place until it's all over. Take the pack of smokes and go back to your cell. This section inadvertently transcribed from my prison diary

26 March 2007

The warmth, the feel... of pussy

As Spring hits us with its eternal-flavored optimism, let's remember what the season is really about.

20 March 2007

An Homage to Tricky -- who likes the ladies (as I do)

Mad Dog:

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
I like the girls, I like the ladies
I light my world to drive her crazy

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
I like the girls, I like the ladies
I light my world to drive her crazy

Tricky and Mad Dog:

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
(I like the girls)
I light my world to drive her crazy
(With the real long hair)

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
(Whether they're slim or they're short)
I light my world to drive her crazy
(I really don't care)

Mad Dog:

Met two girls in a restaurant
Didn't know those hookers was lesbians
'Til i got home and started sexin' 'em
The shit they were doing was excellent
Yeah, yeah, the show was perfect
The one with her tits in the other girl's bit
Slim girl was holdin' her hips
Strokin' her tongue all over her clit

This girl was gettin pornographic
Should've had a vid recordin that shit
One girl's tits out taking a big mount
Going down south licking the bitch out
'Round 'em and stylin' my dick was shinin'
Next minute the babe is grindin'
Went outside and left 'em windin'
When i came back they was 69in'
All of 'em was crying- she'd screamed
The whipped cream from all over their tits
See me laying for the queen all this fisting
Reminds me of a dream i had at fifteen
Last time i had seen 'em it was at the club
It was me two girls and the scrappy love
Back then wanted to be in nice loves
But now there's enough for the both of us

Tricky and Mad Dog:

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
(I like the girls)
I light my world to drive her crazy
(With the real long hair)

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
(Whether they're slim or they're short)
I light my world to drive her crazy
(I really don't care)

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
(I like the girls)
I light my world to drive her crazy
(With the real long hair)

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
(Whether they're slim or they're short)
I light my world to drive her crazy
(I really don't care)

Mad Dog:

Fit like hand in glove and i'm up
Take a shot like the last of the stand drop
Boom bom bom
Check if alien
That's the time to pull out the handcuffs
Dials a one on a one minute call
Be gone if i never done the cheap rough
She calls and asks when we can fuck
And who else wants the Jungle Lay
So she dials a one on a one minute call
Be gone if i never done the cheap rough
Unless she wants a Jungle Lay
So she calls everyone wonderin' when we can fuck
What does she come to the bar wearin'
'Cause when the girls put on the starin'
I love watchin' all this dancin'
By the girls who are as about as luscious acting
Rude girl and her martial firing
"Ooh well, get the spot!" they whinin'
Street Dog, they caught me rhymin'
Turned around and got fucking blinded
My favorite beds get no shy women
When or wherever to be drivin'
My take come to the face
When i see that beat goes the drum
And the bass is blastin'
Freak if i bone
It's like i lost control
I'm all alone think i'm toppin'
Get high when i drive a car
And try to drink and drive
When i'm private parking

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
I like the girls, I like the ladies
I light my world to drive her crazy

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
I like the girls, I like the ladies
I light my world to drive her crazy

Tricky and Mad Dog:

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
I light my world to drive her crazy
(With the real long hair)

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
(Whether they're slim or they're short)
I light my world to drive her crazy
(I really don't care)

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
(I like the girls)
I light my world to drive her crazy
(With the real long hair)

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
(Whether they're slim or they're short)
I light my world to drive her crazy
(I really don't care)

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
I light my world to drive her crazy
(With the real long hair)

In the Beamer or a fly Mercedes
(I like the girls)
Gettin' lit off, high on the great weed
(I like the girls)
I like the girls, I like the ladies
(Whether they're slim or they're short)
I light my world to drive her crazy
(I really don't care)

19 January 2007

The XXX Files!

Man, I looove Gillian Anderson!

29 November 2006

A commercial break

FREE! Don't you just love that word? Free. But, are we really free when our phone calls and our internet wanderings are basically the property of the NSA, FBI, CIA or whatever snoopy government agency wants to check our leashes?... but I digress. No, what is free in this context is your own personal porn -- just in time for the holidays! Send us a DVD or videotape, a stamped, self-addressed envelope with enough postage for the return of your material and an additional DVD and we will edit into watchable form, add music and provide a cover. Up to 1 hour of DVD sexytime! What's the catch? We at Erotiquearte will be allowed to use a screen capture of the finished project -- we can pixel out your face if you request -- so that we can CHARGE the next wave of personal porn enthusiasts. Email us at erotiquearte@yahoo.com if you're interested.

And now, back to our program!

20 September 2006

Behind door number one

She rolled the gin-soaked olive around in her mouth, enjoying the fleshy-cool sensation against her tongue. Then, sucking out the last bit of liquid, she bit into it with a satisfying ‘crunch.’ Glancing around the room, she brought the martini up to her lips and sipped.

It was shortly after 11pm and she wondered if he was going to show while she was still in the mood. She was feeling playful right now and didn’t want the feeling to be contaminated by the annoyance born of waiting too long for someone who could never seem to arrive at the agreed upon time. Four sips into her drink, she was pleasantly buzzed. Should she finish it before his arrival and order a second martini, she knew she ran the risk of intoxication, which could negatively affect her plan.

Just then her phone, which she’d tucked between her legs, vibrated. She pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. It was him.

“Where are you?” she said.

“I’m at the bar. Where are you?”

“Close by. Here’s what I want you to do…”

Propping her elbows on the back of her chair she strained to see through to the next room from her alcove in the back of the club. Identifying his black leather jacket and tall frame, she slumped back just a bit so she could keep an eye on him without being seen herself.

“OK. Get the bartender’s attention, order a drink, sit down near the bar and then call me back.”

“Where are you? Are you …”

She snapped her phone shut and, smiling to herself, took another sip of her martini.

Alone in her little space, she savored this electric moment. Sensing a wet spot between her unclad thighs, she shifted in her chair and reflexively glanced around the room to see if anyone was looking. A wave of nostalgia washed over her as she surveyed the room full of mostly 20-something University students who were huddled in pods of two, four, six. Other than campus commerce, not much had changed in the 20 years since she’d been a student here. She found herself comforted by the durability of higher education, the gray certitude of its halls.

This club was one of the new things. The building had housed a bookstore when she’d occupied this city within a city. She calculated that she was now seated in what had been the room devoted to course textbooks.

She felt the phone vibrate again. Making sure it was him, she flipped it open.

“OK, I got a beer. I’m sitting on a couch next to the bar,” he said. “Where are you?”

“I’m somewhere in the club,” she said. “We’re just going to sit here and enjoy our drinks. When I’ve finished mine, I’m going get up and go to the bathroom downstairs. When I pass by you… do NOT acknowledge me. We don’t know each other. OK?”


“I’m going to go into the first stall… it’s the one against the wall. When I get there I’ll call you. That’s your signal to come down. Just go right into the stall. I’ll be there. OK?”


“When you get there? I’m going to pull down your jeans,” she said dropping her voice, “Then I’m going to take your cock out of your pants,” [she paused for effect] “put it in my mouth,” [long pause] “and suck on it until… you almost come.” [Breathing]. If I think you’ve followed my instructions, I may pull up my skirt and let you fuck me from behind.”

She abruptly broke the connection, sunk into the chair and finished off her drink. Then, rummaging through her purse, she pulled out a tube of lipstick and a tiny mirror. Filling in her lips with berry color she imagined his cock growing inside her mouth and felt the wet spot between her thighs expand.

Standing up, she adjusted her red, mid-length dress. She’d chosen the silk dress for the flattering way it hugged her hips and then flared at the thighs. She wore a faux fur jacket and black leather boots that just missed the hem of her dress, exposing soft pink knees.

Her eyes fixed on the bar she walked slowly, deliberately towards the front of the room. The images and sounds in her periphery became a blur as the spot where she knew he was sitting came into view

Young men and women stood and sat around the long rectangular shaped bar, smoking cigarettes and sucking on drinks that, perhaps they hoped, conveyed something about their personalities.

When she arrived at his spot, their eyes locked briefly, imperceptibly and he raised his beer to his mouth and looked away.

“He’s good,” she thought her lips turning up slightly.

Passing by him she could feel his eyes on her and she brushed her hand over her ass in what she hoped everyone but he would interpret as unconscious grooming gesture.

When she reached the restroom area –- three, 4x6, side-by-side, unisex stalls with curtained, doors –- she stopped. Someone was in the chosen stall. Patrons were coming and going but she waited for stall number one. She washed her hands, fixed her hair and pretended to talk on her phone so that other patrons wouldn’t wonder why she was loitering outside that one particular stall. Two minutes passed. Five minutes. Ten.

“What the fuck is going on in there?” she screamed in her head. She could see a shadow against the curtain but couldn’t interpret its movements. The occupant seemed to be walking around the tiny cube, doing things.

Finally she gave up and went into an alternate stall. Closing the door, she hit the redial on her phone and waited for him to pick up. His phone rang six times and then rolled over to voice mail. Just then she he heard the stall door next to hers open and close.

“Great, the stall is open,” she thought and slipped out of the one she was in and into the chosen.

“Oh my God, she gasped. She was expecting it to be empty but instead….