StripperwithSpice, page 2
“So which one would you girls like to fuck?”
Dorothy takes a deep drink of red wine and coughs at Zena’s bald question. “I’m a married woman!”
“Not for real, silly.” Zena waves her fingers. “It’s all about fantasy. If you had to choose, which one would you want?”
“I’m not sure.” Dorothy frowns and sets down her drink. “I prefer to try something out before I buy it.”
“Ooh, I like the way you think,” Zena replies, nibbling the maraschino cherry in her drink.
I know she’s going to ask me next, so I plan to give her a thoughtful answer that’ll satisfy her. My gaze travels freely around the room for the first time tonight. None of these young hunks are my type. Sure, they’re nice to look at in an artistic appreciation sort of way but that’s all.
When I glance at the bar, I spot him, the mystery man. He has his back to me again. His black hair looks sexy and touchable in this soft lighting. How would that thick stuff feel sliding through my fingers?
And, mercy, he’s traded his earlier traveling clothes for a pair of tight, faded jeans and no shirt. The woodsy-tasting chardonnay might as well be old swamp water as I stare at a broad expanse of tan back.
He has tattoos.
His right arm sports quite a few of them in fact. I can’t even figure out what they are because of the distance and dim lighting. They’re dark, serpentine things that send something hot and urgent into motion inside my belly.
Well, that settles it. I’ve never looked twice at a man with tattoos, especially not such big ones. So why am I looking twice at this one? If I stay here much longer, I’ll look three and four times, or worse.
“I don’t even have to ask which one you want, Janice.”
“Who, h-him?” I stammer. “He’s not my type. None of these men are, really.”
Zena sends me a shocked look over the rim of her glass. “None of them? Are you alive?”
“I came here for other reasons besides men.”
Dorothy watches us talk as if she’s following a tennis match. She’s probably relieved Zena isn’t grilling her instead.
“His name is Carlos Aguilar,” Zena supplies.
My heart jumps with excitement. She knows his name, which is more than I do. What else does she know? Do I dare find out? Maybe I need a distraction from worrying about my career. As she said, this is about fantasy. I work hard and deserve a harmless little fantasy, don’t I?
After I go home, I’ll forget all about Carlos.
“Where’s he from?” I ask before I can stop myself. Maybe I should stop drinking. I can’t afford to lose control tonight.
“Originally? The Washington, DC, area, I think,” she replies. “He’s Mexican-American and single.”
Olé! my libido shouts.
“How old is he?” I blurt out next.
She frowns in thought. “I don’t know but most of the guys are in their twenties or thirties. Occasionally there’s one or two in their forties who still look hot. Their days are numbered though.”
Yeah, I know all about the forties.
One of the men, tall with a long blond ponytail, approaches our table and puts his big hands on Zena’s shoulders.
My own shoulders tingle when I wonder how good Carlos’ touch would feel there.
“Hey, sexy. How’ve you been?” he asks her in a deep, seductive voice.
“Missing the hell out of you.” She closes her eyes and her head tilts backward as if she’s having the orgasm of her life. “Ooh, Rolf. I missed those hands.”
Rolf? That can’t possibly be his real name. Maybe Carlos has another name too. Stop thinking about him, I tell myself. He’s just a silly fantasy, which will end when I leave this bar in— I look at my watch. When did the hour start? When does it end? Oh, hell. I’ve completely lost track of the time. I guess I’ll leave when I’ll feel like it. And I don’t feel like it quite yet.
When Rolf bends to kiss Zena on the cheek, she turns her head to catch most of his lips on hers instead. My fingers tighten around the stem of my wineglass.
Maybe I wasn’t exaggerating when I wondered if there would be orgies later. Zena looks ready to eat this man alive. So does Dorothy, for that matter, judging by the way she’s blinking her blue eyes at him.
He shakes a finger at Zena. “You’ve been to enough of these to know that’s not allowed.”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying.” She sighs and turns to Dorothy and me. “Rolf is from France.”
Of course he is.
“Go on, baby. Share the love.” Zena pulls his hand off her shoulder and pushes it in Dorothy’s direction.
The older woman blushes darker than her red wine. “Oh, I really shouldn’t. My husband wouldn’t like—”
Zena makes a loud hushing noise. “No one has husbands tonight. Enjoy it. We won’t tell, will we, Janice?”
“Of course not. Uh, Zena, what really goes on at these things?” I wince. No, I can’t ask but I need to know. “Do the men…uh…sleep…”
She looks at me as if I’ve lost most of my brain cells. “They keep late hours but they sleep like the rest of us.”
I clutch my drink almost hard enough to break the glass. “I mean do they sleep with the…uh women here?”
Her mouth twists with disappointment. “No. Like I told you, it’s all about the fantasy.”
I nod, unsure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
Before long, Dorothy’s head weaves in a drunken haze from the pleasure of Rolf’s expert neck rub. Zena whips out her phone from the small purse on the table and takes a picture of them. After Rolf says his goodbyes, Dorothy almost slides off her barstool.
“That felt heavenly. Oh the things I could do with that man.” Then she points to the phone. “Where—”
“Don’t worry,” Zena replies. “I’ll post it on Facebook and send you the link. What’s your email addy?”
Dorothy’s eyes grow as large as dinner plates. “Facebook? You can’t post that. What if my husband sees it?”
Zena shrugs. “No prob. I’ll just email it to you.”
What about my employer? I’m glad I didn’t pose for a picture with that blond giant. Pictures of me with a shirtless man wouldn’t be too good for my career.
While Dorothy tells Zena her email address and Zena punches it in, my gaze drifts back to the bar. Mystery man is gone. Thank God.
“Hey, Carlos! Over here,” Zena yells.
Didn’t this girl ever quit? I can have my fantasy gazing from afar, thank you very much. Oh crap. He’s walking this way! My mouth dries to the consistency of day-old glue. What am I supposed to say? “I’m the horny old woman who ogled you in the check-in line”?
“Good to see you again, Zena,” he says.
Oh God. His clear voice, which reminds me of the gold color of honey, is even hotter than the mesquite-spicy scent of his cologne.
“I never miss a Crave-a-thon,” she replies. “Meet my new friends, Dorothy and Janice.”
I lower my eyes. Could she be any more obvious? The way she stresses my name makes it sound as if she says, “Here’s Janice who’s dying to fuck you.”
The last thing I expect is for him to take my hand and kiss my knuckles. The warm lips on my skin break a dam in my abdomen, releasing something hot and wet into my thong. I never imagined someone with big tattoos would be such a gentleman.
“Carlos Aguilar,” he says.
“Janice S-sullivan.”
“Is this your first time, Janice?” he asks.
First time what? Having sex? With him? I push away my drink. It’s not helping me think, but it’s not to blame for scrambling my brains either. He is. All I can do is nod as if I’m mute or an idiot.
“Why do you have such smoldering, haunting eyes?” I itch to ask but don’t dare. My nails dig into my palms as I struggle for something—anything—intelligent to say. He props his left hand on our table, leaving his right arm in full view along with its tattoos. I realize the swirling things are bird talons. The image fits him.
“Eagle or hawk?” I ask.
“What was that?” He leans his face close enough to my ear to lick it.
The thought makes the metallic-colored lace in my thong feel as if it’s real metal and searing hot. Close up, his scent wraps around me full force until I’m on the verge of swooning off my stool.
I touch his arm, unable to do much but point. “Bird… What kind?”
Someone put a muzzle on me, please. I sound like a three-year-old. And touching him is a big mistake. My hand has a mind of its own and yearns to slide from his wrist up his bronze biceps and across his pectorals. “Put a shirt on before I attack you,” I want to shout.
“Eagle,” he answers, moving his head away from my ear but not as far as it was before. “I had an amazing experience with one when I was a boy.”
His voice is low and intimate, as if I’m the only woman in the room. For some reason, a scalding blaze races across my chest. Then it hits me. Because he’s standing up, he has a full view of my new push-up cleavage. As if I could forget this underwear. So much heat has built up between my legs the thong feels as if it melted and fused to my vagina.
“Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime,” he adds.
My chest is flushed from his dark gaze, which lingers on my exposed skin as if it’s smoke in a closed room. He must like what he sees because he’s still hanging around even though the women here must outnumber the guys twenty to one.
I finally remember to answer him. “I’d like that.”
He looks down at the table. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Janice. I’d better go mingle.”
Don’t go! Kiss me. Fuck me. Do something. Just don’t go. Anything but that.
“Say cheese!”
Zena’s voice pierces the moment with the finesse of a battering ram. I forget I’m sitting with other people. Nothing exists in my world but Carlos. I look in her direction to find her phone aimed at us.
He steps even closer and puts his arm around me while I melt into a puddle on my stool. All too soon, it’s over. In a way, I wish she’d asked my permission first, but I’m glad she took the photo. It’ll be a nice memento of a short-lived fantasy.
He drops his arm and I shiver. “I’ll see you around?”
“Sure,” I reply.
He’s probably just being polite. Why would a young stud like him seek me out later when half the women here appeared ready to throw themselves at his feet? After he leaves, Zena shows me the picture, asks for my email address and sends it off into cyberspace.
“Please don’t put that one on Facebook either?” I ask.
She puts her phone back in her purse. “You girls are no fun at all.”
“He’s very nice.”
Zena laughs. “Girlfriend, he was eating up your cleavage as if it was a smorgasbord.”
Sparks of excitement zap through me. “You think so? I got a new push-up bra.”
I can’t believe I’m discussing underwear with someone I’ve known for barely an hour.
“It worked. You should dance with him tonight.”
I shrug, thinking it’s as likely as finding alien life on Mars. “If he asks me.”
Zena flings a hand out. “It doesn’t work that way here. If you wait to be asked, you’ll be waiting all night. You gotta ask him.”
I finally button the rest of my blouse and say my goodbyes to Zena and Dorothy.
“You can’t leave now,” Dorothy protests. “The dancing hasn’t even started.”
Asking a young guy to dance and getting turned down would be worse than being ignored the entire night. Besides, I already had my thrill for the evening just talking to him. It was more than I expected. I look at my watch again, realizing my hour, and then some, is up.
If it’s all about the fantasy, why ruin it with the reality that Carlos would never truly want me?
Chapter Two
The next afternoon, I sit in my hotel room studying the convention schedule over my lunch, which consists of a spinach wrap I grabbed from the hotel’s sandwich shop. What can I say? Being around so many muscular men inspired me to eat healthier.
Crave-a-thon sure is an action-packed conference. In the past few hours, I attended a workshop about sex toys, learned how to lap-dance and did a fitness workout led by Butch. Maybe the organizers figure if they keep us busy enough, we’ll be too tired to try to break the rules.
Next up is a book-cover photo shoot, but the novel on my nightstand beckons. Why not read and nap the rest of the afternoon? It would be safer in here than out there in jungle land. I sweep the crumbs from lunch into the trash and flip through the schedule again. I’ve dog-eared the page with the cover model pictures.
A pair of haunted, dark eyes stares out at me from the glossy paper. Carlos is out there, which means I can’t stay in here. After last night’s gallant introduction, I want more. Forget going home early. I’m here for the duration now.
To go or not to go to this cover shoot… Watching him pose with some gorgeous female model will eat me up with jealousy, but maybe I can pretend I’m in her shoes. If I get too uncomfortable, I can just walk out. That’s what I like about this event. Unlike work, it’s optional. If I screw up, it won’t cost me my livelihood, which might as well be my life.
I go to the bathroom to smooth my unruly hair and brush the spinach out of my teeth. The moss-green V-neck sweater and dressy jeans I’ve worn all morning should be good enough for this too. I’ve actually gotten used to the push-up bra and may never go back to the old one.
* * * * *
When I walk into the room for the cover shoot, my first thought is, Where are the female models? Are they going to drop from the ceiling or pop out of a box? The men, as shirtless and sexy as ever, stand on a low stage with a leopard-print chair on it. The attendees form a line, which lengthens at amazing speed. Behind the stage is a wall depicting a tropical jungle landscape.
This is weird. Shouldn’t we sit in some chairs facing the stage? Before long, one of the organizers shoves a clipboard at me.
“Sign this model release form.”
Huh? I might look good for my age but I’m no model. My frown of confusion deepens even more when other women receive clipboards too. I skim the fine print while dance music pours out of a nearby speaker.
Holy cow. I am a model. We all are today. I shove the clipboard back at the woman.
“No thanks. I’m just going to watch.”
“Suit yourself.”
I step out of the line, which grows ever longer. The first woman steps onstage where three men position her body around the chair in a suggestive pose. Her friends egg her on with enthusiastic comments and poised cameras. Looking stiff and uncomfortable at first, the woman eventually smiles and sinks into the fluid pose the men choose for her. Bright flashes fill the room as the professional photographer shoots away. The woman varies her pose for several shots.
My eyes dry out as I forget to blink. This can’t be real. Zena’s words come back to me. It’s just a fantasy.
The men’s faces are so close to the woman’s it’s as if they’re kissing her, but I can see they’re not. This scene is typical of romance book covers. It appears as if the man is about to whisk the woman off to bed, or vice versa.
What good is fantasy? I prefer the real thing. Fantasy is frustrating. Just watching this is swelling the nipples in my bra and what good is that? It’s not as if I’m on a date and might get lucky. This bra is already too tight. Any more pressure and my breasts might overflow. Now that would be something to photograph!
Carlos enters from the sidelines. The movement of his tattoos hooks my gaze as he mounts the stage. Heat flares through my body and I hope to hell it isn’t my first hot flash. He’s probably going to be in the pictures too. With other women… With…me?
No way. I clench my hands behind my back and pace. Then I sigh at least five times. If only I could sit down and write a cost-benefit list to help me with this decision. A tickle of curiosity between my legs makes my decision for me.
Hell, yes. Give me one of those damn clipboards. The line has now filled the length of the room and is curling along the back wall, reminding me of a scorpion’s tail. I almost knock someone down in my rush to get one of the organizers to hand me a form. Scrawling my name and shoving the clipboard back before I can change my mind, I head to the end of the line.
I wish I’d worn something sexier. The next woman up is Zena. I laugh when Rolf and another guy suspend her upside down. Luckily her lime-green tank top has enough Lycra in it to keep it in place. I hope they don’t do that to me. Passing out from a head rush would not be cool. But Zena just laughs and points her megawatt smiles to the camera.
Suddenly I wonder about her. Doesn’t she have a boyfriend? It’s as if she left her outside life at the door of the hotel. Fantasy can only take a person so far. Being single can be lonely.
“Look at her,” the woman behind me exclaims. “She’s eating this up.”
I turn and realize it’s Dorothy. Seeing her makes me feel good about my decision. If a married woman can do this, so can I.
“She’s posing with Rolf,” I point out. “Aren’t you jealous?”
She sighs and adjusts her glasses. “A little but I suppose there’s enough of him to go around.”
When Zena’s session ends, we clap and cheer louder than anyone else. The next person up is an older woman. Will the guys suspend her in the air too? Instead they seat her in the chair and sit at her feet, each enfolding one of her legs with muscular arms.
The line moves pretty fast. The closer I get to the front, the harder my heart pounds. The men participating in the photos changed a couple of times while I waited. Now Carlos is taking his turn. He’s wearing a pair of worn jeans with a bit of underwear waistband peeking over the top, which sets off his tan abdomen to perfection.
