Dallas Mayo: The fluffy girl

I found it easier to look around now, too; the lights were a shade brighter and nobody seemed quite so furtive after sharing the dubious thrills of that first act. Other women were well-manicured also, I noticed, and some had evidently dressed up for the occasion, all very sexy in their slinky gowns and heavy makeup and salon-styled hair. My own simple frock was almost dowdy by comparison, although it did bring out the best in me, my hazel eyes and creamy complexion and natural golden hair, and my figure, of course, a figure I'd match against any in the house, on or off the stage. I didn't need fancy clothes and such to prove myself a beautiful girl. Nothing phony! Makeup, for instance, other than a touch of lipstick and eye-shadow, I let my pretty face speak for itself. Even my nails were an unassuming pink instead of a sophisticated scarlet. In spite of my former professional status, or because of it, perhaps?, I preferred the coyly virginal effect rather than the elegantly whorish. The fluffy type, that was me. And I had heard no complaints as yet, certainly not from Jerome, the old darling; oh, how that sweet old man loved his little Dana-baby! The only time he ever complained was when I didn't spend enough of his money.

A brassy fanfare sounded and the second stripper came on. A slim one, too, as though in answer to everybody's prayers, young and cute and tiny and amazingly energetic, a veritable little hoyden of a girl. With red hair, imagine! Under the flashing strobe like floodlight, I couldn't tell if she was a dyed Mexican or a misplaced Irish colleen. Her costume was black but pretty much immaterial; in that wildly volatile manner of hers, she wasted no time shedding a few pertinent items of apparel and getting right down co the bare essentials.

Her breasts were simply adorable, so pert and precocious after those big balloons awhile ago. Even my own body soon began to respond to their enticement and I had to squirm around in my seat to soothe the itch. All the more so a moment later when she whirled and gave us a prolonged rear view, grinding her bare bottom like a naughty coquette; such a delectable little fanny! Oh, it was quite a performance she put on, more real than theatrical. Toward the end she seemed to go into a fit of ecstasy, shivering and shaking in a way that just couldn't have been faked, reaching the climax of her act in a series of shamelessly abandoned pelvic convulsions that must have brought her to the verge of orgasm. Or beyond? I couldn't tell for sure. It was pretty wicked, though, dragging the entire audience right along with her, right into that same stew of excitement. When she finally made it to the wings, there was a collective sigh of relief before the crowd regained poise enough to function physically and start applauding. And then, of course, the clamor rocked the joint to its foundations.

"Not bad, huh? Dana?"

"Not bad at all."

"Lots better than the fat one."

"Uh-huh. At least she didn't get tangled up in her pants. I thought she looked awfully young, though. Just a kid, really, wouldn't you say? Bouncing around like a high school cheerleader… "

"Some kid. In a place like this?" Jerome's grin became a bawdy leer. "Honey, don't go moral on me. They like 'em young hers, the younger the better, it's good business. See all the wolves with their tongues hanging out?"

"Bastards! And stop leering at me. Oh, you're all alike, you men, always on the make. I pity the poor child."

"Don't waste your sympathy, the wolves won't get near her, I'll bet. Not if she runs true to form. When the show is over, she'll just cuddle up with one of the other girls and… well… "

"What? Oh. You, you mean they're lesbians?"

"It's a safe guess. Most strippers are, you know. It's almost a tradition; they just leave the boys drooling and go off by themselves for their own kind of fun. Saves wear and tear that way. So don't worry about the kid, I'm sure she's in good hands. Hmm. I wonder whose. Now that would be a show to see, wouldn't it?" He laughed aloud. "Maybe they're making it in the dressing room right now, the little redhead and that big fat dumb broad… "

I was glad when the band struck up again, loud enough to drown outpour conversation. Loud enough to allow the subject to be dropped and forgotten, the one subject least likely to preserve peace in the family, although the old darling couldn't have known that at the time. And never would, hopefully! Lesbians and the like belonged behind a shroud of secrecy; why should it even come up between us?

My fault, no doubt, even though I had only sympathized with the cute young stripper for Jerome's sake. It was good for him, a sop to his waning virility, good for his ego to be included among the wolves on the make. But he had picked it up from there, of course, launching into the taboo topic even as I expressed a proper degree of shock and scorn. Along with a little chagrin! Oh shit, how was I to know that he considered himself an expert on the mating habits of the bare-breasted Tijuana titmouse?

Anyway, no harm done. Except that the next performer was bound to be wearing that invisible "lesbian" label now, and I couldn't help but feel a certain loss of innocence along with my sudden sense of kinship. Rightly or wrongly, I would be seeing her as a lesbian rather than a dancer, a lesbian using her body to excite men she didn't even like. It seemed a bit shoddy somehow, teasing the boys without giving them their money's worth. Unless maybe they knew all about it and just didn't mind being teased. Hmm. Hope springs eternal? Wasn't that the very essence of the striptease, to dream the impossible dream? Yes indeed, hope springs eternal; no wonder so many successful strippers were gay! Look but don't touch, a kind of soft sadism, just perfect for the unwitting male masochist…

That was when the third girl ambled onstage, tall and blond and beautiful and making mincemeat of my theory. Maybe the wolves were still getting their fair share of graciously dispensed frustration, but I could have sworn this one was teasing me! As if she had read my invisible label, somehow, was it so indelible?, and was already stating her challenge in no uncertain terms. Hey, look at us! How about it, tourist lady, blond on blond tonight? A bed full of nice blond cunt? Come on, baby, put up or shut up. And never mind the blank stare, it's no good anymore. Let's go, blondie, shit or get off the pot!

I did neither, straining mightily to hold everything in check like a well-behaved tourist lady should, and was rewarded by a richly deserved sense of triumph that turned cloying and faintly oppressive as she shrugged and swung her attention elsewhere. Just watching her seemed compensation enough, though, and I was soon lost in the erotic sorcery of her spell. Only I couldn't go up there alongside her this time, not like with the fat-assed Mexican peasant, oh no, I just didn't dare.

She was still fully dressed, a vision in floor-length white satin shot with shimmering gold, a dйcolletй gown that made her look more like a singer than a stripper. Quite sedate except for the scandalous display of cleavage. Indeed, her every breath was clearly delineated by the rise and fall of her breasts, the upper slopes naked almost to the nipples. But a change was just about due, evidently, and I could see her body sucking in and storing up vitality from the surrounding tables, moving in a kind of slow abandonment that appeared to grow increasingly sexy. As if the very next intake of outside energy might bring the one potent spark of pollen or semen or what-have-you needed to jolt new and crackling life through the swollen anticipation jelling inside her bosom and belly. An extrasensory conception, as it were. There was an indolent elegance in her flowing form that seemed to be demanding the opportunity to exhibit itself without the constraining shackles of society.