Streep Poke-air

Monique played a card and stifled a yawn. It was the last night of our business trip. We'd planned to go out, but the rain had turned to sleet, and so we'd just eaten in the hotel dining room and come up to her room to play cards. And now we were both getting a little bored.

"I hope the streets clear up by morning," I said, playing a card of my own.

"If zey do not, we will just have to wait until zey do."

"What do you think the gang is doing back home tonight?"

She gave her head a little shake. Her dark hair shimmered and fell back perfectly into place. "Zey are jealous of us on our business trip."

Monique was spending a quarter with our firm on a kind of a cultural exchange program. She was getting a glimpse of current American engineering practices, and we were getting a glimpse of French joie de vivre. Ever since she'd been with us, office life had been a bit more glamorous and exciting. Every guy in the place had a big crush on her, and every girl had been won over by her openness and friendliness.

One of our big clients had discovered a glitch in their soon-to-be-released product that seemed to be coming from one of our circuit boards. Monique and I had been sent out to see if we could figure out what was going on. They'd spent the first day and a half walking us through the symptoms. It didn't seem to me that it was our board that was causing the problem. They began to get a little impatient. So Monique took over and asked them to go back over a couple of points one last time. Their engineers were all guys, and they bent over backwards vying for her attention. And what do you know, in the midst of all their explaining they discovered that the problem was actually on their side, not ours. The fix was pretty simple. We'd spent today at the test bench, and everything had checked out. Our board was exonerated.

"Nice job, pardner," I told her on our way back to the hotel.

"It is what I keep trying to tell you, pardner." she smiled. "Zere is more to engineering zan engineering."

They'd taken us out to dinner the first two nights, but tonight we were on our own. We'd made plans, but the weather had turned just too nasty, So now we were up in her room playing cards. She'd taught me a French game, vingt-et-un, along the lines of blackjack. I'd taught her poker, but we'd only been able to come up with a dollar something in change, hardly what you'd call high stakes.

I tried to explain how the game was more exciting when there was real money on the line. When the outcome could determine whether you had steak next week or rice and beans. When you had to rely less on your mathematical prowess and more on your ability to read your opponent's expression. I'm not sure she got it, but she was willing to give it a try. We looked around the room. "Zere must be something here worth betting."

There was a bag of potato chips on the dresser and an apple from the front desk. We could write IOUs, but it wouldn't be the same—we'd never cash them in. What else did we have that would actually be worth betting on?

"What about our clothes?" she asked.

"Well, I don't really think . . ."

"But zat is one way to play, is it not?" She was getting animated. "Streep poke-air, no? I have heard of it. We bet ze clothes zat we are wearing. And we play until one of us wins all ze clothes of ze other, no?"

"Well, yes, but . . ."

"Oui, oui, zen. Yes!" She clapped her hands together. "Let us play streep poke-air! It will be very exciting!"

"It's just that I'm not sure that it's the best game for us to play." It just wasn't the type of thing we did over here. The gang at the office were always getting together to socialize, but all of our activities were pretty g-rated: volleyball, pool parties, pizza and beer. We might joke about playing strip poker, but it wasn't something we'd ever actually do.

She ruffled her skirt. "But look at zese pretty clothes zat I am wearing. Are zey not steak enough for you?"

In fact she was wearing a very pretty peasant blouse with a neckline of embroidered pink roses that curved down almost to the top of her cleavage. And a pale lilac skirt with a wide spreading hem that swished when she swished it and now cascaded down over her legs as she sat on the edge of the bed.

"And if you win all my clothes zen I will be naked. Do you not want to see me naked?"

She flirted that way sometimes. She didn't always mean for everything she said to be taken literally.

"I would very much like to win your clothes and see you naked," she went on. "So it is a good contest, no? One zat we both would like very much to win. It will be very exciting. Although, I should warn you, I am very lucky at cards. You will probably be very sorry if you play streep poke-air with me."

"It's just that I'm not sure it's the type of game that colleagues should play on a business trip. It's . . . not professional."

"Pffff." She raised her eyebrows in mock scorn. "You Americans and your silly rules. You are always so afraid to have some fun. Come on. We have been so professional zis whole week zat Mr Potts himself will probably kiss us on ze cheek when we return. Must we be professional even when we are playing cards?"

She had a point.

"Or is it zat you are shy? 'Ector, are you a shy American who is afraid to let your pretty co-worker see you without your clothes? You know zat if we were in France we would see each other naked all ze time. At ze beach, at ze spa, . . ."

"You go to nude beaches?"

"But of course. All ze beaches in France are nude beaches. Now come on. Give me ze cards." She shuffled with rapt concentration and dealt us each a hand. She picked up her cards and studied them intently. "So how do we bet in streep poke-air?"

She made it seem so innocent. Did young French professionals really see each other naked all the time? Not that we would go that far, but surely just playing a hand or two would be innocent enough, wouldn't it?

I picked up my cards. A pair of tens. "OK," I said. "Let's say we play out the hand, and whoever wins wins one piece of clothing from the other person."

"OK," she said, looking slyly over the top of her hand. "How many cards do you want?"

"I'll take three."

She gave me my cards. "I will take three also." She studied her new hand, and I thought I caught a slight look of disappointment.

"And," I said, "let's say that it's only a bet if both of us agree to bet. If one of us doesn't want to bet, they can just throw down their cards and no one will win that hand."

She gave a vague nod without looking up from her cards.

I hadn't picked up anything good. Still, a pair of tens was not too unrespectable. "I'll bet."

She looked at me again, then back at her hand. "I will bet also."

We laid down our cards. She had a pair of fives.

"You win," she said. "So now I have to give you a piece of my clothing."

"A pair of fives is not such a bad hand. But this time I beat you. Shall we say the winner gets to choose? How about you give me one of your shoes?"

"Ah, yes, my shoe." She was wearing a pretty pair of red sandals, without socks or stockings. She took off the right one and reluctantly handed it to me. "It is such a pretty sandal, don't you think? But, a bet is a bet. Here. It is your sandal now." Her little toes were pink and perfect. She was breathing deeply now, nowhere near as bored as she had been. Neither was I.

I shuffled and dealt the next hand. Jack high. She asked for three cards. I took three myself. Nothing.

She rearranged her cards. "I will bet," she said, with a satisfied smile.

That meant she probably had another pair, at least. By rights I should have folded. But if I stayed in, it would even up the score. "Me too."

We showed our cards. She didn't have a pair, but she had a king, which beat my jack.

"Why did you stay in? That isn't even as good as your pair of fives."

"I won you, didn't I?" She reached out her hand. "Your shoe please."

I took it off and gave it to her, along with the sock. She seemed very satisfied with her winnings and placed them with some attention on the floor beside her.

On the next hand, I folded, just to show her how it was done. Then on the hand after that she won my other shoe and sock. "See, I told you zat I am lucky."

Then I won her other sandal. "Who's the lucky one now?"

The two of us were now sitting barefoot on the edge of her bed. Hardly what you'd call professional. She pulled her legs up under the sprawl of her skirt. The game was sure managing to hold our attention, though. It had remained innocent and friendly so far, but the stakes were getting higher.

"We could stop now and call it a tie," I offered.

"But we have just begun to play. You are just afraid zat I will win all your clothing."

"You might win, but you might lose."

"Zat is ze excitement, no?" She shuffled the cards and gave me a coy, unconcerned look. "Probably I will win. But if I do not . . ." She gave a pouty shrug of her lips. "Zen you will see how beautiful I really am. And zen every time you pass my desk you will have no choice but to smile at me and say 'Bonjour, ma belle amie.' "

"I've always thought that you were quite attractive."

"Yes, of course," she said, matter-of-factly. "But without my clothes I am attractive in a different way. You will see." She shuffled the cards again. "If you win."

I didn't have anything that hand and had to fold, much to her disappointment.

She bet on the next hand and proudly showed three nines. But I had a full house. It was the first high hand of the night.

And the first time a serious article of clothing had to be removed. I just wished she didn't have to go first. Maybe in France it would still be considered g-rated to see each other in our underwear, but I just wasn't sure that it worked that way over here.

She was looking at me expectantly.

"I would like . . . your panties."

She was confused. "My panties? You do not want my skirt instead?"

"Your panties."

"But how do you know zat I am even wearing panties? Perhaps I am not."

"Well, you either have to prove that you're not wearing them, or you have to hand them over."

"But zey are so pretty on me. Don't you want to see me wearing zem?"

I held out my hand. "Your panties, please."

She seemed to genuinely disapprove of my choice. But she was a good sport. She stood up and reached up under the voluminous spread of her skirt. She managed to pull her panties down and slip them off without revealing even a trace of skin above her knees. She held them out to me. They were indeed very pretty—lacy and sheer—and still warm from their intimate contact with her.

"They're lovely."

"But of course. A woman wears lovely underthings. It is a shame zat you did not want to see how pretty I look in zem." She sat back down and drew her legs back up under her skirt.

The next hand I got a pair of threes. I really wanted her to win to keep things in balance. I thought about folding until I had an even worse hand, but I didn't want her to think that I was trying to let her win. I couldn't read her expression. Maybe my threes would be low enough.

She had the other two threes, but my high queen beat her nine. So now we were right back in the same predicament as before. I had to ask her to remove the first piece of outer clothing. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

"I would like your brassiere."

That was really too much for her. "My brassiere! I think zat you do not want to see me at all." Her feelings were truly hurt.

I thought she might end the game right there. But finally she reached behind herself and fiddled with her bra snap. Then she reached into her sleeves and worked the straps over her arms. Then she reached in under the blouse from the front and fished it out, making a determined effort not to give me even the slightest glimpse of anything I had not legitimately won. She held it out to me without looking. The bra was the same lacy style as her panties. She would indeed have looked very lovely in it. And I couldn't help but think how lovely her breasts must look without it.

"Whose turn is it?" she asked, gruffly. She was actually angry with me.

"Maybe this would be a good time to quit," I suggested.

"No. Not while you are winning and I am losing."

She refused to look at me, keeping her eyes focussed on her cards. She folded the next two hands. She was playing with a new intensity, her honor on the line. On the third hand she did look up, just briefly, still scowling, to assess my potential weakness. I had a pair of eights. I really wanted her to win, but if she thought I was letting her win, that would make things even worse. She bet. I called, praying that luck would be on her side. This time it was. She had a pair of aces.

It made her feel a little better to have won the hand. I expected her to ask for my shirt, but instead she asked for my pants.

OK. The first piece of outer clothing was coming off, and it was going to be mine, not hers. She was going to see me in my underpants. A bit more risque than seeing me in my tee shirt, but still innocent enough, I guess. From the French point of view anyway.

I took off my pants. She admired them and folded them carefully on the bed beside her. I was wearing a pair of baby blue briefs underneath, kind of a bikini cut. She was not shy about looking. They seemed a lot more revealing now than they had that morning when I'd put them on.

"You see? Zis is how ze game should be played. I win ze hand, and I choose my prize decisively." Her anger had almost completely evaporated. "How many times have I walked down ze hallway and asked myself, 'I wonder how 'Ector will look when we go to ze beach?' And now, because of my decisive choice, I have my answer. I see zat you will look very—how do you say—very dashing at ze beach. Ze American beach, of course."

She dealt. I got two fours and drew a third. What to do? I could still afford to lose my shirt and my tee shirt, but Monique couldn't afford to lose even one more single item. If I bet, it would be for real, for the chance of having her take off her blouse and letting me see her breasts. And if she called, it would mean that that was a risk she was willing to take. She looked at me over her cards.

I bet. She called. Both of us were breathing pretty deeply. I put down my fours. She put down three sevens. She'd won again. She'd managed to keep her breasts concealed for at least one more hand. I started to unbutton my shirt.

"No, not your shirt. I would much rather have your pretty blue panties."

I was a bit shocked. "Don't you want to see me in my underwear."

"Pfff. You did not want to see me in mine." She held out her hand. "Your panties, please."

She was looking me straight in the eye and asking me to take off my underpants and show her my penis. My office colleague! In her hotel room! This was altogether unprofessional. It went way beyond pool-party flirtation. It was not g-rated by any means. Were young people in France really so casual about nudity?

"Come on! Come on! I really want to see how you will look at ze French beach."

Well, it had been a legitimate bet. If I'd won, it would have been me asking her to reveal something private. It would be very unsportsmanlike of me to back out now.

I stood up. I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my underpants. I peeled them down and stepped out of them. Monique was delighted to add them to her pile. And she was just as delighted to see what had been hidden underneath.

"Oh, 'Ector, what a proud, handsome rooster you have. Ah, when you come to visit me in France and we go to ze beach all my girlfriends will be very jealous of me."

"My cock you mean."

"Cock, rooster. Zey are ze same, no?"

"We usually say 'cock.' "

"And I usually say 'rooster.' And men usually understand what I mean."

She leaned in more closely. "It is my first American rooster. It is so wild and unshaven. I think perhaps it is more of a . . ."—she thought for the word—"turkey! Tell me, do all ze men in America keep zeir turkeys so wild and unshaven?"

"Um . . ." When I'd put my underpants on that morning it had never even crossed my mind that anyone would be seeing what was underneath them.

"It is different in France. We groom all ze parts of our bodies. We know zat others will be seeing zem."

"You shave down there you mean?"

She gave me her coy smile. "Ze game is not yet finished. Perhaps you will still be lucky enough to see what I mean."

Well, one thing was for sure. Streep poke-air was turning out to be considerably more exciting than vingt-et-un. I was sitting in my pretty colleague's hotel room without any pants on, letting her see my penis. And I had three quarters of a hard on. I kept trying to tell myself that it was no big deal, that French girls were used to seeing guys' penises. But were they used to seeing them hard? Did guys get hard ons at nude beaches? And what about girls? Did their nipples get hard? Could everyone tell? My erection ticked up to 100 percent. Monique noticed.

I dealt and she bet. OK. No more Mr American Gentleman. She'd made me show skin, and now I'd do the same. I had a pair of threes. She'd bet with worse hands than that, but not since she'd started playing more decisively. I tried to read her expression, but it wasn't so easy. So far I'd been attributing her unreadability to inexperience and naivete. But now I was starting to wonder. Maybe she was craftier than she'd been letting on. I folded.

On the next hand, she dealt me two sevens and I drew a third. That was certainly worth a bet. I didn't even necessarily have to just ask her for her blouse. She was the one who suggested that I might get to see her 'grooming.' Did she shave everything? She watched my cogitations with some amusement, then layed down three queens.

"Let me see, now," she said. "I did not get ze chance to see you in your underwear, but I think I would very much like to see you without your underwear. So I will decisively ask you for your tee shirt, please."

"But it's underneath. I'll have to take off my shirt to take off my tee shirt."

She shrugged. "It does not matter to me how you do it. Or is it zat you are shy? Do you want me to turn away while you take off your shirt?"

I stood up again, my cock jutting out so far it nearly touched her knee. I unbuttoned my shirt and took it off. Then I pulled off my tee shirt and handed it to her. Whatever happened to not letting things go too far? Now I was standing in front of my colleague completely naked.

"Oh, 'Ector. How nice of you to give me zis little preview of ze final prize. What a handsome fellow you are. I must be very clever now to be sure zat I win."

I put my shirt back on, but I didn't bother to button it. "You've had quite a streak of luck here, I'll grant you that. You've gotten to see a bit more of me than I usually show around the office. But just you wait. I'd like to see a bit more of you, too. And I think that my luck is just about to change."

I shuffled and shuffled and shuffled. I dealt with fury, slamming the cards down hard, trying to inject every last ounce of luck and influence that I could muster. She picked up her cards gingerly, as if they were smoking hot. I had the nine, ten, and queen of diamonds. I whistled. She regarded me with a look of amusement.

I had the chance for a straight, a flush, or a straight flush. I felt as though I could summon the jack and the king by the sheer power of my will. That would even us up for the final round: each of us showing skin, each of us with only a single piece of clothing left.

She asked for three cards, I took two. Two more queens! Well, it wasn't a straight or a flush, but it was right up there with the highest hands I'd had all night. I realized that a seasoned player would probably have been able to read my exact hand from the expressions that had played across my face. I hadn't thought Monique could do that, but I was no longer quite so sure.