The Sexiest Things, Part Two

So, here I am in the hills of eastern Kentucky visiting one of our suppliers. We had a little problem – quality, timeliness… the usual stuff – and the boss sent me here to straighten things out. I was with the supplier – the owner himself – until nearly eight o’clock tonight when we wrapped up, and I started to try and find my way back to the hotel. You know how when it’s dark, things don’t look like they did during the day? Well, that’s how it was. So, I’m driving down this two-bit road, the fields coming all they way up to the shadows cast by the headlights when suddenly on the left is a “gentlemen’s club.”

I know. I know. This is supposed to be a sex blog, not a blog about strip clubs. Well, sorry. You’re going to take what you get. I certainly am.

The car pulled in, the autopilot having engaged at the first recognition of pink neon lights.

The club, Winner’s Circle, had a glass door. I’d never seen that before. It was locked with a little door bell next to it, “Ring to enter.” Sure, I can follow directions.

Inside was the usual: some eight to ten dancers sitting around the bar, smoking; a few male patrons. The bar tender carded me; I was flattered and ordered a Diet Coke.

Now, I share tonight’s experience with you, after a hiatus from posting, not because of anything which I’ve already written here. No, I share tonight’s experience with you because of Christine (and not to be confused with Christina).

Remember a while back I posted about the sexiest things? This was the post that got Jane back blogging, if you’ve been following that. Anyway, I noted in that post that three of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen were a woman driving an eighteen wheeler and two strippers (one in Salt Lake City who wore an oversized, hooded sweatshirt, and Alex, a dancer in Miami who turned me on with a fedora and sensuous hips and a smooth intellect). Well, tonight I met Christine. She’s a dancer. She used to drive an eighteen wheeler (hauling hogs, if you can believe that).

When I stepped up to the bar, she was sitting there, smoking a cigarette. Cute, I thought. Bright brown eyes. Sandy brown/blonde hair, cut Couric-like with bangs. Pretty face. Tan. Big, real breasts. Maybe early thirties. Wearing a black, felt hat; not a fedora, but a brimmed, round hat; oh, if she only knew. But, smoking. Big turn-off for me. The bartender serves up my Diet Coke after forgetting what I ordered, and the dancer makes a comment about the difference in sugar content between Coke and Diet Coke. I make some utterance and then take my coke to a table just back from the runway. I watch the dancers, and tip a dollar a song, folding my bills lengthwise and resting them, tent-like on the edge of the stage.

At nine o’clock the dancers change out and Christine, who had been waiting for the start of her shift, is the first of the night-shift dancers to take to the stage. It was worth the wait.

By this point, I’m the only guy in the place, or so it seems. The place is dead. The Winner’s Circle is empty. She dances just for me, staying nearly in front of me, eyes straight at me, singing to me, her hands rubbing herself. Her breasts are large enough she can pull them toward her mouth, stick her long pink tongue out, and lick the nipples. All the while, she’s maintaining eye contact, wide smile, real.

Later, she joins me at the table and we talk. She has three kids, including a 16-year old daughter. She has the scars to prove motherhood. I think it’s sexy. I think she’s sexy in her all-American, girl-next door way. She tells me guys are always saying they want to take her home, want to marry her. And not just at the Circle, where I would expect she might her that, but at public places like the supermarket and the airport.

And it’s not that she’s drop-dead gorgeous in a model way. But it’s that she uses her deep, dark, brown eyes to draw a man in. I’m talking with her and there’s nothing else in the world. I forget about everything: the problems with the supplier, shit at the plant, Jane and her burgeoning belly and the baby, my sons, Kathleen, strippers the world over including Alex, cute waitresses like Amy, friends like Frankie, and everything else. There’s just Christine and her smile and her eyes.

We talk about stuff, nothing in particular. I ask about one of the earlier dancers, one who seemed real young. This dancer was pretty; dark hair; awkward like she quite want to be on stage showing her shaved lips. While she’d been dancing, one of the other dancers, an older dancer maybe nearly forty, had been playing with her, standing next to the runway, putting her face near her crotch and ass as she danced. There’d been something familiar in their interactions. Christine pointed to the older dancer, “That’s her mother.” Suddenly, I wasn’t too sure with the world; thought back to the scene in Ocean’s Eleven when Brad Pitt’s at the strip club and asks after the dancer-dressed-as-a-nurse’s mother. “Tell her yourself. She’s on in ten minutes.”

Christine convinces me to join her in the “Heartbreak Hotel” for a private dance. All over the Circle there are signs which say “Do not touch the dancers.” They serve alcohol. The dancers are nude. There’s no touching. It’s a combination I’m not so familiar with.

Thirty bucks. Seems awfully high, particularly considering a dance at Lipstick is only a ten spot. I have enough money for one dance; I’d only walked in with sixty bucks, dinner money from Plaid. She smiles. I can smell her perfume, slight, mixed with the scent of cigarettes. Her eyes sparkle in the dull shadows. I’d told her I write; “You can have something to write about. Without a private dance, you haven’t had the whole experience.” How right she was.

We mount the stairs, and Christine leads me to a small, curtained room with a low, overstuffed, leather chair facing a small stage with mirrors on three sides. I sit down and ask, “Are the rules the same here as in the front.” She’s quick to reply, “Yes.”

Whoever writes rules like “Do not touch the dancers” was certainly a street lawyer in another life. It’s one of those things: you can’t do this, but don’t worry, ‘cause this is what really is going to happen. In essence, I needn’t have worried.

Christine strips down to her birthday suit and the music from the boom box starts up. My hands are gripping the leather armrest as she begins to sway; I’m looking at her eyes, sparkling even in the shadows of the room. A couple of measures in and she’s through with the preliminaries and is against me. It’s not just a grinding-of-her-ass against my lap. It’s a full body treatment; her full body against mine. She’s not thick, but not bony; just right for a romp, think I. Her breasts a full, ripe, smooth against my ten o’clock shadow. I’m disappointed when it’s over; disappointed that I don’t have more money. Disappointed that she’s married. Disappointed like all those other guys who have succumbed to her deep stare and believe they were the only one in the world and she was the only one in the world and it wasn’t a game or a fantasy like it really is. I sat dazed in the chair, hard from not only her contact and her scent but her smile and her eyes; I couldn’t move. She laughed at me.

We went back out and talked some more. She was a sport about it, knowing that I was tapped out for the night, but still willing to spend time with me. (Of course, there was no one else in the house, even then, so I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised.) Somehow we started talking about rulers and she noted her hand is seven inches from the top her middle finger to the base of the palm of her hand. She claimed to have measured it. I tried to tell her that I was certain her measurements were off; that looked like ten inches, at least. She laughed. I accused her of measuring men while in the back; she’d rubbed her hand over my hardness; I think she was measuring. She laughed again, a full, throaty, head-thrown-back laugh.

She went up on the stage for another two songs, and I sat admiring the view and thinking I was the only man in the world. And then, when she came back after her dance and having changed (into a damn sexy “head nurse” outfit with a low, low cut dress showing off her ample, tanned breasts). I said good by; she hugged me, and I walked out into the February, blue grass, night air, having seen two sexy images merged into one: a truck-driving stripper.