Lady Behind The WallbySir Galahad©
I sat in the back of the Galaxy Club, moodily communing with Jack Daniels. It had been a rough day, culminating with my girlfriend moving out. I replayed our final conversation in my head.
"What's going on?" I'd asked, coming home after a hard day's work running piping and installing the kitchen sinks and bathroom fixtures in a new restaurant going in on Clermont. I needed a shower and a change of clothes badly, but not so badly that I didn't notice Debbie, pretty as always, coming down the stairs with a suitcase in hand. Two more sat just inside the front door.
"I'm leaving, John. I won't be back."
"But why? I thought you – we – were happy, that we were progressing nicely!"
"Well, you thought wrong, pal. My agent has signed me up for a six month southwest and West Coast club tour. Oil tycoons, Internet millionaires, doctors, athletes and movie stars. If I can't latch onto something good on this tour, I'm not the girl I think I am. This time next year, I'll be sunning myself by the pool and admiring my diamonds while I decide which wine to have with the truffles and the trout almandine.
"Don't take it so hard, Johnny. All you and I ever were was a convenience. You got to fuck a gorgeous exotic dancer and have all your tiresome blue collar buddies envy you; and I got someone to take care of things while I worked my way up into the majors. It never was serious. I'll just leave the keys on the hall table. Later!"
Perhaps our liaison hadn't been more than a passing convenience to Debbie, but I had fallen for her. Fallen hard. We'd met right here in the Galaxy between sets. She was the only singing terpsichorean ecdysiast I had ever heard about. Not a bad voice, a lush body with a healthy sexual appetite... and all the morals of a diamondback rattlesnake, apparently. I took a sip of my drink, trying to decide if I wanted to get drunk or not. I felt a hand on my shoulder.
"I heard what happened. You want to talk about it?"
"C'mon back into my office." I obediently got up and followed Lacey Starr, owner of the Galaxy, into her office.
It's a remarkable room. It stretches the width of the club and is walled on three sides with one-way mirror glass, half-height in the front and apparently paneled with full height mirrors alternating with oak panels in the corridors. From inside you can see into the two corridors leading to the restrooms, the coatroom and the ATM machines, and out over the bar and the side tables toward the pit and the stage. Lacey could monitor everything with security cameras and does in fact maintain them for insurance and legal purposes, but she prefers to rely on her own eyes and the bouncers who sit by those front windows ready to put a stop to trouble before it starts. There has never to my knowledge been a serious brawl in the Galaxy Club.
Lacey's real name is Natasha Rambova, Tasha to her friends. She was a headlining stripper and soft-porn star in her day, but unlike most women in that line of work she saved her money and invested it well. She has a head for business, which was why she is now comfortably well off when most of her contemporaries have faded into obscure poverty. She still has a fine figure and her hair is the same crown of flame it was when she was onstage. She has never admitted to using henna.
We met shortly after Tasha opened the Galaxy, when one of her dancers dropped a diamond ring down a sink and got her hand hopelessly stuck trying to get it back. JM Plumbing & Heating (the company I own) advertises 24 hour a day, 7 days a week service, which we take in turns after business hours and on weekends. I was the on-call plumber the night Lacey called. The fact that I'd been able to extricate her dancer without injury and recover the ring without having to destroy the plumbing had impressed her sufficiently that she'd given me a retainer as the club's plumber. The Galaxy had become my regular hangout and I'd done more than a little business here over the years. We sat down on a leather couch and I placed my drink on the coffee table. She looked compassionately at me; at least I thought that was her expression.
"John, I know you have Asperger's Syndrome and have a very hard time reading people's physical and social cues. But I never thought you would take that scheming little bitch for serious. She's after a position in society. Meaning no offense, my friend, but you just don't measure up to her vision of the ideal mate. She has a whole checklist of standards her husband must meet. You aren't rich enough, famous enough, in a profession with cachet enough or of high enough social standing to fit into her scheme to become a Very Important Person. If I'd known you were sweet on her *"
"Well, Tasha, you didn't!" I snapped, taking a gulp of my drink. Her eyes crinkled but I couldn't tell if she was amused, frightened or angry at my outburst. "I was laboring under the delusion I had something going with her, with marriage not beyond the realm of possibility in a year or two. I feel like four kinds of idiot. Reevaluating, my analysis is that in Debbie's mind I was an expedient measure. I can see now all I ever was to her was a free hotel and automatic teller machine. Conceding the sex was marvelous, that doesn't ease the mental anguish at the moment. Difficult as it is for me as an adult male to admit this, she used her wiles to keep the mark gulled. Intercourse meant less to her than inserting a tampon, and likely not as much."
Tasha sat back and motioned to one of her bouncers, miming to pour her a drink and bring it over. She took a sip of it and looked at me over the rim of the glass.
"How old are you, John?"
"I passed the big four-oh last birthday," I said. Without a girlfriend in sight or prospect, I'd observed the day by completing a particularly difficult furnace repair for the elementary school necessitated by a winter power failure and subsequent freeze-up so the school could open on time on Monday.
"How many girls have you lived with?"
"Three, counting her, but never of long duration. Never longer than a few months."
"Why did your other girlfriends leave?"
"They alleged I wasn't sensitive to them, that I did not pay proper attention to obvious signals or look soulfully into their eyes. And they all got upset over incidents I thought were trivial. That sort of thing."
"And were you sensitive to them?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. I did not forget anniversaries, even silly ones like having first made their acquaintance three months ago, or that it was a month since they had first cohabited with me. I was always giving them little gifts, so they'd know I cared. I even remembered to put down the toilet seat every time." I tried to smile to show I was making a joke, the way the books say you should.
Tasha frowned and stared into her drink. At last she said, "Have you considered looking at some of the mail-order bride sites online? That was how I got to America. Back then it was a slow process compared to now.
"You paid a fee to the agency and they would take pictures and put them in a book they would send to men in America. The Americans would look you over and read your biography and if they liked you, they would write to you. Eventually, maybe one or two would like you well enough from your letters that they would come and visit you over there. One of them asked me to marry him and I leaped at the chance to come to America. I took American citizenship when I married him. It was fine for a couple of months. Then he took to beating and raping me. Finally I fled to a woman's shelter and I hooked up with an agent and become a dancer far from the city he lived in. At that, I was lucky.
"Today, it is faster and there are more checks on the would-be grooms. Before these agencies will set up meetings, they run background checks on the men and on the women too, to weed out the bad apples. Maybe you should give that a try. There are lots of beauties from behind the old Iron Curtain who would go for a guy like you, John."
"Not so many as you might think, Tasha. I actually have looked at two or three of those websites. If the pictures and the short form biographical information looked good, I would buy their addresses and write to them, either email or airmail depending on their computer access.
"The first thing the women wanted to know, each and every time, was what kind of car I drove. Next, how large a house I owned. Then, what kind of work I did. Then, how much money I make, a question I find greedy bordering on mercenary and would not answer except in the most general terms. Such exchanges always ended with them telling me they weren't interested in taking things further; forget about joining one of those headlong meet-and-greet tours and making actual contact. I just don't have the prestige they want in their dream Western husband, even though I own my own business, a piece of another successful company, and netted half a million dollars free and clear last year after taxes, salaries, bonuses, insurance payments, buying two new trucks, replenishing stock and whatnot."
I looked Tasha right in the eye, not without difficulty. "Maybe I should just hire hookers. At least there I won't have any illusions about their giving a single solitary damn about me– about anything but the money I am paying for their services."
Tasha patted my hand. "Don't give up, John. The poets say that for every man, there is a woman. You know how many boyfriends I have?"
"Three, last time I checked. Betting in the shop is 5 to 3 on Richard the lawyer, 4 to 1 on Donald the broker, and 9 to 1 on Emilio, that new doctor at the hospital; with me a 1000 to 1 longshot purely to round out the field. The smart money is on Richard, with the wedding taking place before the end of next year." The deadpan delivery of this information made her laugh, but my expression didn't change.
"Well, don't give up on yourself yet. Your social skills aren't the greatest even with all the coaching I've given you, but you are neither hopeless nor undesirable from a female point of view. The thing is, you need to do a few things.
"First, you have to figure out exactly what you want in a partner – I don't think you're after just a roll in the hay, or you'd have asked me if Cleo was working tonight. Second, you have to figure out exactly what you have to offer a woman. Third, you need to determine what sort of woman would find you desirable even with your disability as part of the equation.
"Once you've done all this, you have to find a demographic that fits all the criteria. Then you figure out how best to present yourself to the females in that demographic. That's how you are going to find a worthy mate, John."
"I don't suppose you would consider telling me what you believe that demographic to be?"
"No. If I did, you wouldn't believe me even though we've never lied to each other. But if you do what I said, you will see the sense of what I'm telling you; and then you will know where to look and why I suggested you look there. I want you to be happy. You are my best male friend in the entire world, and I love you like a brother. It does not mean another woman can't see you in the light of a lover and maybe even a husband some day."
She finished her drink and stood up. She looked down at me and I looked up, over her shoulder but with my angle of vision taking her in perfectly. This discommodes most people and upsets some, but Tasha is used to my ways. I can see clearly much farther to the side without moving my eyes or my head than most people. It's a side effect of my Asperger's brought on by my need to be aware of what's going on around me.
"You're too good a man to lie moping in the dirt just because some conceited bitch dumped you. Pick yourself up and dust yourself off, and try again. Just back a better horse next time." She started for the concealed door and I took the hint, following her out. I left my drink behind and walked out to my old Jag. (Hey, just because I drive a van with my tools and supplies in it when I'm on the job doesn't mean I cannot drive something fancier when I'm not working!)
I drove home, poured myself a glass of Old No. 7 over one cube and sat down in my easy chair to think about what Tasha had said. Over the years she'd taken on the role of big sister to me and she hadn't steered me wrong yet, either in business or personal matters. If she said I wasn't a total waste of space in the relationship department, I had to believe her.
My musings were interrupted by the doorbell. I put down my glass and answered the door. Cleo, the Lebanese-American stripper Tasha had mentioned, was standing there in a full length raincoat, although the weather was nice.
"Mind if I come in?" she asked, brushing past me without waiting for a reply. I closed the door and followed her into the living room.
"What are you doing here?"
She turned around, unbuttoning her coat. She tossed it onto my chair. She was wearing one of the harem girl outfits she uses onstage, a spangled brassiere with a short vest over it and a pair of transparent harem pants held in place by three Velcro tabs. She knelt and took off the curly-tipped slippers that completed the costume and I heard two rips that meant she'd undone the straps that bloused the pants at her ankles and allowed her to easily shed them.
"Tasha told me Debbie dumped you today and took off. She thought you might be feeling lonely. I thought you could use some company."
She put her arms around me and locked her mouth to mine, her tongue pressing insistently into my lips, demanding entry. She ground into my groin and my cock automatically responded, going from soft and quiescent to rampant and ready in seconds. I pulled her to me, our mouths opening and my tongue touching hers. She grabbed my butt and pulled me to her as I squeezed her ass cheeks.
"Take me upstairs and fuck me, Johnny. I'm hot, and I need your cock! I want to feel you in me! C'mon. let's go!"
I didn't say anything, but grabbed her hand and pulled her up the stairs to my bedroom. I didn't need to read body language to know this horny slut wanted to be fucked like a ragdoll.
In the bedroom, she turned to me and started to remove her vest. I put my hands over hers and lifted them away, doing the little chore of stripping her myself, unsnapping the vest and unhooking the brassiere and tossing them aside before I grabbed her around the waist, pulling her in and dropping my head to her boobs. I licked her nipples, moving between then, grabbing them in my teeth and biting. I felt her nails on me as she worked at my waistband, struggling to loosen my belt, undo my pants and shove them down out of the way. I let go of her and stepped out of them as she undid the last strap and expertly swirled her harem pants out of the way before flopping backwards onto the bed, spreading her legs for me and pulling her pussy lips apart.
"C'mon, Johnny. Happiness lies in the middle – in what waits between my thighs. Fuck me!"
Her shaved pussy was wet and inflamed, ready for me to fuck. Not wasting any more time on foreplay, I climbed on top of her and gave her what she so obviously wanted. My cock slid into her and I started to thrust. She sighed happily and began to buck under me as she ran her fingers through my hair, smiling.
"Oh, that's good! Just what I need and just what you need too, lover! Don't stop. I don't have to be back at the club for awhile and I want to enjoy this. Give me that nice, hard cock! Fuck me good, baby! Fuck me good!"
We moved smoothly together in a comfortable rhythm, Cleo moaning under me as I drove her towards orgasm, her nails scratching my back, urging me on. Her eyes were hot with lust, eager to reach her peak and cum under me.
"Don't stop! Give it to me! I want it! Fuck me, Johnny! Give me your cock! Almost there! Almost! Oh, oh, oh ... Y-E-E-S-S-S!!"
Cleo's pussy locked around my rod, clamping down like a hot velvet glove as she came. I stopped for a few moments, savoring the feel of her twat caressing my cock as she went first rigid, then limp as her climax spent itself against me. I began to move in and out of her again with long, full strokes, penetrating deep into her unresisting body. As she came back to this world, she pulled my head to hers, french-kissing me with a rising urgency as her cunt responded to my invading cock.
"You sure know how to give it to a woman," she whispered between kisses. "I'm soft as butter inside. Give me more of that beautiful prick of yours, baby. Make me cum again! I want to! I love your prick inside me! Don't stop! I want it! I want it bad! Give it to me!"
Our pace accelerated as she opened her legs wider and dug her heels into the mattress, actively fucking me back as I rammed in and out of her. We screwed like that for awhile, her cunt juice soaking me and running out of her box to drip onto the bed, her gasps and cries spurring me on. Suddenly she pushed me away, scrambling around and presenting herself on all fours, legs apart, sex-slime dripping down her thighs. Hair shaggy and sweat-soaked, she looked back over her shoulder.
"Take me like an animal, stud! I'm burning for your cock! Fuck me doggy-style! Use me good!"
Breathing hard, my eyes glazed by coitus interruptus, I grabbed her by the hips and remounted her, shoving my rampant erection back into her cunt where it belonged and where she so obviously wanted it. She whinnied like a mare in heat and pressed back against me, taking my cock into her, her pussy muscles rippling like fingers as I used her like a whore, giving her deep, rapid thrusts as fast as I could drive my hips. She screamed and pussy juice spurted out around the rock-hard dick filling her, but I didn't stop. I found her nipples and pulled them roughly. Cleo screamed again and dropped her head and shoulders to the bed as her body betrayed her into another orgasm. I heard her beg.
"Oh yes! Oh yes! Hurt me! Hurt me like that! It's so good! Don't stop! Don't ever stop! Take me! Ravish me! Fuck me!"
I grabbed at her breasts, squeezing them like grapefruit, yanking on them, listening to her plead as I hammered her the way she wanted it. I felt her cum twice more before I couldn't hold my own climax back any longer. Letting go of her boobs, I took her by the hips and rammed all the way into her.
The cum came boiling out of my balls like hornets out of a nest that's been whacked with a baseball bat. My cock shot deep into her pussy once, twice, three times, four, and a last, weak fifth time. My strength drained by the intensity of my climax, I collapsed on top of Cleo, who was shuddering with the force of her own mind-blowing orgasm. We lay there limp for awhile, marinating in our own sex juices and sweat, and for the moment, satiated. She turned under me so we could put our arms around each other, savoring the afterglow. When our pulse rates were back to normal, she got out of bed and padded into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. I heard the shower come on as I dozed off.
A gentle hand on my shoulder woke me. Cleo was dressed again, sitting on the edge of the bed. I reached a hand up to her. She held it against her cheek but made no move to rejoin me.
"Have you ... have you ever thought about what it would be like to ... you know, go steady with me?" I stammered. She smiled at me, but I couldn't read what she meant by it.
"Oh, Johnny. You're sweet, and a helluva good fuck, but we'd never work together over the long run. You're old enough to be – well, not my father, but anyway my big brother – and you're established. You have a business and you're settled; and more to the point, you're ready to settle down with one woman.
"Me, I'm nowhere near ready to settle down. I still have a lot of wild oats to sow. I'm only 24 and a semester away from my Bachelors. I want to see a lot more of the world and do a lot more wild and crazy things before I commit to something long term.