COCKTALES IV

“How can I help you, ma’am,” my voice spoke throughout the speakers all over the bar. This was the beginning of my mechanic act. “Do you need a tune up? Your tires rotated? How about I check up under your hood,” the song fades into R. Kelly’s "You Remind Me" and I start stripping my mechanic overalls off seductively. I start thinking about how corny my voice sounded and wondered if women really thought this act was sexy. The women’s screams as I ripped my wife beater off assured me.

After I had helped my hot seat girl out of her chair and gave her a hug, I walked back to the dressing room. Since we were at Red Velvet, the dressing room was what I had pictured one would look like all those times I came here to be the john rather than the trick. There were mirrors with bright bulbs lining them, counters, and nasty carpet. There were Polaroids of the strippers that worked there during the week posing in their novelty outfits. I looked around and saw a lonely clear platform stiletto with the strap ripped off. It was a small room, so the guys usually hung out by the bar during acts and when it was time for tip sets, they gyrated on the girls in the crowd. It was odd, though, because you couldn’t give what you would think would be called lap dances. They were more like… hover dances.

I didn’t have much time to think about how well I did or didn’t do. But I do remember thinking I couldn’t believe I was doing this down the street where I lost my virginity. Err, my second virginity. The virginity I didn’t sleep through. Such a bitter split second to think about how my sex life and perverted mentality had evolved. It was de-evolutionizing. I finished taking my mechanic costume off and went out for my set.

Since the stage was only big enough for two guys it was just Brett and me. The women screamed for him and threw dollars on the stage. One lady folded a dollar horizontally and laid it long ways on the brass railing two feet above her eye level. Brett walked over and hopped on the railing, placing his ass cheeks around the area where the dollar was and hopped back down. The dollar was gone. He reached back and pulled the dollar out his crack to show the woman his magic trick. My fear detector was alert. The ladies at the end of the stage waved me over as they swayed side-to-side to the music.

When the set was over, we walked back and Lance was getting ready for his pimp act. He dressed up in an orange velvet cloak with zebra print lining, a matching hat, a plastic gold medallion, and cheetah print velvet pants. Mr. Twinkles walked in as Lance left to get his hot seat auctioned off.

“Hey Brett, sorry I’m late. I got stuck in traffic,” he said noticing me.

“It’s cool. Go after Lance if you can get ready,” Brett replied. “If not, Bryan, do you care about going next?” He turned to Bryan who had been straightening out his costume, spraying each item with AXE.

“It’s cool,” Bryan said. Brett didn’t really like Bryan because he worked loyally for Leon. He conspired that Bryan was being Leon’s spy during Brett’s show. But since he needed one more guy and there was no one else at MIH Brett tolerated, Bryan would have to suffice.

“What’s up man, I’m Greg,” Mr. Twinkles introduced himself.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were Mr. Twinkles,” I confessed.

“I am, Greg’s my real name. Just don’t go telling these ladies,” he chuckled. Taylor was in his late 40s. He was the local founder of the hot seat concept. He had danced for Chippendales before it was called Chippendales. During those days, before the fame, they had an up close and personal show. The hot seat allowed them to get intimate with the ladies and was a brilliant gimmick to make money for nothing rather than collecting money from the door. Twinkles brought it to this area in the mid-80s. He had been worn down by years of tanning and having to work for the telephone company to pay child support for his seven kids by nine ex-wives. His words, not mine. He used the money he made from dancing to get by… and because he couldn’t leave the spotlight.

Lance’s act had finished and Twinkles still wasn’t ready, probably on purpose. Bryan would have to go next. I could tell he was displeased but he was too much of a punk to say anything to Brett. Lance and I went on stage for his tip set. Twinkles and Brett were dressed and went to the bar to take a shot. Some groupies in their early 40s approached Twinkles and gave him hugs. I’d later learn that they’ve been coming to see him for the last 23 years. Once a groupie; always a groupie. And morals—or lack there of—never age.

Lance and I went back to the dressing room and Bryan got ready to get auctioned off. Twinkles and Brett re-entered the dressing room with shots of Gran Marnier for all of us. We did wait until Bryan got back from being auctioned. Brett raised his shots and toasted, “Here’s to sleeping triple, seeing double, and being single.”

I chuckled and took my shot. Lance gave me his, “Here, I don’t drink.”

He proceeded to tell me that he once had been an alcoholic and didn’t like where his life was going, so he had finally left the bottle. He took his last shot the night he came to Red Velvet on a Sunday night before learning it was ladies night. He’d been attracted by the attention and money that filled the atmosphere and talked to Brett about dancing. The rest is history.

“Hey, I think you’d do really good at my show,” Twinkles said to me.

“Oh yeah?” I respond.

“I got this show I do on Friday nights at Van Gough’s downtown,” he told me.

“The black club?”

“Yeah. I don’t dance but I have some black guys that dance for my group. I pay them 50 bucks base pay just for showing up. So you know you’ll at least make some money. Hell, your Latin ass would do good there.”

“Hey, I don’t discriminate on booty. Especially the green kind.”

Taylor turned to Brett, “I like this guy.”

I made $287 that night. I was impressed with myself and my confidence had grown a little more that night. I was beginning to feel like a dancer and my ego had introduced himself to me. So much show that together with myself, we went on the prowl.

“Hi, I’m Rico,” I said to the cute chubby girl at the bar. Her breasts overflowed out of her shirt.

“I know. I was the one telling you to smile more,” she said.

“I’m Amelia.”

I thought to myself, Amelia is an awkward name that I wasn’t expecting to come out of her mouth. I started imagining a 60-something year old woman with a mole on her upper right lip working in a high school cafeteria with a nametag that read Amelia.

“You want to fuck?” Was the next thing out her mouth. The real Amelia, not cafeteria Amelia.

“You’re forward,” I replied.

“You’re stalling,” she struck back. She downed her beer and began walking away, “You coming?”

I rushed to the dressing room to get my bag. As I rushed back out through the crowd, I felt like OJ in those Hertz commercials, dodging and ducking groupies. I didn’t have time to mingle with anymore groupies. It was almost sad to watch them stay so long after the shows and tell the dancers little FYIs about their monotonous lives and to just collect their weekly hugs because it’s the only male interaction they got.

I bumped into Lance, who was walking out of the dressing room and heading to his truck. “What’s your problem, dude?”

I told him about meeting Amelia and that I was about to go bang some pounds of her chunky ass.

“Amelia? I fucked her a few months ago,” he told me. I suddenly lost a little interest in rushing to get to her house knowing that it’ll be an even easier lay. Fuck it. I got a wild hair up my ass. “Want to run train on this bitch?” I asked Lance. When I learn a girl is a slut, I start thinking of ways to really bring out her slutness and degrade herself even more. I told you, I was ready to see women suffer the way the women of my past made me suffer. I wanted to see what humiliation looked like. I wanted to feel what having the power to humiliate another human being with some kind of inner feeling felt like.

“You get down like that?” He was surprised to learn I was just like any other dancer.

“What the hell? I’ve been getting pussy way before I started stripping,” I informed him. What I didn’t mention was that no matter how much ass I had gotten up to that point, I always tried to find the romance in it. Even if I was cheating on a girlfriend. What can I say? I loved to love women.

“Let’s go.”

Lance was stopped by some groupies on his way to his truck. I was lucky I was still too new to have to have dealt with too many of them. I saw Amelia sitting in a black Mustang waiting for me. I pulled out of the parking lot and followed her, honking for Lance to hurry up.

After driving for about five minute without seeing Lance in my rearview, I called him. I told him to speed up so he could follow me. He told me he was just leaving because some chick had offered him a blowjob, in which he obliged her.

“Just text me the directions when you get there. I’ll find it.”

I hung up the phone and turned the volume up on my radio. I turn it up loud and roll down my windows. I was about to get some easy pussy. I reminded myself to make sure not to kiss her. I was not the first stripper she’d taken home, and I didn’t like the idea that if I did, it would pretty much be like kissing other dudes’ dicks. I’m sure most guys still do it all the time. Only difference is they don’t normally know the dick they’re kissing. Ignorance is bliss.

I started thinking about the last time I ran train on a girl. I had gone to a 7-11 to pick up some chips or something and seen a skinny girl with glasses in the store. I thought she was do-able and took her looking back at me with a smile as an invitation. She asked me what I was up to and I told her that my boy and I were just hanging out. She said she was bored too and invited herself to follow me to my apartment. When we walked in, I took her directly to my bedroom, wondering if by chance she was whore enough to fuck me without knowing my name.

As I walked past Reggie, he looked confused, as he didn’t recognize the girl. “She came with the chips,” I joked. I left my bedroom door open so he could watch me fuck this girl from the living room couch. I began kissing her—hey, I didn’t know her, so I didn’t know what face went with what dick—and wasted no time undressing her. I grabbed her waist with both hands and realized that if my hands were just a little bigger, my fingertips would touch. I paused and told her to hold on. I exited the room free balling with my cock saluting. I did a roundabout into the kitchen to get a condom out of the cookie jar that we used as community property. The rule was to by a box whenever there were three left. Reggie still had the confused look on his face, but with his eyes closed, “C’mon man! Clothes on in the communal area.” On my way back to the room, I tossed a rubber at him.

“I think she’s whore enough to let us both fuck her,” I told him.

I put the condom on as I walked into my room, dropping the wrapper at the threshold. I flipped her over and she immediately went on all fours. I didn’t hesitate to stuff all of my dick in her and felt that her snatch incredibly tight. It wasn’t as pleasant or hardcore as it might sound. It’s not like in the pornos when some stage hand lubricates the bitch with KY before the director yells action. This twat was rather dry and it felt like I was squeezing my cock in a vice grip.

Reggie eventually walked in and positioned himself on the bed so that her head was hovering over his dick. She WAS whore enough to let us run train. She began blowing him put paused a lot as she too realized my dick was too massive for her hole. She had a very, very small hole.

I looked down at her ass and was disgusted by how narrow it was. I spread her cheeks as to give it sustenance to see if it would look better. It did not. She just didn’t have any hips. I notice she was stopping in the middle of her blow job, so the next time she put her mouth on Reggie’s dick, I pressed on the back of her head. She gagged and Reggie shoot me a grin and shook his head. “Chill,” he said through a smile.

A few thrusts more and she was still not tending to the blowie. I pushed down on her head again. Again she gagged. “Hey,” she moaned out. Reggie puts up his hand and motioned me not to do it again.

A few thrusts later and she was concentrating too much on the pain I must have been giving her and let go of his dick completely. He replaced her hand back on it and she started blowing him again. As she began, I gave the back of her head an extra push and heard her gag louder.

“Gwulk-gwak!” She tried to press off of his dick but I left my hand firm on her head. At the same time, I began thrusting faster, harder, deeper. I wasn’t enjoying the fucking sensation, but I was enjoying the comedy at watching her flap one of her hands in the air, motioning me to stop. I eased up a bit when she began coughing on his dick in between gags.

“Yo, man, stop,” he whined. But he couldn’t help but to laugh. I left my hand on the back of her head for about five seconds, laughing harder at each gag, which was enough time for her to reach under and pinch my sack. I pulled back my hand and sack and she lifted her head up. She raised herself on her knees and made my dick slip out. It actually hurt more to have her tiny tight coochie damn near snap my dick off than it was when I first slammed it in there. As she tried to speak, she also tried to suppress her gag reflex. But it was futile as those gags mixed with sniffles and coughs. And then from the depths of her sinuses, a gush of ultra-green snot poured out of her nose onto Reggie’s balls. I mean poured like that green glop from Ghostbusters. Straight ectoplasm, my friends, and lots of it.

I pulled behind Amelia’s Mustang into her driveway. I started wondering if she lived home with her parents. I’m not convinced that a young 20-something girl, probably working as a waitress, could afford a one story, ranch-style single family home. I got out of my car and walked up to her slowly. “You live here with your parents?” I asked.

“No. I live here with some roommates.” We walked around the right side of the house to enter the garage from the back.

“Why didn’t we go through the front door?” I questioned.

“My friends are having some lame house party and my ex-boyfriends here,” she explained. Her slut meter began rising.

I told her that was cool and that I’d need a minute. I admitted that I had to text Lance directions. “Lance? You mean Lars,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Lars is his real name,” she revealed. It’s weird the names you picture certain people having. I knew Lance was a stage name, but I never thought about what his real name was. I guess if I had to think about what I would have thought it might have been, I would have tagged him as something douchier. Like Blake, Zack, or Nathaniel.

“Oh. Is that cool? I mean, you guys already fucked,” I said bluntly.

“Whatever. I’m drunk anyway.”

Bless her little slut heart, what a whore. And I loved it. I think I’ll call her Slorendella. She continued into the garage as I stood outside to dial up Lance. It was too dark now to text and my battery was running low. Through the backdoor window of the garage, I saw her walk up the steps inside the garage probably into a kitchen. He answered and I gave him directions telling him to enter around the back.

I finally entered and sat on the couch on the back wall of the garage. I leaned back and relaxed my arms across the top of it and left my legs opened, hoping she’d just walk back in, unbotton my jeans, and start blowing me. She stumbled back in a few minutes later. Her titties jiggled as she started walking towards me.

“Are you gonna take of your clothes?” She asked.

“Aren’t you?” I responded, meaning her undressing me.

Slorendella proceeded to pull her DDD-cup titties over the top of her shirt, exposing her areolas the size of drink coasters and pulled up her skirt.

“There. You ready?” She demanded.

She startled me as she jumped on me and started kissing my neck, pressing her titties against my body. I grabbed them forcefully and gave them each a healthy squeeze. They were real. They were clammy, too. I hate tittie sweat, but I still leaned her backwards and sucked on her nipples and licked the underneath of her heavy breast. She reached down, unzipped my jeans, and pulled out my dick, which was semi by that point. She jumped off and lurched towards the washing machine where she left her purse. She pulled out a box of condoms and returned to the couch, handing me one.

“Here,” she said. I was expecting this slore to do it for me, but I’m sure she was too buzzed to focus on any minute motor skills. I put it on in three moves. Rip open, pull condom ring out, slide on, pull tip for canal. Okay, four moves. She impatiently waited as I took a second and admired my precision condom-putting-on skills. I was impressed by my technique. She saddled up again, pulled the front of her thongs to the side and slipped my dick right in. She began riding me back and forth. She was grinding too hard for me to enjoy it and was pressing against my inner hipbones, but I just pressed my face into her tits and tried to escape to a happy, horny place.

The garage lit up, as headlights flooded the garage. Lance’s truck pulled up. By now I had switched to the doggystyle to recover from the bruises on my pelvic. Slorendella showed no emotion as to whether she was enjoying this or not. Either way, I was ready to bust my nut. There’s nothing worst than a boring fuck. And unlike my first, I had to put in work so I didn’t get the pleasure of taking a power nap.

Lance stormed in through the backdoor. I turned around to give him thumbs up. “On the washing machine,” I told him, referring where to find the rubbers. He looked confused but saw the open condom box.

“I got my own,” he responded. “Watch out, son, let me show you how it’s done,” he said as he pushed me out of the way.

He undid his pants and began to fuck her hard. Slorendella finally woke up out of her drunken stuper and moaned when he slapped her ass. It echoed throughout the garage. I positioned myself on the top of the couch, took my condom off, and sat in front of her. Every time Lance gave a thrust, my dick poked her in the nose. I positioned my dick closer to her mouth to hit her lips every time she was thrusted forward.

When she finally reached for it, I let go. She began jerking me off and I could feel her hot breath on my balls. I caught the smell of her bad beer breath. I grabbed the base of my dick and lined it up against her mouth, splitting her lips. She finally got the hint, grasped my dick again, and began sucking the tip.

“You better…not…cum in my mouth,” she whispered out in between thrusts. I said nothing. She continued only to suck the tip but that was all I needed. I was too exhausted from having to do all the work. It was almost like necrophilia. This must have been what my first felt like. In two minutes I grabbed my dick back at the base. She tried to control her neck motion as she continued to thrust forward.

I decided it was time to break this slore’s slut meter. I slowly placed my hands on her shoulders and began paying attention to Lance’s rhythm. After one 8 count, I timed the next forward thrust with a thrust of my own. My dick thrusting deep into her mouth, balls deep. I heard her gag as Lance continued thrusting her forward. The wetness of the deeper parts of her mouth actually felt good to the point that I busted my nut very quickly. Too quick for me to pull out and respect her no-cum-in-mouth policy.

As I pulled my dick out, she took a big gasp of air and began coughing. Lance continued to pump away. I sat back against the couch, half laughing and half wondering if I needed to call 911. I certainly wasn’t ready to give her mouth-to-mouth should she stop breathing because her lings were drowning in semen.

Lance fucked her harder and slapped her ass. He reached towards her neck and hooked his finger in her mouth, pulling her head sideways as she continued to cough and gag. He did this for a few thrusts and when her head returned to face me, the largest gush of vomit flows out hrough her nose and onto my dick and nuts.

All I could do was watch this waterfall of spew drench my crotch, trying not to catch the fumes that would send me into a vomiting spell of my own. Lance let out a howling growl, slapped her ass one more time, and pulled up his pants.

“Okay, dude, see you tomorrow,” he said as he walked back out of the backdoor.

Slorendella turned and sat on the couch, putting her titties back into her shirt. She dropped her face into her hands, and then lifted her head up again. Still in shock, I left my expression and arms in the air, waiting for some normalcy to return to what had just happened. She let out a disappointed sigh and blew some strands of hair out of her face. After checking a few strands for vomit chunks, she turned and looked at me.

She sat there looking at me with a blank expression. I looked back at her not knowing what to say or do next. I squinted as the headlights flooded the garage, again.

Slorendella raised her eyebrows, giving me the “what next” look. Now I was the one with the blank look. This went on for a good three minutes as the vomit now dripped down into the crevice of my ass cheeks.

I finally decided to just accept it. I buttoned my jeans and left… with her beer remains sloshing around in my undergarments.

Banana Hammocks - Chapter 3

"On the Prowl"

For some reason, I thought it was sexy to crawl onto the stage like some sort of sex-crazed panther. Hidden behind the speaker, none of the ladies saw me until I stood up. After an awkward pause, I smiled. They cheered. I didn’t think it would be sexy to prowl down the three steps that led to the dance floor so I just shimmed my hips and made my dong jiggle a bit.

The second tip set of the night was already a song in and other guys had already been out for a few minutes by the time I made my debut that Saturday night at Center Lights. One by one, the girls noticed that the new guy, Rico, was now stripped down to a sky blue banana hammock and black construction boots. I felt rather naked (figuratively); I hadn’t bothered working on my tan and felt extra pale under the lights. I hadn’t shaved my chest in two weeks and had unsightly stubbles. To top it off, my razor burn had just started going away. I felt cold as the air blasting from the vents up above gave me goose bumps and caused more stubble to painfully push through my pores.

The music was blaring, the guys were making their rounds about the roped of dance floor, collecting dollars. The women were hollering, and the DJ was fumbling through his CD book looking for the next guys act CD. The DJ, Tommy Ray, was an aging alcoholic. He looked like the love child of Wolfman Jack and Rosie O’ Donnell. His voice was made of gold, if gold rusted under whiskey and cigars. He had the sharpest tongue on the club circuit, and despite his looks, the women loved him.

My awkward feelings wore off when I made eye contact with a girl shaking a five in her hand, waving me over. I walked with a stride over to her, bobbing my head to the rhythm, trying to hide my discomfort of not only feeling nervous but the cramping in my foot from wearing boots three sizes too small.

An hour earlier I had helped set up the props readily available beside the DJ booth, which was a giant jukebox on the stage, standing tall above the black and white checkered dance floor. I made sure to grab the waters and ice from the kitchen, made sure we had bar towels for when Lance would spray whipped cream all over himself… and the dance floor at the end of his act, and I checked with Leon if there was anything else I could help with before the show started.

“So you ready, Rookie?” He asked.

“For what?” I acted confused. I was still reluctant to shake what my daddy gave me.

“To get out there and dance. You can dance right?” He continued.

I had only been to four shows at this point and hadn’t purchased my bottoms yet—I was able to get away with mankinis at The HotBox. I didn’t even have dance boots or my knee pads like the other guys did.

“Yeah, I guess. But do I just go out there with my shirt off? I didn’t order my bottoms yet. I figured I’d be ready in like two or three weeks.” I confessed.

“I got some clean ones you can buy off of me for 10 bucks,” Bryan chimed in.

“You sure they’re clean?” I asked.

“Trust me,” he assured me as he dug his Sicilian schnoze deep into the crumpled bottoms in his fist.

“I don’t have money on me right now.” I was avoiding going out to dance in between acts when I hadn’t planned on it. Besides, I found it rather odd for a man to offer another man a piece of cloth that he had previously drained his dick sweat in, for God knows how many times…months, maybe. And Bryan was rather sickly looking. I didn’t want to contract Hepatitis or whatever else had lurked in his crotch.

On the other side of the doors, Tommy Ray’s voice boomed over the speakers with the hot seat rules: “Ladies, what you see before you is what we call the hot seat. Throughout the night, you’ll have a chance to put yourself or one of your girlfriends right here in this seat. Who’s celebrating a birthday or bachelorette party?” I heard a few sections cheer. Tommy Ray continued on with his fast talk, “This is a perfect time to give that special girl a memory of a lifetime. We’ll start the bidding at $20 and go on until there’s one lady left standing… or sitting… or lying in my bed, whichever’s more clever for you, darling. But there are some rules. First rule, ladies, there is no touching of the dancers. Somebody say ‘Boo.’”

The women obeyed his command. “When you’re in this seat you have to keep your hands and feet inside the ride.” The ladies giggled, some cheered. “Throughout the night, the guys will be dancing up to you on these ropes you see here along the dance floor. This is for tipping. If you are not tipping, we ask you stand back so the lady behind you can have a chance to enjoy some dick swinging, too. But tips must go from your hand to the dancer’s hand. Don’t try to stuff it down their pants or make them fish it out your bra. ‘Cause they won’t go get it… I will, but they won’t. Also, ladies, there is no flash or video photography allowed AT ALL. If we catch you, we will confiscate your camera and you’ll be escorted out.”

I don’t think the women were listening after he said, “Say ‘Boo.’” From what I learned about women, they love talking. They hate being talked to. Tommy Ray finished up his spiel, “Last and final rule, ladies; the more noise you make the more they take off. So somebody make some noise in here!”

As the walls in the bathroom rumbled, Bryan and I finished up our dick-sheath transaction. “You can pay me at the end of the night. I’m sure you’ll make a few bucks.” He tossed me the bottoms from across the bathroom that dubbed as our dressing room.

Guys that came to the club during ladies night had to come in from the side door of the club because half of the dance floor would be sectioned off with an aluminum garage door that came down from the ceiling. Often, if they hadn’t been to the club on Saturday between 7 and 10, they would open the door and usually bumped into one of the dancers with a look of shock. It’s not every day you walk into a nightclub bathroom and see about six half naked men in Speedos and wonder if you hadn’t walked into the Blue Oyster from Police Academy. They either asked if this was the staff bathroom or tip toed around all the clothes sprawled out on the floor to go about pissing uncomfortably in a urinal—that would also dub as a coat rack. I’m sure they all squeezed their ass cheeks from shear homophobia.

The bathroom was no longer than a Buick and just as wide. It was suppose to be big enough to allow seven guys to change and get ready for acts and tip sets. Five headliners and two trailers; trailers are the newer guys earning their spots for an act. Tonight it was Alvin and Angel. Alvin was Leon’s cousin, a short Hawaiian cat, who only trail danced when he was short on paying his bills. Angel had just started a few months ago and had yet to have an act idea. His hobbies were long walks on the beach, looking at himself, going to the gym, and juicing up on ‘roids. There was no room in there when the guys’ bags and suitcases full of props and costumes flooded the pissy floor. You had to be careful not to put your head in the urinal when bending down to get something out of your bag or bump your bare ass against another guy’s during costume changes.

“I don’t have boots, though.” I mentioned, still trying to find my escape route. All I had were my all white Nike Air Force Ones and calf high socks. I’d look ridiculous.

“I got an extra pair of boots,” Ricky commented. “What size are you? I’m 9 ½.” He glared down at my feet. I was a size 13. The last time I tried a pair of shoes smaller than that was an 11 ½ and my toes smashed against each other the minute I stood up. “Do you think you’ll be able to fit these?” Ricky persisted.

“I can try.” Although I was eager to show these clowns some rhythm, the idea that I would sacrifice myself to be judged by a bunch of women; short, tall, fat, skinny, sexy, trashy, classy, hard-to-look-at, flawless, toothless, you name it. I had already had enough rejection with the XX chromosome gender growing up. I was doing this to one-up the ghosts of bitches past, not to revisit them and create new ghosts. But I didn’t want to punk down from what I took as a challenge from Leon. I’d have to psych myself up real fast.

“Good. You can go out on sets whenever you feel you’re ready. But I still need you to be the runner after acts to help clean up the mess,” Leon continued. Translation: “Blah, blah, blah. I am punk bitch who dances for gorillas to earn dollar in G-string. Hear me roar, bitch boy… and I have a tiny penis.” That’s basically what I took out of conversations between Leon and me.

The guys went out for the opening act, each catching a final look before strutting towards the stage. I started to undress and focused on not focusing on being focused. I figured I’d lose the nerves after just getting up on the stage and getting it over with. Kinda like my first time doing sex. I was shaking like a leaf in a tornado while I put my condom on. Three minutes into being rode by the neighborhood slut, I fell asleep. After that, I figured sex wasn’t so scary and looked for more sluts to fuck me to sleep. I like naps.

“Did he go over the rules with you?” Brett asked.

“No. what rules?”

He smirked and shook his head. “That sorry fucker is always setting people up to fall.”

“He just asked if I was ready to go out there tonight. So just dance and collect money, right?”

“No, no. There’s more. A lot more.”

I listened attentively as the almighty Brett Lee schooled me on the stripper checks and balances, “No touching the girls. Keep an arm’s distance in case the girls get wild. No touching of your nipples or grabbing your crotch. Actually, don’t touch yourself anywhere at all. Don’t pull your bottoms down or jack ‘em up your ass; they have to cover three-quarters of your ass. Take the money and slide it in your hammock or just hold it in your hand. Don’t be pulling your waistline so that the girl can look down and see your dick. If you get down on the floor, only two humps and transition into another move. You can’t simulate sexual acts. Don’t stand too long in front of a girl. We all gotta make money; she’s not here just to see you. Move clockwise at the ropes. If a guy is taking too long when you’re ready to move on to the next girl, pass him at least two girls to his right. If you see the guys bunched up in one place, find another empty spot.”

“Damn. That’s a lot rules.”

“It’s the State’s rules and regulations. There used to be a time when we had to wear Band-aids over our nipples and before that we could only wear biker shorts and cut off T-shirts. We were only allowed to show our mid-section. So if you think you look gay now, imagine having to go out there looking like a WAM! groupie.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Too many years, kid. Since I was 16.”

Brett was taking his time getting ready for his act. He had put on his business pants, button up dress shirt, and was now working on his tie. He was up first and usually the first guy sat out on opening acts since there was no tip set in between to allow for preparation. But Brett hardly ever had to do opening acts. He was Randy’s prized dancer. Brandon had told me he had made $1,000 hot seat the Thursday before I first went into the MIH office. He had been dancing for 15 years with various groups in the area. Whenever one folded, he joined another. Like Randy, he too was a journeyman. Unlike Randy, Brett got with the times and spent more time in tanning beds, hair salons, and the gym rather than getting coked up. He had also done a few guest stints for La’Bare down in Houston and Thunder From Down Under out in Vegas. Next to Chippendales and Thunder, La’Bare was next on the stripper echelon. You had to have an incredible body and soap opera face to even be considered. Brett’s narrow physique didn’t quite match the profile and aside from his linear jaw, he had an average looking face. But with the notorious act he had, he didn’t need bronze. He had creativity.

Two acts and one set had gone by and I had only gone out to clean up customs and whip cream. Brandon was now getting ready for his act. Ricky was after him and then Bryan. Last would be Leon. Leon reasoned that since he was the manager he had to make sure the show ran smoothly throughout the night, so he had to go last. The last spot was usually the best. All the guys knew the real deal. Some complained, but Brett played it cool. He didn’t care if he “Did a show in the parking lot.” He knew he’d make a mint.

The gimmick of having the last hot seat of the night was that any girls coming to see the show for the first time would have been relaxed by then, the regulars and groupies would have been well liquored up and encouraging high bids for the hot seat, and the sugar mamas wouldn’t come in until the last hour to start the auction at $200 through silent bids via the DJ. They knew that the best dancers danced towards the end, so they had until 8:30 or so to get ready and make an entrance. Unfortunately, Leon wanted to try something new and draw names for hot seats tonight. Brett drew the first hot seat spot. Leon was exempt from the drawing.

I still wasn’t ready. “Think long, think wrong, brotha’,” Brett encouraged me as he prepared for the next set.

“I’m going. I just feel stupid next to you guys. I mean, I don’t have knee pads or chaps or a bandana like everyone else,” I confessed.

“Dude, we’re all dancing in our underwear. How much more stupid can we look?” Brett added. “Besides, I the bandana thing is kinda gay, don’t you think? I mean, are we strippers or gangsters?”

“These girls don’t give a fuck what you’re wearing, they’re just horny as hell,” Lance, AKA Sharky, butted in as he strode in late. “Hey, what’s this bullshit I hear about drawing names?” Brett just shrugged.

Lance shook his head and mumbled to himself as he rushed to get ready, sniffing each article of stripper clothing he pulled out of his dance bag. He would follow Brett in the line-up and eventually, his seat would only sell for $50. Brett went for $200. Lance felt he was one of the better dancers and should have gone next to last. Brett was a hard act to follow, so it was no wonder he made far less than the master. I decided I’d go out the next tip set. “You nervous man?” Leon questioned.

“A little. I’m just not sure I can dance the way you guys do. At least not yet,” I said. It wasn’t that I couldn’t dance. My parents use to put me in Salsa competitions when I was a kid. And growing up in an urban-suburbia, I use to go to a lot of house parties where dancing only consisted of grinding on a girl’s booty and copping a feel. I was good at that.

“Look, Rook. Half of these guys don’t have rhythm. I’m one of them. All you got to do is a little two step and you’re good,” Leon said. “Besides, all you need in this business is two or three things out of four: A good body, a pretty face, charisma, and rhythm. I already know you got half down already.” What I took from this conversation: “Blah, blah, blah. Even though I think I’m better than you, I wouldn’t mind going out back one night and comparing flesh swords. How ‘bout it, kiddo?”

I hadn’t talked to the girls in the crowd or the other guys much during the previous shows. So he wouldn’t know if I had charisma or not. I turned my gaydar on and watched myself around Leon the rest of the night. His last comment made my fear resurface. Let me make it clear right now; I’ve never been a homophobe.

I’m very liberal in my ways, but this new culture shock was too much to swallow all at once without wondering which gender was hitting on you the most.

“It’s up to you. But there’s money out there tonight,” Leon concluded. There was indeed money to be collected. After Brett’s hot seat, the girls flooded the dance floor with dollars. It was hard to figure out which dancer it was intended for, so they just grabbed what they could and selfishly stuffed it down the front of their bottoms.

Tommy Ray started the music for the next tip set. “Ladies, get those dollar bills ready because here they come again…and again, if you know what I’m sayin’!”

I just have to go out there, I realized. Just remember the rules, be cool, and make that money. I started to think about having to go back to work for the first time since I returned from the desert. I thought about the bitch who broke my heart in middle school and the slore who ripped it out of my ribcage while I dodged bullets. It was time to take back my nutsack. Fuck it, I’m going out there.

Tommy Ray saw me creeping up to the DJ booth. “Ladies, I want you to make some noise for the new meat…” He covered the microphone with his hands and asked me, “What’s your stage name, jack?”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and exhaled slowly. I opened my eyes and looked over at Leon. He watched me curiously to see what my next move would be. I think I saw him smirk. I’m sure he thought I would chicken out. From the crouching position, I looked up at Tommy Ray and said, “Rico.”

“Ooooh. Daddy likes,” Tommy Ray giggled in his gruffy voice. He removed his hand from the microphone before he bellowed, “Ladies, he’s six-foot two with a 13-inch shoe. Coming to the stage for the very first time, give it up for Rrrrrrrrrrrrrricooooooo!”

Banana Hammocks - Chapter 2

"Firm and Smooth"

Her dance was as exotic as her appearance. She had great stage presence and when it was her set, everyone in the club stopped all side conversations to watch. She was Latin, with dark brown hair-almost black-that shimmered auburn when the revolving stage lights passed over her. The nice curvature of an ass, hips wide enough to be considered child bearing, and D cups shimmered even in bar lighting. Man, were those breasts nice. They looked fresh; not sure if they were saline or silicon, though. They almost looked natural. She began winding her body to the hypnotic beat of the music slithering from the stage speakers, catching eye contact from all the johns with those deep brown pupils. We were all entranced and in unison began showering the stage with dollar bills of all denominations. She had no obvious physical flaws. She must be psycho or needy or damaged. She wore clear platform heels making her stand nearly five-nine and wore white fishnets and G-string that glowed under the backlights. She was the most beautiful creation of a woman I’d ever seen. Where was she from and do they manufacture more?

“Everyone, give it up for La Reyna,” the DJ encouraged as she collected her earnings, exiting stage left. She retreated to the backstage through the door at the other corner of the stage. “Man, she was great,” I turned to Reggie who was also captivated but less impressed. “Yeah man, she was ‘great’.”

I ignored his sarcasm. “I’m gonna get a dance from her.” I eagerly got up and headed toward the back of the club where the private dance rooms were located barricaded by sheer satin curtains. I told the obese door man I wanted to request Reyna for three dances. “$225 up front. Tipping is optional, but expected,” he advised. “Ok, let me go to the ATM.”

Without blinking, I headed for the entrance where the ATM machine greeted all the johns as they barged into Club Neon in the unincorporated community of Brandon. I couldn’t punch in my PIN fast enough before finally withdrawing $300, the max my bank would allow me for one day. Thankfully, I already had $200 in my pocket but I was waiting to burn that on drinks and tips. Little did I know that topless gentlemen clubs down here didn’t serve alcohol. The drunken bachelor party that had come in before us when we arrived threw me off. They must have pre-gamed at another bar, because when I approached the bar earlier to order a Long Island Ice Tea, the bartender suggested the tea, hold the Long Island.

Returning to the ogre door man, I repeated my request like a kid who had just chased down the ice cream truck. “$225 up front,” he reminded me. “Yeah, you said that a few minutes ago,” I replied not realizing that he cared more about the faces on the bills rather than the pathetic looks of us johns. “Stay close, she’ll be available in 15.”

Damn, she was definitely one of the more sought after girls here. I looked over at Reggie who had begun a conversation with the skinny blonde rocker stripper who was on stage now, but no one else cared much for. He was chatting it up, making her giggle. That must be the interest trick to get sympathy dollars out of customers, giggling. He tossed her a few. The bachelor party had four other girls tending to them. One girl had the groom-to-be take off his shirt and whipped his flabby stomach with his belt. The other guys cheered her on. He too had a natural set of man-titties. A bouncer walked over and scolded the group, informing Klinefelter (Google it, it's actually a funny disease to have) that he had to put his shirt back on and they needed to take it down a notch or he’d have to ask them to leave.

“Hey, you ready?” A soft but commanding Spanish accent asked me. I turned towards the sweet smell of cherry blossoms floating from behind me. Reyna was waiting impatiently, as she knew she had many more guys waiting for her services that would cash out real nice. Especially the confident man sitting on the plush sofa next to the curtains in a pinstriped tailored suit. He was the only one she batted an eyelash at. That must be her sugar daddy. “Yeah,” I squealed. Man, what the hell is wrong with me? I was acting like a bitch. I’d already been 30 plus strong on my roster . I’d seduced girls before, and being a jock in high school plus a promising student had given me the best of both worlds. Had I left my balls in the desert?

She led me to the last booth on the right. She shut the curtain behind her and I was now cocooned by her pheromones. “What are you wearing? It smells good,” I asked. “I think it’s called Pheromones.” Hmm, clever.

“I’ll wait ‘til the next song starts. This one is almost done. I wouldn’t want to cheat you.” Quite a business lady, I was impressed. I felt respected and insured that my money was going to be well spent on her services. While the song finished, she took of her white see-through sheer cloak.

“Are you wearing a belt?”

“Huh?”

“Are you wearing a belt? I don’t want the buckle to scratch me.”

“Oh! Yeah.” I started for my buckle but she had already lifted the bottom of my shirt for inspection. In two motions, she unfastened the lock and pulled the belt out with a swipe. A she-Pootie Tang.

As the next song faded in, she turned around and rocked her hips left to right, right to left. She began her trance again. She bent her knees and leaned back to sit on my lap. “What are the rules?” I whispered in a more relaxed and slightly deeper voice. “You can touch only what’s not covered,” she replied. Perfect, she was only wearing a G-string and heels, and I didn’t have a foot fetish, so I wasn’t disappointed.

She slowly slid up and down my body. Her hair engulfed my nostrils with scents of raspberry and vanilla. Her skin was pleasantly soft, and covered in body glitter. I didn’t mind her leaving her sex dust on one of my nicer-expensive shirts. I cupped her Ds and massaged them in circular patterns. I rubbed her stomach and spread my hands across her hips. She turned around to straddle me and I naturally clasped her butt. Firm and smooth. She must do squats. She probably owns her own elliptical machine. Hovering over me, she dipped her head slightly and draped her hair over my face. That raspberry-vanilla essence entered my nose again; seeping out of the corners of my mouth. And I melted like a bitch, again. This is what girls must feel like during that scene in The Notebook… or so I’ve heard.

The song ended. I could have sworn that track played longer on the radio. As the next song started I decided to explore her personality… or character. “Where are you from? Puerto Rico, Mexico, the Dominican Republic?”

“You think they got asses like this in Mexico?”

“I know they have burros.” She stopped grinding me for a second, looked back and smirked. Note to self: STOP BEING A FUCKING CORNBALL.

“No, sweetie, I’m Cuban.”

“What?! Stop, get up.”

“You got something against Cubans?” She protested, looking confused.

“No no no. I want to talk to you. I’m Cuban, too. But where I’m from, I never meet other Cubans. This is awesome.” Note to self: See previous note.

“You got a song and a half left.”

“That’s fine. I’ll pay for more time.”

“I got a line, honey, I don’t think you’ll be able to request me again for another two hours. Plus, I still have more sets tonight. How about I finish up this session and I’ll find you before I go back on stage?”

“Word!” I was again impressed by her business ethics. For the remainder of my dances, I was in bliss. Not only was she the sexiest dancer here, but she was of my maternal land, and quite possibly ancestral blood. Wait, that sounded sick. DELETE. What I meant to say is that more than my attraction and infatuation connected for her connected us.

As my session came to a close, I remembered I had wads of 10s in my pocket. I gladly handed them over. “I’ll be to the right of the stage,” I informed her so that she could find me easily. She probably wouldn’t remember. Did I weird her out? No way, I’m sure there have been worse johns. “Okay,” she replied. “You want a drink or something?” I asked. That sounded cool, but of course I’d only be able to get her soda or water. “Water is fine, thanks.”

I started walking by the booths towards the curtains. I glanced as I passed each one being able to see blurred figures of skin maneuvering around clientele as Reyna had done with me just a few minutes ago. Each man fulfilling his five minute fantasy, finding his own connection.

I headed towards Reggie to tell him the news. “How was it?” He smirked. “She’s Cuban, too,” I informed him. I told him how she was going to meet me before her next set to talk a little, flirt, liquefy me of my savings. I casted doubt, though.

“Yeah, she probably won’t come. You ready? I’m starving,” he moaned.

“Hold on, let’s stay for another 15 minutes and if she doesn’t come by, we’ll leave.” I stood up and remembered to buy her bottled water. I ordered a Pepsi. "We only serve Coke products,” the bartender informed me.

“Whatever. Hey, do you know much about that Reyna girl?” I asked.

“There are so many girls here and most of the girls that dance here work at other clubs, too. Do you know how many assess and titties I see a week?”

Good point. Note to self: Achieve the ass to titty to face ratio like the bartender. I brought the bottle water and Coke back to the table.

“Alex, I’m really hungry man. Let’s go, “ Reggie complained.

“Hold on, man, let me finish my drink.”

“You got me water?”

“No, it’s for Reyna.”

“You bought the stripper water? What a fag. She probably has a cooler full of bottled water in the back. We need to go. She probably already forgot about you.”

“The bartender basically told me that the club doesn’t usually house dancers. She might be somewhere else tomorrow night.”

“The bartender? No, the soda and water guy. Who cares? This is the sixth club we’ve been to in four days. We’ll probably run into her again if that’s the case.”

“You forgot your belt.” I had stopped listening to Reggie when she approached the table. He got up to let her sit and moved towards the stage past the bachelor party that was still entertaining a couple of the dancers.

“Thank you. But I didn’t forget it. I wanted you to have an excuse to come see me.” Yeah, keep up the smoothness, Mac Daddy.

“I told you I would. What? You didn’t think I’d remember?”

“I just knew you were busy.”

“Yeah, I go on in five minutes.”

“I’m probably leaving soon. Here’s your water.”

“Thanks. So you’re not from Hillsborough, huh?”

“No, North Carolina. I’m just down here for vacation. I just returned from deployment.”

“You a Marine?” She perked up for a moment, hoping I’d confirm her guess.

“No, Army. National Guard.” I sensed a hint of disappointment. Poughs never get any love.

“That’s cool. I bet you seen a lot of shit. What else do you do?”

I could have told her that I was a student at a prestige college and that I had a part-time job as a butcher’s bitch boy that re-stocked the meat racks when the lunchmeat was low and spent my days checking expiration dates and marking down prices. “I’m in the exotic entertainment, too.”

“Really? You a dancer, too?”

“No, I’m an escort. But it’s not like the escort service you here about in the movies or the kind they have in Vegas or New York.” I had looked up escort services on Wikipedia after I had ordered an escort before going to Iraq and all she did was give me a three-minute lap dance when I was expecting a BJ. In Texas, apparently, the profession escort is loosely defined. I should have just crossed the border for a toothless, worm guzzling hooker.

“So you don’t…like sleep with women for money?”

“No, I’m not a gigolo. I usually just show up and dance in small little underwear. Banana hammocks if you will.” She laughed. I laughed. We laughed. My balls vibrated in my sack.

“I’ll have to come up there one day and order you,” she teased. We talked for a couple of more minutes. “I take it Reyna isn’t your real name?” I ask. “No, it’s my stage name. Oh shit, I’m on stage next,” she remembered. “Listen, I gotta go.” She snatched the moist napkin from under my drink. “Here, I’m off tomorrow. Maybe we can hook up and continue this conversation. You can show me your moves,” she teased. She reached in her small pocket book that was only big enough to contain her earnings, lip-gloss, and a pen. Maybe a condom for Mr. Big Shot Sugar Daddy. She pulled out her pen and quickly scribbled on the napkin, avoiding the ring made by the condensation of the cup.

She trotted off and the DJ introduced her, “Fellas, here she comes again. She’s five foot nine and oh, so divine. Give it up for the Latina Heat, Rrrrrreyna!”

How the hell did I just pull that off? I know I’m a good looking guy but God damn she’s a goddess. For the next few seconds I imagined that my God looked like Reyna. I couldn’t wait to die and spoon with God. I snapped back from my daze and realized I had just spent $350 on her in under two hours. Hell, in under two minutes. I continued to gawk at her as she swayed on stage in front of her pinstriped sugar daddy, who was making it rain Franklins. Meanwhile, he bachelor was making it rain vomit on the table next to me before Shrek came and jerked him out of the club.

“You got the number?” asked Reggie.

“Yeah.”

“Good let’s go now, my stomach is gurgling. The last stripper probably thought I was muffling farts.”

Before putting the napkin in my pocket, I examined it for legitimacy, to see if she stepped out of her costume for just a second to let me into her world.

I’d give Hailey a call tomorrow.