The other night I decided to stop at a local strip club to unwind. Little did I know, it would turn into one of the most fantastic nights of my life.
There were about twenty girls dancing and approximately thirty to forty guys in the club. I watched the ladies for a little while, to decide which one I would like to have dance for me. I settled on two different women. The first was a tall girl, around five-foot-ten, who had long, dark hair that fell to her mid-back and was just gorgeous. She had a tiny butt and extremely long legs. She was small in the chest, but I was okay with that. She was model-type beautiful. She told me her name was Angie. She took me to a corner of the club and pulled me forward on the seat, and then gave me one of the best dances I ever had. I had her dance for me twice, and then I took a break. I was afraid my cock would explode; she rubbed me and showed me her breasts and cunt while she danced. I was in heaven.
The woman across the room had a way of looking at herself in the mirror. I observed her watching herself, not because I thought she was pretty (although she was), but because I could tell that she thought she was pretty. In fact, she thought she was beautiful. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed that a certain type of attractive woman will reuse the same gestures repeatedly, in the way a model will turn “her good side” to the camera. This redhead was like that, looking down at her drink in a sad little way, running her hand through her thick hair, and always, always returning to her gaze in the mirror.
I don’t know precisely what prompted me to send her a drink. I don’t usually pick up girls at clubs, and I don’t care for women who are so tied up in their own appearances. But I do like to tie girls up, and I could see what this one would look like: wrists over her head in the middle of my bed.
Last fall, my girlfriend Hannah announced that she was getting married. She was planning to have a riotous bachelorette party at a private club, including several male strippers. Aiden, my best friend and roommate, heard me giggling as I discussed the party with Hannah over the phone. Afterward, he told me that he’d seen lots of porn about those kinds of parties. He wanted to go so badly, but he knew it was a girls-only event. He thought about getting a job at the club as a waiter, but the staff for that event would be girls-only, too. For a month, he kept badgering me about the party. He really got on my nerves. Finally, I told him the only way he was ever going to get in was to become a girl. He actually started exploring the idea. He wanted to know if I thought he could pass as a woman and sneak in as a guest.
I looked him over and thought it just might work. Aiden is a slim guy, only five foot eight. His face is slender, and he has high cheekbones. His hair is jet-black and he wears it long, but not too long. As it was nearing Halloween at the time, I asked him if he wanted me to turn him into a woman for the holiday. He was really hesitant at first. I told him it was his choice, however I reminded him that girls tend to get pretty drunk and lose control at bachelorette parties, so he really should think about the benefits of cross-dressing. Finally, he agreed.
Camping had never been my favorite activity, but it definitely went up a notch on the pleasure meter with my recent trip to the woods. On that weekend, my best friend, his girl and I were enjoying the great outdoors—but the last night of our trip brought an unexpected twist.
“I need a favor,” Debbie said directly in my ear. I actually jumped. The last thing you expect to find crawling in your sleeping bag in the middle of the night is your friend’s girlfriend.
“What?” I was tired and not in the mood for campfire games. I thought she was going to ask me to walk her to the outhouse since it was so dark.
“I need you to…” She petered off and exhaled loudly.
“Need me to what, Debbie? It’s the middle of the night, and I can’t see my own hand in front of my face.”
We call it having a dinner guest. We’ll have a slow and lonely night at the diner, and when an unsuspecting guy who passes Kelli’s muster walks in, I give her the nod. The door gets locked, and as my wife pulls the big industrial blinds down, she tells him he’s our last customer of the night.
All the while, he’s eating and trying not to watch her. The way her pink uniform rides up when she reaches for the shade pull. Or the way her stocking tops peek out just so. She’s an old-fashioned girl, and she likes the thigh-high kinds that stay up on their own. We let him eat, and then she makes her move as I watch from the kitchen.
Our last guest was a big trucker type. He had a turkey club before he realized he was actually going to get from Kelli the filthy things he really wanted.
What a cute little fox,” I heard a man say behind me. I turned toward the voice, prepared to be offended. “I beg your pardon,” I said, sounding haughty. The stranger appeared to be surprised by my response. Then I looked in the direction he’d been facing. In a flash, I realized that he had been admiring a fox—a red-tailed, bristle-furred fox.
I felt myself begin to blush. Why had I been so quick to assume he was talking about me? I’d decided to visit the local zoo in order to draw pictures for one of my college art classes, but so far nothing had truly inspired me. Not until this man had appeared, anyway.
We bought the cabin for a song. We hadn’t even been looking for a vacation home. I’d been perusing the real-estate section of the local newspaper during brunch one Sunday morning, and an ad for the little fixer-upper by the lake caught my eye. Before long, I was picturing us spending long weekends in the woods—and imagining all of the trouble we could get into with no one around to witness our antics. I easily convinced my wife, Jessica, to go check out the cabin with me.
I loved the place immediately, but there was one thing that gave Jess pause: It was so deep in the woods that there was no connection to electricity, phone lines and—gasp!—the Internet. My better half is pretty much attached to her smart phone most of the time, so by my reckoning, being someplace where she’d have to pay more attention to me was just another reason to adore the place. Besides, I had a funny feeling that even without access to modern technology, we could find interesting ways to keep ourselves busy.
Michael knows that if I allow him to spend the night, he’s responsible for making breakfast the next day. And I expect a gourmet spread. Usually, he’s good about fulfilling his duties, and he typically makes scones with clotted cream and jam, a frittata with fresh vegetables, or French toast made from flaky croissants. He’s never failed to deliver a delicious meal—until last weekend.
When I woke Saturday morning, Michael was already up, and his pallet next to my bed was empty. I could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen, and the aroma alone had me wide awake in a matter of moments. I pulled a silk robe on over my negligee, stepped into my heeled slippers and, after stopping to fix my hair in the mirror, walked down the hall to the kitchen to see what my slave was cooking.
It had never occurred to me to ask. And apparently it had never occurred to Brad to tell. So when we were packing up to move from our tiny cracker-box apartment to an actual townhouse, it all came out by accident. Because of one simple act.
It had been a half-irritated, half-amused gesture on my part. Brad had been packing the good dishes with the everyday dishes, instead of wrapping them separately like I’d asked. I was sorting the mail at the time, and I rolled up a magazine and swatted him on the ass like he was a bad dog. It was just a joke. But the look on his face was one I’d never seen before.
“What?” I asked, warily.
He shook his head quickly, keeping his eyes lowered. “Nothing.”
It was the way he moved away from me—an odd sideways crab walk—that tipped me off.
“Brad, did I hurt you? I was only fucking arou—” By then I’d managed to bounce my way in front of him, smiling to show it had all been in good fun.
People tell me all the time that I look fierce. But when I gaze into the mirror, I simply see a woman who contemplates. Although not shy, I am quiet unless I have something to say. I keep my emotions contained. I know my way around the saddles, gear, and whips we sell at the horse and tack shop where I work. I present the wares with respect, in the calm, careful way I do everything.
The crush I nursed on my coworker James for the past year was just one more thing I kept to myself. I had no plans on letting him know how I felt, but recently I had an occasion to act on my feelings in a surprisingly satisfying way.
Maybe some would describe me as hiding behind a layer of armor, but I prefer to think of myself as simply serious. I don’t go in for frivolities. That’s why the leopard-print dress was something of an aberration for me. When I walked past the store window and caught sight of the short, sexy number, I did a double take. My usual wardrobe is a far cry from leopard. I wear black—my whole closet is black—and riding boots, and I am fine with that.