Alana's PerformancebyMystical Michael©
Perhaps we'd been working together for too long. It's one thing when you get to know someone at work so well that you begin to treat him or her less like a confidant and more like a partner in crime. It's quite another though, when the lines blur even further and you find yourself aiding and abetting in ways that you never imagined.
My first introduction to Alana came when she was sent to join me for a campaign pitch in Phoenix. I wasn't thrilled with her last minute replacement of my usual copywriter, Kelvin, but things like that happen in the advertising business. Kelvin had succumbed to the monetary inducements of a rival agency under the double assault of a new, politically correct CEO at the helm of their largest client, combined with the recent filing of a discrimination lawsuit against them. In any other business, you might think twice about an outrageous salary offer that was predicated on the color of someone's skin, but ad execs jump from agency to agency with less inducement than that. So congratulations Kel! Hasta la vista! Let me buy you a drink. Touch any of MY clients, and I'll put a knife in your back quicker than you can say junior partner.
Alana was new to the agency, fresh from her MBA studies and still glowing with the suntan of a Cancun honeymoon with her new husband. Her poise put me quickly at ease with her status as my new colleague and pitch assistant. Granted this was enhanced by the type of body most starlets have to by at Dr. Calabro's - shoulder length blond hair, green eyes, delicate neck, an ample (but not too ample) chest, narrow waist, lovely hips and legs that made you forget about everything else. We hit it off almost immediately, and our success at bringing the Hinojosa Tortilla Company under the wing of the Nasdom, Henry and Nasdom ad agency solidified what would become a partnership for the last four years.
In that time I thought that I'd learned everything there is about Alana; from the day she met her husband during his final year of med school, to her "three years of hell" working as an assistant product manager for a giant consumer company. She was rescued from the land of soaps and detergents through the largesse of Mom and Dad, who were willing to provide b-school tuition, room and board, the prospect of becoming the parents-in-law of a doctor seemed to make the investment worthwhile in their estimation. After two years of business school pursuing a graduate degree, she became the wife of an earnest doctor immersed in his residency, and the running-dog accomplice of a crazy ad man twenty years her senior.
If you're tracking through all of that, you might have deduced that there was a five year gap between meeting the doc-to-be and getting that fabulous tan on the beaches of the Yucatan peninsula. That might tell you more about Dr. Simon than any other description that I could put together. Let's just agree that there is library somewhere on this planet that featuring a giant dictionary, wherein next to the word "deliberate" there is a picture of Dr. Simon Hansen of Chicago. He invests more time in daily sock selection than do most other people in the purchase of a new car. You don't want him treating you in the emergency room following a car accident, but for long term care Simon's your dude!
It's not that Simon and Alana are mismatched in any significant or relationship threatening ways, it's just that their styles for addressing challenges are different. In any case, it didn't seem to affect her seemingly spontaneous view of things, and thank God, I work and travel with her rather than with him.
So there we were, almost four years after that fateful mission to Phoenix, on a plane for Dallas to learn a little about the new marketing software that promised to "cut lead time, increase profits and boost creative opportunity to new heights." Essentially, we were traveling a thousand miles or so to drink lukewarm coffee, eat semi-stale pastries and listen to a geek whose world revolved software that combined all the functionality of a word processor, graphics package and web design tool. Been there, done that, got the tee shirt! It's great stuff, but I suspect that you could save a few thousand bucks by just going down the street to Software-B-We, tossing down your credit card and purchasing three versions of Uncle Bill's Microserfed Best; and then (God forbid) exercising a little creativity. But the managing partner decreed that we learn this new package, and who were we to say no?
I've lost count of the number of trips that we had shared together by now. But my conscious was clear regarding our conduct whilst away from our respective spouses. If you don't see anything wrong with friends enjoying a few drinks together, you would have never looked twice at our record... until the Dallas trip. There is the comfort to be sarcastic, tell a dirty joke or even make a lascivious about someone else. By now I knew the all of the good regarding Alana and Simon's marriage, as only a close friend and colleague would know; and a significant amount of the less-than-good. Let's just say that Simon can be a bit stuffy and leave it at that. Alana's not exactly a free spirit, but she does like to kick up her heels once in a while and the good doctor apparently cramps her style in that direction.
The seminar concluded early. It might have had something to do with the snores of the guy from Buffalo throughout the day and a half, leaving Alana and me to a leisurely afternoon and evening prior to the flight home on the next day. I suggested we obtain sustenance at a nice little restaurant featuring hamburgers, hot wings, cold beer and busty waitresses. After enduring some mild accusations of male chauvinism and salaciousness, Alana agreed to join me. Not that she was opposed to the place; as her junior year of college had been partially financed with tips earned at one of the busiest locations this chain had in Denver. Meeting the good doctor-to-be had motivated her to move to a different restaurant with a slightly more sedate clientele.
Is there any better way to take nourishment than to be in the midst of big screen TV's with 24 hour sports and comely waitress in tight tops? I don't thing so, but then I've been married for 16 years and I don't really get out on my own a lot. Change the number of years in that thought and you might here the same words delivered by the voice of my beautiful colleague. It's her one complaint about the good doctor that I've had to endure more than I'd like. Not that she admires the waitresses in the same fashion I do, but Alana will tell you that sometimes it's more appealing to sip a cold beer and munch fries in front of a satellite-fed Australian Rules Football telecast. Picture her at the hospital holiday reception, trying to balance appetizers and a martini while making small talk about hospital politics - not a happy camper!
The beer loosened our tongues while the 38d's of our waitress loosened my imagination. By mid-afternoon, we elected to move our conversation to a different location. It was Alana that noticed the Doll Factory and suggested we take advantage of the happy hour twofers. This represented a new facet in our relationship, and one that certainly had my interest. So we parked the car and marched in, arm in arm. The girl at the door waived us in, something about a "complimentary couples admission" and we took a seat at a table. It wasn't a large club, but there were three stages, two empty during the late afternoon slack time, with one currently featuring a fine looking dancer of African-American heritage. During the next two rounds I was treated to more of the quality conversation that I'd come to expect from Alana, along with a fascinating critique of each dancer's performance style. Most of the criticism ranged from faint praise to sardonic putdowns, with our waitress adding her two cents worth from time to time - usually in agreement with Alana. I couldn't resist asking the waitress why she wasn't on stage, receiving the reply "Sweetie, with my lack of rhythm, I can make more money lying down with my legs spread than standing up to music! But I can tell that your girlfriend here could be a star if she put her mind to it."
Okay, backpedaling time! Too much information!
But while I tried to think of how to extricate myself from this exchange, Alana came out of nowhere and exclaimed, "you think so? I've always fantasized about that."
"Well Sugar" our waitress said (ever so sweetly) you should just bring yourself back here tonight for the Amateur Contest and try it out. You never know what might happen."
Alana demurred at this point, and shortly thereafter, my heart started pumping with a regular beat. One more beer and we decided that dinner was a viable option. But she seemed a bit pensive throughout the meal. As we neared the end of dinner, she finally looked up with a grin of lustful determination and announced "I'm going to do it! Are you with me, or are you going to hole up in the hotel?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" I stammered, knowing damn well what she was talking about.
"The Amateur Night! I'm going to dance! Why not? We're out of town, no friends or relatives to stumble in and ruin my reputation, or go squealing back to Simon about me... correct?" The look in her eye promised physical mayhem if I even contemplated telling her husband. As if...
Why not indeed? We gathered our things and returned to the hotel, with a stop at Shannon's Sensuous Toys and Fashions on the way to obtain the correct "apparel" for such a performance. Watching Alana shop was an experience in itself. She passed on my suggestion of the pink lace teddy; or I should say that she demurred at my suggestion that she model the pink lace teddy. With that in mind, I didn't even bother pressing for a sizing of the g-string that we picked out, red sparkles that would glitter like crazy in the stage light. Mentioning a red blouse back in her hotel room that she could adapt, she finally decided that the only additional requirement for her performance ensemble was a tiny black leather micro-skirt. She didn't actually do a runway number with it, however she did strut a short distance out of the changing room to get my (enthusiastic and supportive) opinion. We made a slow pass by the dildo assortment, during which she looked just a tad wistfully at the various motorized cumbots, then paid for the skirt and g-string and hurried back to the Loew's Anatole Hotel.
At precisely 8:15, I left the elevator and met the sluttiest looking bundle of energy I'd ever seen. "Thank God, you're not late" she said, "I don't want to be late, and the desk clerk keeps eyeing me like I'm some kind of hooker!"
"Well, my dear Alana, you do match the description, somewhat."
"I know" she purred, "but I don't want to pass up this opportunity by getting busted in the lobby!" Now there was something I hadn't thought of.
We drove back to the Doll Factory, arriving to find the parking lot a little more crowded than it had been during the afternoon. "Sure you want to go through with this?" I asked. But there was no opportunity for an answer as my curvaceous friend was already out of the car and headed for the door.
This time, I got dinged for a five dollar admission fee, while Alana entered free based upon her signature on the contestant's entry form. All three stages were in use now, showcasing some lovely dancers, one with marvelous moves on the stripper pole. Alana looked as determined as ever.
We had time for a drink, "a little Dutch courage" as she called it; then the manager retrieved her and the other contestants for their instructions. They could go completely topless but there had to be at least a thong or g-string on the bottom. Removal of bottom - either fully or partially - was not condoned by the club, and could result in the arrest of the dancer if the cops were in the house. However... wink, wink... it could also generate greater enthusiasm on the part of the audience, resulting in more points. In other words, a flash of gash just might be what it takes to win.
The number of contestants wasn't great, but the quality was. As gorgeous as Alana is, winning would not be easy. At that point in time, I didn't even realize that winning was even on her mind, having been treated to an almost professorial lecture from her on the "naked in front of an audience" fantasy she'd always savored. But, as the first girl stepped up to the stage, I couldn't help notice an expression on Alana's face that reminded me of those moments before a business preparation. "Omigod... she's in this to win" I thought to myself.
There wasn't a great deal of diversity in the contestant pool that night. Four blondes (including my friend) and one spectacular brunette. The judging criteria called for the award of point based upon three criteria: noise generated, tips earned onstage, and the vote of a distinguished panel consisting of the manager, and two customers. During the introductions, I might have been inclined to give the nod to the brunette just for her singularity, but I reminded myself that I had to be partisan and true. My initial preference for "Molly from Grapevine" proved insightful, as she seemed to gather the most enthusiasm during the introductions. Alana only looked at me with a look of determination that made me uncomfortable in more places than one.
The first two performers went through their sets with enthusiasm, but with only borderline talent at best. Let's face it, a killer body and flashy tits can only take you so far. Their looks would have been sufficient to take either one of them back to my hotel room, but given the restrictions of the setting, a little dancing ability was needed. Alana and another competitor studied each of them, meanwhile I couldn't help but notice that the brunette was nowhere to be found. It may have been just a coincidence that the bartender was on break at the time, relieved by one of the waitresses. But then again, wasn't this an odd time to be back in the office?
The third dancer raised the bar considerably - to almost 40 inches, if you know what I mean - and it was obvious that she knew the difference between the rhythm of dance and the rhythm of contraception (did I mention dancer number two's bikini scar?). She was also far more relaxed and clearly more approachable than the others were. Following the same three song format as the regular dancers, she avoided the novice trap of not pacing herself. Contestant number one was apparently in a rush to get down to her g-string, leaving her with too much time to deliver her goods to the stage-side denizens. Number two might have suffered an attack of modesty, taking forever to remove the bikini top she'd brought with her, and not doffing her miniskirt until the very end of her set - a terrible faux pas, she should have stripped off the skirt first and then the top. Amateurs!
But number three, Barb from DeSoto, was polished. She was easily at ease both in the middle of the stage and with a tipper's face between her boobs. Alana was going to have her work cut out for her!
She was up next, so I replaced a skinny guy sporting a dungeons and dragons tattoo (what's up with that?) on his arm when he left his seat at the stage in search of the john. The difference between Alana (introduced as Sabrina from Arlington) and the rest of the field was immediately apparent. With a face flushed with sexual excitement, she pounced onto the stage to driving beat of Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love." After four years as business associates, I had probably begun to take her looks for granted. But seeing her on stage, wearing the black leather micro with red blouse loosely tied in front, accessorized with her favorite Chicago-style leather boots was tantamount to a revelation. The blouse barely contained her boobs, making her a certified jiggle queen. Damn she looked good!
She used the Palmer song to demonstrate her dancing ability, managing to flirt with every man in the joint in the process. Near the end, she got one lucky guy to unzip her skirt, with him copping a brief feel of vulva in the process. By the time that the skirt slowly slithered down her legs there wasn't an empty chair at or near the stage. The way it rode the curve of her hips made her legs look even longer. Of course the black boots didn't hurt either.
The next musical selection, "Brick House" by The Commodore's kept the energy level up, but allowed her to get up close and personal with her new fans along the stage, and the tips started to pile up. New decibel levels of crowd noise were reached when red top practically melted off of her, releasing two of the most perfect tits I'd ever seen.
More than one paying patron was delighted to experience the perfumed valley between her tatas. I would have paid just to see the look on her face when the first guy sucked a nipple into his mouth, lingering and savoring it longer than I ever thought she'd allow. She was enjoying this!
As she moved toward the end of the second song, we gave a brief demonstration of that typical Nasdom, Henry and Nasdom Ad Agency commitment to teamwork, she enlisted me in the removal of the thong, leaving her with only the g-string as final barrier between Alana and the indecent exposure ordinances of Dallas. Hmmm... now that I think of it, the thong must have come from her suitcase. I know she didn't purchase it with the g-string and micro-skirt. In any case, I've been good with my mouth, and our level of eye contact as I pulled it down her legs with my teeth gave me the first real hint of what was to occur later in the evening.
Tom Jones provided the final built of musical muse, "You Can Leave Your Hat On", a slinky classic if ever there was one! Prior to now, she had been shaking her ample bosom in front of the paying customers, in varying degrees of proximity, and showing off every other delectable body part she could. It was my turn again for some special attention. She leaned over, conveniently allowing her breasts to fall into my open hands as they lay palms up on the stage and kissed my ear, pausing long enough to say "I have NEVER been this turned on... NEVER." Then, spinning around on all fours, she presented her world class rear for my personal viewing enjoyment. This was the rear that had been parked next to mine in so many airline and lobby seats, and now here it was in all of its naked glory, just inches from my lips. Peering down between her legs, she reacted to my enraptured smile by reaching around and inserting her middle finger two knuckles deep into her pussy. It practically dripped with lust syrup, offering no visible resistance to her probing digit. She followed this by sucking her glistening fluid from her finger, staring so deep into my eyes that I temporarily forgot my name... location and ... well... I forget.
The crowd went wild, and I was now officially, irretrievably in lust! One guy got a little too carried away with his effort to study her vaginal perfume, which earned him an assist to the parking lot courtesy of Fredo the bouncer. Meanwhile the dancers on the other two stages had taken to shouting more encouragement, giving Alana even more encouragement (as if she needed any at this point). She finished the set in a prone position, her legs resting on one guy's shoulders with her ass and pussy almost too close to his face to be legal.
It would be good at this point to say that Molly from Grapevine didn't stand a chance, however it seems that she had stacked the deck. Oh, her performance on stage was every bit as enjoyable as Alana's. I don't know if her costume was supposed to be a swim suit, or whether she had just taken a couple pieces of maroon cloth, tied and wound it between her legs and over her neck, but the effect was awesome. My personal highlight was the flash of bald beaver that she shared with me and the geek to my left (hey... I was being true to Alana, I only tipped a dollar with the intent of delaying her from earning more). I should also note that I wasn't the only one at the stage to discern that Molly knew how to use a razor in intimate places. It's a wonder the rubber band that held the little triangle in place didn't break with the number of times that it was pulled aside. By now, I had been joined by one of the regular dancers, who seeing my interaction with Alana came to the conclusion that I had the potential for adding to her own personal income portfolio. With her manicured nails stroking my inner thighs painfully close to my balls, she offered a fascinating expert commentary on what each of the girls had done right, or wrong.