A Study in Scarlett Ch. 01byAMoveableBeast©
I know about women, which is not to say that I understand them, their inner workings and machinations, because I am unsure any man ever truly can. Nor do I imply that I have mastered them, that I have solved them, that I have them figured, pinned-down, or pigeonholed; to constrain one of them in such a way would be beyond me, let alone the entire species. I cannot add to them, subtract from them, divide them, or, despite my best efforts, multiply them. They are incalculable, unknowable, alien.
No, what I am saying is that I know the truth about women. I know that the weaker sex is not, that the fairer gender is a description that applies to complexion alone. I know the true power of women. I know that the battle of the sexes is a myth, the war is over. We lost. We just don't know it yet. I know, in short, a secret.
This knowledge did not come to me due to a vast intellect or an empathetic bend, nor did it come from extensive dealings with women, though I have had plenty. Rather, like anything worth knowing, it was hard-won, painful even. Likely, I would have never realized it on my own. If not for a single chance encounter with a particular woman, I could be like any of you men reading this: confident, self-assured, safe in the idea that my gender's physical strength, historical dominance, and the statistically larger paychecks we bring home, prove, if nothing else, that we are equal if not greater. I would still be ignorant of the truth. I know many of you find the things I am saying ridiculous, preposterous even. It was a very hard lesson for me, as well. But then again, I had a very good teacher.
I met her at a strip club, of all places. Unlikely both because of the nature of such establishments (after all, where else is the dominance of men so clearly visible as in those houses of flesh?) and because I had never been a big frequenter of adult clubs. I mean, sure, I'd spent my fair share of time around them when I was just coming into adulthood, full-nude mostly, but by twenty-one the newness had faded and I had thought of better, less sexually frustrating, ways of emptying my wallet than teasing myself to the point of depression.
This particular night, however, I'd had a huge fight with my fiancée, Mandy, who, after a three month engagement and a three year relationship, had become increasingly demanding. An administrative assistant by trade, she had quit her job shortly after I'd popped the question, and now expected me to be our sole provider. Which wouldn't have been a problem--I worked at the local paper as an executive editor and brought home pretty good money, in addition to some fairly lucrative freelance writing--except that her spending habits, never frugal to start with, had also increased after the proposal. Covering her credit card expenditures had me knee-deep in overtime and side projects, and I was quickly burning out. To make matters worse, Mandy had never excelled as a housekeeper and this lone fact had, sadly, not changed after our engagement. The bare mention of my frustrations had, as usual, set off an explosion of emotion from her, complete with tears and screaming unbecoming of any woman over eight years of age. Never one for dealing with her--by my friends' accounts, legendary--temper tantrums, I had fled the house in my truck. Unfortunately, those same tantrums and her increasingly tight leash on me had scared most of those friends away, and after driving around aimlessly with nowhere to go for a couple hours, I ended up at a titty bar by the name of Sparkles, the starting classroom for my lesson on women.
The club was fairly standard, with a small, centered stage, surrounded on one side by mirrors. A slightly chubby black girl, whom the DJ referred to several times as Cinnamon, gyrated on stage, shaking her large ass both enthusiastically and with great skill. While she wasn't the prettiest girl I had ever seen, I had to admit, her dancing was impressive, enough so that I gave her several dollars almost immediately upon my arrival. After which, I hung around the edge of the platform checking out the place.
There were two sections of tables, both a lower and upper level with a ramp connecting them, easier to deal with in six inch heels or with a few drinks in you, I figured. The upper level had a large bar where two very pretty, fully clothed, girls doled out drinks to patrons. All the while, other women, easily identified as strippers by their exposed breasts and barely-there underwear, seemingly tip-toed through the maze of tables, smiling, sitting on laps, and occasionally leading men to a dark side-room full of couches and dim, flashing lights.
Several of them smiled at me. The fight between Mandy I had occurred almost as soon as I got in from work, and I hadn't had time to change. As such, I looked a bit like a business man in my olive suit and salmon shirt. The women were nothing if not astute about their customers, and I looked like easy prey. I was asked about lap dances nearly a dozen times as I wound my way to the bar. I declined each one as politely as I could, and had the sudden sense of being very out of place. As I looked at their stock of bottles, I began to feel very foolish.
What was I doing here? Did I expect to find some sort of relief in a place like this? All I would do here was deplete my already stretched cash supply. And what of Mandy? I hated to think of the bitch-fit she would throw if she found out I went to a strip club. She barely let me piss anymore without asking permission.
I was just turning to make my way down the ramp and toward the exit when I heard a laughing voice addressing me.
"Wow. That has to be some kind of record."
I turned to see a tall, curvy redhead smiling warmly at me. Her cobalt eyes were friendly and amused, shaded in a bright powder-blue, though it was hard to meet them for more than a second. She would have been a few inches taller than me without the ridiculous heels she wore, with them, she seemed closer to a foot, which placed her huge breasts right at eye level, making it difficult to look at anything else. They were at least D's and the nipples were hard and seemed to point accusatorily in my direction. A skinny tie, wrapped loosely around her long neck, hung between them. The separation from the fabric made them look even bigger, a tiny checkered boat lost amid an ocean of tits. It was slightly too long, and the tip almost touched her matching panties, which clung tightly to a plump ass and thick legs. Her face was pretty if not beautiful, still soft with youth, with a freckle-dusted nose and pouty lips heavy with an unnaturally powerful shade of red. Combined with her long copper hair, pulled playfully to the sides in pigtails, her outfit made her look like something of an overgrown schoolgirl. Never one for the whole barely legal sort, most of the women I dated tended to be older than my thirty years, I found it sort of garish. Still, there was something about her.
"Excuse me?" I said.
"A record. You were here what, three minutes? That's almost insulting. Are we that hideous?" She spoke with a sweet sarcasm, telling me she knew she was anything but hideous.
"No. Not at all. It's ju-"
"Oh, I see. You're afraid of women. That makes sense. We get your type in here sometimes. Just want to have a peek but too afraid to touch."
"I love to touch!" I said, perhaps too defensively. "I mean, uhhh, I'm not. Afraid of women, I mean."
"So you think women are weak? A women hater, then."
"No! I don't think women are weak, either."
"But you just said you're not afraid of them."
"I'm not afraid of men either!"
"Oh...the macho type. Not afraid of anything. Got it. We get plenty of tough guys, too."
"I'm not a tough guy!" I not quite shouted. "I'm a writer."
"A writer! The sensitive type, then? Too shy to talk to the big scawy strippers." Her tone was chiding but still friendly. "You'd just rather sit at home with your...pen...in your hand, sure that no one could ever understand the unfathomable depths of your enigmatic soul."
I was quickly becoming flabbergasted. "I don't always have my pen in my hand. No more than normal, anyway. I don't think, at least. And as for my soul, it's no more unfathomable than anyone else's."
"Then it has to be the wife. If you're none of those other sorts, it can only be the wife. Did you get in a fight? Are you not cutting it in the sack? Is there another man? Another woman?"
"She's not my wife, yet, not for another six months, and I cut it fine, thank you very much. There is no one else, she's just...a bitch!" I spoke this last part so loudly that several other patrons turned to look in my direction. My cheeks reddened and I spread my hands out wide as if to say, Yeah, I've had a bad day and I'm getting a little loud. So what? Last I checked, this was a strip club, not a fucking library. At least, that's what I hoped my gesture said. With my blushing and the frustrated look on my face, it probably said, Sorry I'm an idiot. I get confused easily when there are titties everywhere. Please ignore. "Vodka and cranberry, I think."
"What?" I said, I turned to see the redhead eyeing me with a measuring stare.
"You know, the cocktail?"
"Yes, I know what it is. Why do you say it?"
"You should buy one. It's been a hard day. Look at you; you're all frazzled." She spoke softly, nodding her head as if agreeing with her previous assessment. "Yep, definitely a vodka and cranberry."
"No. Absolutely not. I was just leaving. This was a big mista-" I began weakly.
"Leaving to go where? Back to your wife, who is not your wife yet--the bitch? Will that make your night better?"
"What? You don't even make sense." Even in my tiredness, I could feel the beginning of a smile curling up my lips.
In answer, she merely giggled and then shooed me toward the bar with her hand. Without realizing it, I was halfway there when she called out to me again.
"Oh, and sweetie, get one for yourself, too."
It turned out to be the first round of many. A couple hours later, we were sitting at a secluded table near the back where the music wasn't so loud, a translucent graveyard of empty glasses sent the strobe lights refracting onto our faces. She propped herself up with one arm, elbow on the table and chin in her palm--her already childish cheeks made cherub-esque with the flush of alcohol. I, too, could feel the effects of the liquor; my body seemed to buzz with the bass of the speakers and I now leaned noticeably forward, captivated by this quirky woman.
For her part, she had proven a wonderful drinking companion, and had listened intently and with great interest as I had told her pretty much every detail about my, in my own ears, boring life. I had babbled about work and college and she had eaten it up, her beautiful (had I doubted that early?) face full of laughter and, seemingly, genuine concern. Most of all, we had talked about Mandy, about her bad habits, and her moods, how spoiled she had been as a child, even how she only talked dirty when she wanted something. The more we talked, the angrier I became at my fiancée. It mixed with the vodka, reacted chemically within me, frothing and boiling. I began to hate her then, I think. Staring at that young, innocent, beaming woman, Mandy just seemed so spiteful, so sharp and petty.
"Is she at least hot?" the stripper enquired. "I just don't understand how she landed someone like you."
"Like me..." Why did my words seem so much more slurred than hers? "I'm nothing all that special. And yes, she's hot, I guess. Nice ass. Pretty face. Not hard to fuck, when she'll let me." I didn't mean for my words to sound so vulgar but my mind was too addled to help it.
"What about her tits? Does she have nice tits?"
"Sure. Smallish, but they got a nice shape to them." God, I sounded drunk.
"Like mine?" She asked, a hint of mischief in her eyes.
"She wishes," I said, laughing roughly. "No. Nothing like yours."
"Would you like to touch mine?"
I laughed again, thinking the question was rhetorical. Upon noticing it was not, I stammered.
"Of course. Who wouldn't?"
She just sat there looking at me, her eyes dancing, her lips turned into an exaggerated frown. "Wwwwell, I AM a stripper."
I just sat there looking at her stupidly for a second before it dawned on me. "Christ! You've been sitting here listening to my dumb ass and you could have been making money. I'm so sorry. You've been so nice; I forgot you were at work."
She chuckled gently. "Don't be. But, if you like the merchandise, you could take it for a spin."
"Yeah, of course. Of course. I love the merchandise. Absolutely love it. It's hard to think about anything else. Wait. You said 'touch'? I can touch?" I suddenly felt very excited.
"Well, we're not supposed to, but I sometimes make exceptions for cute, overly-frustrated writers with bitchy fiancées who don't appreciate them," she grinned at me with a mixture of seduction and girlish charm, a combination I was coming to use to define her.
"I don't know," I hesitated, a feeling of guilt swelling in me. "Mandy can be awful, but I do love her. I don't know if I should. I mean, a dance maybe, but I don't think I should take it any further."
"Just a dance, then. You don't have to do anything you don't want to." Her eyes were all honesty.
"How much? Money, I mean?" I felt uncomfortable talking about it like a business. Stripper or not, I felt we had somehow passed this, that two hours of me pouring my heart out had pushed us beyond the normal boundaries of seller and purchaser.
"Wait until we're done. Then, you can give me whatever you think the dance was worth."
She almost skipped, gleefully bounding as she led me by the hand to the dark side-room. The way her fingers interlaced with mine almost seemed sweet and more than once she looked back over her shoulder, a bright, excited smile painted across her face. It was easy to forget she was taller than me. She seemed so little in her movements, not small but young, fresh and full of energy, like a girl on her way to her first day of school. Yet, as I watched her ass shake along with her bouncing steps it was impossible not to notice just how adult she really was.
The side-room contained several couches, each wrapped around a small pedestal complete with a metal pole that stretched to the ceiling. Some of the couches were occupied, one by a large, bearded man upon whom a lithe blonde was grinding unenthusiastically and another by a dark-skinned guy in a baseball hat who stared approvingly as an Asian girl did an erotic version of the splits in front of him. My companion was careful to lead me as far away from them as possible. She placed me gently on the sofa, plush and perhaps a little too broken in, removed my jacket and placed it beside me, then stepped onto the platform. In her heels, she nearly reached the ceiling. She tapped her foot nervously, waiting for the next song to begin. I keep my attention on the other couches, feeling once again like perhaps this had all been a bad idea. I was just about to tell her so when the music abruptly changed and a sensual but driving beat filled the club. The redhead caught my eye, gave me a surprisingly shy but dazzling smile, wiggled her pigtails slightly, then, with shocking skill, deftly grabbed the pole with one hand and launched herself upon it.
Despite her innocent appearance, the girl clearly knew her craft. Within a second she was completely inverted, her legs wrapped about the metal as securely as arms. She opened her chest then, like a great pale bird, her large breasts on full display, her eyes closed as if in dream. Then, they were open, the little girl sliding back to reveal something else, the focused eyes of an artist, and she moved. I had never seen a woman move so fluidly, her body was a thing of liquid, of oil and curves, and it undulated around the pole as water runs over rock, caressing it, controlling and being controlled by it. The inside of her thighs sucked at the metal, lapped at the shimmering light reflected by it, her body a hungry thing, spinning and pulling, steel disappeared beneath her hands, behind her body, only to remerge a second later, seemingly from her, as if it were a part of her, its hard length passing through her like a needle through honey.
No longer did I notice the other couches. They didn't exist. I felt far from myself. Only a growing pressure in my pants kept me at all grounded. I was a snake and she my charmer. My eyes, deeper still, my mind, followed her every movement. Her eyes, intense and confident, seemed to keep mine locked, to never lose me even for a second. No matter the angle, regardless of which acrobatic trick she performed, they seemed to find me, to hunt me down and draw me to them. The first song passed, then, the next.
Without pause, she slithered from the pole and was on me. Her body pinned me to the cushion with the slightest of effort, her wet skin, damp with a slight sheen of perspiration, brushed me sparingly at first, then heavily and with consistency. Like she had done with the pole, she now seemed to entangle me, to coat me. Her hair danced upon my skin. Her breath poured into me, filling me until my lungs expanded and contracted in rhythm with hers. She seemed to go on forever, to wrap in all directions until there was no up or down or side to side, just the never ending labyrinth of her skin. My cock ached. My mind, already muddled by the booze, began to fill with a dense fog.
Finally, she settled into a position straddling me with her legs, her upper body draped over me, breasts swaying, nipples inches from my mouth. Her skin pressed against me in waves, rising and falling like a curtain of flesh caught in some erotic, hypnotizing dance. Meanwhile, the redhead's hips had taken on a more frantic motion, and she now grinded them against the bulge in my pants, the strained fabric of my work trousers and the barely there wisp of her panties all that kept us from true intercourse.
She looked down at me, her eyes once again gaining that warm but amused quality. "Would you like to touch me now?"
I meant to say no, to tell her that I wanted to, desperately, but that it just wouldn't be right, by the time my mouth began to move, however, my hands, clawed and eager, had already slid up her body and were now grasping the fullness of her dangling breasts. I looked up at her, feeling their size, licked my lips and started to gently but actively squeeze them, rolling a nipple in each hand softly between my thumb and forefinger. She parted her lips in the quietest of moans, inaudible amid the thumping of the sound system, just the barest of openings, drawing attention to the wetness of her glossy mouth. Pre-cum seeped from my hard dick and I wondered if she could feel the wetness against her thin underwear.
She did something unexpected, then. She lowered her face to mine and kissed me, nothing long or aggressive, just the briefest flash of teeth and a taste of her tongue and lipstick. The latter was candied, sweet and strong, flavored like what sucker wrappers tell you strawberry tastes like. I attempted to kiss back but her lips slid away, leaving me disappointedly sucking at the air. I nearly whimpered.
Seeing my hunger, she snatched the slender tie from her throat and looped it around my neck and pulled my mouth forward, simultaneously pushing her chest out, bringing one luscious tit to my mouth. The nipple moved in slow-motion, inch by inch it crept closer to my mouth, erect and pink, headed straight for me. I weakly attempted to turn my neck, but the tie held me firm. Once again, I wanted to tell her to stop, to explain that I wasn't this kind of guy, but I didn't. What I did instead was sit quietly until her nipple reached my mouth, the soft skin spongy against my lips. She pushed against my closed mouth, testing the edges of my defenses, gently, questioningly. In answer, I shamefully opened up and sucked the tip of her huge breast into my mouth.