Dealing Flesh (16 page)

Whip Cracker:
Ehh, don’t play the wimp. It’s just evidence of how much men enjoy doing you, and how much you rock in bed.
The more pain, the more credit you deserve. Be proud
.

A week goes by. Ray totals the car. He is fine, but the vehicle isn’t. I quit my job at the pet store in order to get around having to take the long haul to work on public transportation, as well as to eliminate further possibilities of running into Ricky who had the audacity to stand me up after having initially agreed to get together for round two.

Romy:
Too bad. I wished I could have had another chance to make him fall in love with me.

~~~

To keep Raymond from nagging me now that I no longer have a steady paycheck rolling in and may soon be defaulting on the household bills that I agreed to pay, I place an ad into the paper offering to tutor German. Only one person calls: Melissa—a woman from Austria who also teaches the language. She wants to increase her circle of friends that are native speakers, she says. We meet for a few social engagements.

Knowing how important generating income is for me, she informs me about a situation that would entail massaging a wealthy surgeon after hours inside his medical office.

“I think he’d be pleased to have two European ladies rub on him. It’s easy cash, really,” she exclaims.

Whip Cracker:
Don’t even think about passing this one up.

~~~

We arrive at the medical building in Santa Monica at 6:00 p.m. sharp. Everyone has left for the day, so the doc leads us into his own private office.

Melissa spreads the blanket out on the floor in front of the big oak desk. After stripping down to nothing but a thong we join the already naked physician on the towel. Twenty minutes of us kneading him pass by, at which time I finish him off with a hand job.

A week goes by. We are back at the doc’s office this evening. He asks if I mind oiling down Melissa’s bosom while he watches. Never having touched a female boob, I hesitate. Concerned that he might not pay us if I refuse, I carry out the deed. I flinch when fondling her cold-to-the-touch silicon breasts.

Hot Shot:
Yuck…I am so not into women.

Another week passes. We show up for a renewed session at the medic’s office. This time he beseeches me to lick his balls while simultaneously stroking his wiener. Hoping to get him off faster this way, I yield. Fifteen minutes go by, but the anticipated result doesn’t come.

Ragelina:
God damned. Why is this fucker taking sooo much time?

Scaredy Cat:
I know, I know. But let’s just finish this one gig, get paid, and be out of here for good, all right?

I keep on keeping on, until he finally ejaculates. Fully annoyed by the ever-increasing responsibilities of the job, I race home, and an hour later, I call Melissa, letting her know that she shall no longer count me in when it comes to visiting the doctor.

~~~

Dressed in black tights and a berry-colored leotard, my eyes closely follow the contours of my body’s reflection inside the large shiny health club window in front of me while jogging on the treadmill at a fairly high speed. I crank it up one more notch, making my feet hit the revolving rubber surface even faster.

Miss Vanity:
Look at those bitchin’ cuts on my deltoids. Now if that isn’t sexy as hell then I don’t know what is. Add my gorgeous flowing mane softly bouncing off my shoulders with each antelope-like stride and you, for sure, have a perfect ten.

Hot Shot:
If I were a man, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of me at all. I mean, is there someone out there who wouldn’t want a piece of this?

Whip Cracker:
I don’t think you have to worry about that. As you are aware, that hasn’t been the case yet, has it? On the other hand, it’s not that a little more perfection can’t go an even longer way. Go right ahead, whip that butt into even greater shape, dear.

Miss Vanity:
I had enough of staying in suspense. Time to find out which guy behind me is fixated on my ass.

Quickly twisting my head to the side, I scan the room for potential takers. There, near the pillar on another machine, I see two dark covetous eyes gliding me up and down. Lustania has me return the man’s friendly nod “Hello.”

Fantasia:
I wished his ‘Hercules’ body would show up next to me.

Not that I want to say “I told you so” but the tall, black fellow with the army haircut indeed does appear by my side minutes later, engaging me in a perky chitchat.

Lustania:
Hot damned
.

I agree. Standing this close to his hard-as-a-rock chiseled physique connected to an ass that puts that of
Jean Claude Van Damme’s
to shame, proves mighty challenging.

Lustania:
His facial features don’t really appeal to me, but his carriage is, by far, the best I’ve ever seen.

Much more vigilant of my surroundings today, I keep my hopes high of catching another glimpse of the Australian accented boxer who introduced himself as Jasper the other day. Lustania turns hyper squirrelly when the guy appears on my radar within five minutes. His hungry eyes instantly devour me with wordless devotion from across the room.

Lustania:
Gosh, I’m dying to have him use his power tool on me
.

He comes over. “What’s up? What are you working on today?” he asks, his cheeks forming dimples as he grins.

“Ehhh, well. I was thinking of doing chest, legs, and abs.”

“Why don’t you train with me kickboxer style?”

“Are you gonna take it easy on me if I say yes?”

“We’ll see. Let’s start with some abs, shall we?”

All cheery, Lustania keeps me staring at the guy’s bedazzling physique, particularly his butt that occasionally shows from a side angle as he interacts with my struggles of making it through a set of twenty painful sit-ups on a steep incline bench.

Miss Vanity:
Uuufff.
I’m turning into a gladiator chick. Won’t want him to get the impression I’m a wimp. Wimps are anything but sexy.

Fantasia:
I can see it now…his powerful pelvis thrusting me, my hands tightly clasped around his ass to help him do me harder…Gosh, he feels good
.

Lustania:
Quiet. You make me lose my composure, getting me all hot and bothered like that.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m a special kind of vampire right now…one that doesn’t long to suck blood, but longs to suck other things.

Romy:
I would bet that the true and undying love of a genuine man could cure you of your predicament.

Hot Shot:
Phhh.
Am I supposed to laugh? And where do you suggest I find such a dude? As you know best, that dream sailed long ago. So don’t trouble me with notions that are impossible to attain, and just let me have as much fun as I can before I die, okay?

Whip Cracker:
Good thinking
.

Romy:
It’s hopeless.

The next day, too busy paying attention to Fantasia’s latest scheme of things as I’m working out with Jasper again, I entirely dismiss the enormous possibility of Raymond showing up in front of us at any moment, being that he is scheduled to perform maintenance on some of the club’s equipment this afternoon. One of the conversations from yesterday seeps in, remembering Ray complaining that several people who know us as a married couple, informed him that they saw me looking mighty cozy next to a bodybuilder on more than one occasion this past week.

Fantasia:
They must be referring to the times I sat on Jasper’s lap in between sets. I couldn’t help it, had to feel him close
.
What’s a woman to do?

Thankfully, Pretender Babe helped me to smoothly lie myself out of this one.

Hot Shot:
I really don’t give a fuck if he catches me flirting.

Ragelina:
Don’t get ME started
.
Still can’t believe he had the audacity to discuss going on a date with this model chick we happened to run into while getting money from the ATM the other day, while I sat only a few feet away inside our car, overhearing nearly every word of their flirty dialogue.

Avengelia:
Ew…yeah…that whole thing was despicable.

Romy:
I’d be jazzed if Ray found someone to have sex with so he won’t bother me no more.

Fantasia:
I just know that if I hang out around Jasper for one more minute, I’m going to rip my clothes off and beg him to do me right here and now on the gym floor in front of any and all bystanders.

Lustania:
That sounds like the best thing I’ve heard in a long while. I say enough of the torture; it’s time to go for the gusto. I need that hottie noowww. You hear me? Nowww…now, now, now.

Morning comes. I arrange for Jas to meet me in a parking lot near the gym. He pulls up around ten. I jump into his ride and we take off for a quiet motel on the outskirts of Pasadena. Inside the room, a ten-minute uneventful foreplay erupts on top of the bed. Jasper ultimately enters me in missionary position. We move and groove, but I do not feel the slightest thrill.

Lustania:
Would someone explain how a drug of his potential could turn me on so much when clothed, but do jack nada at close contact?

Hot Shot:
Beats me.

Doubt Cloud
: Maybe it’s you?

Hot Shot:
Me. Pleeeasse. I’m hotter than hell. Watch it.

Lustania:
I gotta try this again to be sure
.

The next day comes. I meet Jas around midday and together we travel to a mountainous recreational area nearby. We climb up a hill for about eight minutes before we set the blanket down at a secluded spot behind sheltering vegetation. Copulation follows. My pussy comes up as dry as sandpaper while we do it. I have Jas throw another condom on top of the one in place, but only a few thrusts later both of them pop.

Scaredy Cat (trembling):
Fuuuccckkk. I’m dead. I gotta get out of here noowww.

I rush back home, the whole time thinking that I stopped taking oral contraceptives last year due to barely existing sexual activity at the house. Frazzled and cussing along the way, I leap into the shower and excessively scrub my pubic area with water as hot as I can stand it without screaming.

Today, the day after, I’m sitting inside the waiting room of the doctor’s office, holding out for the verdict. He finally calls me in.

“I couldn’t find evidence of a venereal disease or infection. And your pregnancy test also came back negative,” he assures me.

Greatly relieved, I jimmy on out of there, promising myself to never sleep around again.

Whip Cracker:
I can’t picture you as a nun. It’s not like you can ever clean up the wreckage you’ve created in this lifetime anyway. Your shit’s beyond fixable. Raymond finding out or not, you are screwed either way. So to hell with the good girl crap. Just keep going.

Lustania:
Got my seal of approval.

Hot Shot:
It sure would be a waste of beauty and sex appeal if I withheld myself entirely from the male society as a whole.

CHAPTER 14

“Fox” Release

I remember the first time I saw a show about American women taking off their clothes for money. Living in Stuttgart then, my face stayed stuck to the television set throughout the entire documentary, careful not to miss one word or scene of the engrossing subject. The upsurge that zapped through me in those moments still lingers. Even right now, recalling how often I pictured being a star walking down a stage, legions of men drooling at my feet, the ground flooded with dollar bills, or guys attaching them to my garter belt, all this for solely showing my tits. The best of it all, no one’s permitted to touch you. What a concept. I mean, doesn’t every female dream of becoming a stripper?

If it wasn’t for Raymond who, each time I feel bold enough to try out for it, pokes me with comments of “I am not slim enough, cellulite-free enough, toned enough, whatever enough,” I would have taken a shot at this long ago. But this time, it feels righter than usual. Besides, Hot Shot’s been assuring me repeatedly that I am indeed one fine thirty-year-old fox destined to be released to roam with the Goddesses of the night.

Effervescent with renewed confidence, I run the idea by Ray. He revolts at first, but after hearing my enthusiastic sales pitch, emphasizing that the place doesn’t permit nudity, neither topless nor bottomless, not even
g-strings
unless they are covered by another garment, he ultimately sanctions the plan.

~~~

The
Butterfly Club
in downtown Los Angeles welcomes me with open arms. I show up for my first weekend on the night shift. Anxiously strutting through the halls, I come across an abundance of gorgeous vixens that gather in diverse tracts of the dungeon-like atmosphere.

Blushetta:
I’m nothing compared to that much perfection.

Hot Shot:
May I remind you that you have modeled before?

Starlight:
You even signed a contract for a lead role in a German movie once. Who cares if they breached the agreement after the fact and went with someone else?

Miss Vanity:
True. All true. No need to be trippin.

One of the songs I handpicked comes on. I put on my warrior princess face and maneuver my humble fox paws through the crowd of models, aspiring actresses, divas, adult stars, and school-look selling girly-girls.

The moment I set foot onto the stage for my dance debut, I sense a switch flip inside me, transforming me into this larger than life
Über
-Woman. The background goes out of focus. I feel Starlight and Hot Shot moving me elegantly and seductively from one end of the catwalk to the other.

I cannot see a thing, yet at the same time, I see it all—the men who lick their chops down by my feet, their upsizing eyes on top of every inch of my flesh, the dollar bills that fly onto the stage, some rolled up, others folded into origami, and still others simply left flat. A tidal wave of power smacks me…my power, the one I rarely get a glimpse of while out in the “normal world.” It’s coupled with the tremendous rush of feeling celebrated like
Marilyn Monroe
, or
Jane Mansfield
.

For a minute or so, I acquaint myself with the two-inch thick metal pole at the front of the catwalk, wrapping one of my legs around it while letting my head and the rest of my body hang down.

Miss Vanity:
Whoa. Take it easy with that monstrosity, will ya? You’re gonna embarrass me.

Doubt Cloud:
I think you better get some practice under your belt before you attempt to swing around that thing.

Enviola:
Give me two months and I’ll fly around it in rhythmic circles, gliding to the ground like an erotic feather, just like some of the other chicks do.

A week goes by. On tonight’s shift, a blonde, perfectly built white man with soap opera looks compliments me on my act. We sit together for a while and talk about the entertainment industry in general.

The next time I see him at the club, he points out that if I only had the bump removed from my nose, my lips enlarged through collagen injections, my breasts increased by two cup sizes, and my teeth straightened and whitened, I could pass for a perfect “ten.” I thank him but make it a point to never associate with the shallow fellow again.

Back on another shift – I mosey over to a dude who’s a top-notch fashion photographer. He wants me to perform a chair dance. I do. Once done, we sit for a while and talk. Within a couple minutes of chatting with him, the dialogue turns to the topic of modeling. We stay on it for a bit. It eventually becomes time to fade back into the crowd. He hands me his business card before I’m off, strongly suggesting I drop by his studio for some test shots. Blushetta, Scaredy Cat, and Doubt Cloud conveniently arrange that I do not follow through with the invite.

Starlight:
How dare they ruin my chance for stardom again?

Hot Shot:
Don’t worry. I’ll keep you in the loop.

It is Thursday night. I’m wearing purple and white lacey lingerie wrapped by a partially transparent fu-fu pink satiny thigh-long robe.

Hot Shot:
You look like a super-sized piece of well-crafted candy. Yum.

I slowly keep moving through the insanely crowded room on two-inch platform shoes with seven-inch pencil-thin heels, coming to a halt near the center stage. A sudden jolt of tickly electricity hits me brought about by a finer than fine tall, black man with a body like Thor and short but fluffy hair, wearing washed-out denims and a snug white T-shirt. I forget to breathe for a few seconds as I see him coming straight my way.

Romy:
Wooowww.

Hot Shot:
Now that’s a man.

Blushetta:
Hiiide.

Romy:
This isn’t fair. Why can I never meet someone like that in real life?

Doubt Cloud:
What’s to be concerned about?
It’s not like he’ll pick me anyway having all those centerfolds to choose from
.

I instantly retreat to the adjacent room, but at this moment my presence is requested on stage again. I move my derrière alluringly up the metal stairs. From the corner of my eye, I sense the gorgeous hunk from earlier check out my show. I, on the other hand, pretend he doesn’t exist. The third R&B-type song ends. I step down, cutting a sharp right to gain distance from “Mister Super Hot.” As luck has it, I bump into his eyes among the sea of people moments later. I smile shyly, but since looking at him proves too delightfully painful, I immediately divert my gaze elsewhere.

Doubt Cloud:
Forget about that dude. Nothing good can come from it given you are at a strip club, not a social event.

Scaredy Cat:
Yikes, looks like he’s coming over
.

Romy:
Ehh-ehh?

Hot Shot:
Play it cool.
I’ll handle this.

Within seconds, the broad-shouldered man positions himself next to me.

“I like your moves,” he says with a warm, but masculine tone of voice. “My name is Trevor. What’s yours?”

“Chevana,” I say, sort of shyly showing him my pearly whites.

Somewhere throughout the passing perky dialogue, Trevor reveals that he works as a cop when not here. The wildfire inside me gains additional strength, especially with Fantasia reminding me of my fondness for husky handsome men in uniforms.

Romy (gushing):
He’s perfect…got
it all – the body, the face, the height, the job, the smile, the name, the voice, the attitude.

“Will you dance for me?” Trevor asks.

Romy (gibbering):
Oh, dear. I am going to pass out
.

I almost stumble over my words.

“Uhhmm. Ya…I’d be happy to.”

I grab his hand and guide him into the bordering room. Other than a couple of women huddling over their customers in dark corners, and the stripper on stage who entices a handful of men, the atmosphere presents itself as amply private. Trevor flops down in front of me onto one of the soft covered purple couches that have mirrors above them. His nearness makes me crazy…in a good way. I temptingly wind my body around him in slow snake-like movements, pulling my cleavage close enough to his face that he can get a good whiff of the vanilla musk I squirted on twenty minutes ago. I feel my legs shake incessantly as I try hard to maintain balance on those impossible stripper shoes. It appears that Trevor doesn’t notice my wobbliness in the dimly lit space, at least, not to my knowledge. My arms naturally fold around his neck, embracing him as if we truly were lovers.

Lustania:
Fuuuck, he’s gorgeous.
I wished we were alone.

Blushetta:
That much a man frightens me. I don’t think I can handle it.

Hot Shot:
You don’t have to. But I will.

Enviola:
Those other bitches better stay away from him. He’s miiiine
.

My lips, half an inch away from his, give off the illusion that we will kiss at any moment now. I badly want to, but for the sake of adhering to the house rules, I stick to just enjoying every second of the internal itch that yearns to be scratched.

Romy (drifting on a cloud of fluffy cotton candy):
I’m in love.

I hear the disk jockey call me to the stage again. My lover boy and I hold each other tight for a few seconds.

Romy:
I wish I were a free woman. He feels sooo good. Why can’t I be married to HIM, damned?

Trevor reaches inside his pocket and pulls out a business card.

“Call me soon,” he grins while handing it to me. I watch the masses swallow him on his way out.

Romy:
What else can possibly matter now?

~~~

I am running a fever, a “love” fever. Because in a few moments, I will be meeting the hottest guy I’ve encountered since I lived in Los Angeles. My heart beats fast, seeing Trevor get out of his silver Mercedes that he parks in the lot at the Santa Monica Pier. I fling my arms around his teddy bear physique. Alibi in place, thanks to my girlfriend Sandra who promised she would vouch for me should Raymond happen to interrogate her, I board his ride. A romantic lunch at the Chinese restaurant near the ocean follows. Trev shares with me that he lives with a woman who just had his baby.

“But I don’t love her,” he says with compelling emphasis when he notices me getting quiet. “She knows that I’m not happy.”

Pretender Babe:
Well, well. It’s not like I’m Miss Unattached, or anything.

We finish the meal. Irresistible Trevor brings me to a motel on Main Street. Our lips fasten for the first time once the door closes behind us.

Hot Shot:
He kisses as well as he looks.

His cut, strong arms scoop me up with the ease of someone lifting a mouse off the ground. He sets me down on top of the quality white sheets that cover the king size bed. We stay busy for a good two hours.

Hot Shot:
Can’t say I feel much, but certainly more than with the last few fellows.

Miss Vanity:
Don’t think of ending it. He makes such a nice show-off piece.

Romy:
I like his presence. Something about him tells me he adores me.

Lustania:
Hmmmh.

Trev and I meet roughly six more times in the following weeks. Home alone this morning, Fantasia serves me the rosy image of him leaving his woman and child behind after which he comes rushing towards me on a white horse to pick me up to become bound by holy matrimony.

Doubt Cloud:
That’s absurd…impossible
.

Buried in deep thought, weighing out every aspect of my ability to keep memorizing all my lies to Raymond, I decide to tell Trevor that I need to take a break. Standing in front of him this afternoon by “The Stairs” on Fifth Street in Santa Monica, he hands me a nicely-wrapped gift box.

“Open it,” he insists with love in his voice.

Romy:
You can’t tell him it’s over. Not nooww.

I open the lid of the thoughtfully decorated present. A beautiful necklace with a golden heart that has small blue stones outlining it comes to light. I sense tears welling up inside the corner of my eyes.

Romy:
No one has ever given me anything this nice. I think he really cares about me.

Largely touched by his sweetness, I spend the rest of the evening with him in a romantic interlude.

One week passes. I call up Trevor this morning to tell him that I can no longer see him. He acts disappointed, but eventually and grudgingly, accepts the request. One thing is for certain: Fairy tales do not come true by meeting people in strip joints. Sorry to burst anyone’s bubble.

Back at bumping and grinding for the mighty dollar, I perform a couch dance for a woman while her husband watches from the adjacent chair.

Ragelina:
Fucking pervert.

Albeit the fact that I am highly repulsed by his request, I am struck by the awareness that it not at all matters who sits in front of me, that I would dance for a scarecrow for all I care, granted it could afford my fee.

At around 8:00 p.m., a highly-celebrated ‘Shall Remain Nameless’ strolls in, one whose talents and sex appeal have graced the movie screens for years. A couple of bodyguards are closely following behind him.