“Eew, eew, eew,” I whisper in PJ’s ear, squeezing my eyes closed and pretending like that man did not just compliment my butt and suggest I give him a lap dance next.
The disgust starts to creep its way into my consciousness, but it quickly disappears when PJ’s hands slide from my hips to clutch my butt, pulling me down harder onto his lap. I forget all about the man standing behind us when I swivel my hips again, and the very hard, very large lump in PJ’s pants, which wasn’t there a few seconds ago, rubs up against me.
I continue moving, slowly and seductively, on PJ’s thighs, rubbing myself against the impressive hardness in his pants with each roll of my hips. The tips of his fingers dig into my backside, and I hear a small groan come from his mouth, smiling to myself when he stutters over his next words.
“I’m . . . it’s . . . she’s new. Still . . . learning the ropes. Maybe next time.”
I loosen my hold around his neck, dig my knees into the bench and slowly slide my body down his thighs, pressing myself down harder on his erection and rubbing my breasts against his chest as I come back up and seat myself back in his lap.
“F-u-u-u-u-u-ck . . .” PJ mutters under his breath, when I resume rotating my hips, raising myself up on my knees and away from him as my body continues to move.
He tightens his hold on my hips and quickly slams me back down on top of him, making me let out another tiny whimper when I feel him between my legs again.
“Make sure you train her right,” Vincent speaks again. “I should have sent my son to you before he married that gold digger of his, let me tell you.”
His words break through the seductive, happy little bubble I’ve enclosed myself in, and I hear myself growl angrily against PJ’s ear as I begin to pull myself off his lap to give Vincent a piece of my mind.
PJ quickly wraps both of his arms completely around my body, holding me tightly against him and refusing to let me move. I can feel the strong, fast beat of his heart against my breasts, which are smashed into his chest, and I concentrate on that instead of throwing a punch at a man in his sixties in the middle of a strip club.
I close my eyes and keep my cheek pressed against PJ’s, rubbing it gently against his stubble, and feel the rumble in his chest as he speaks to Vincent, saying whatever he can to brush him off politely. With one arm still banded tightly around me, PJ softly runs the palm of his free hand up and down my spine. After being clenched so hard in preparation of launching myself off of his lap to scream at the man who just won’t shut up behind me, my muscles immediately loosen and my body sinks back down onto PJ’s lap. I escape right back into my happy little bubble when I feel how hard he still is, despite how annoying Vincent’s voice is. I completely block Vincent from my mind as my body starts moving against PJ again, all on its own, because my body knows a good thing when it feels it.
Vincent says something about calling PJ later this week, but I barely hear him. PJ doesn’t even answer him, he just slides his hands down my bare thighs and then back up to hold my hips, helping me move against him until I’ve completely forgotten everything that just happened and have no idea when, or how long ago, Vincent walked away. I’ve lost all concept of time, and I’ve turned into nothing but a big ball of pent-up sexual frustration who wants nothing more than to let the world disappear and just feel.
I hear the sexy beat of whatever song is being played for the current dancer on stage and everything else fades away. I forget that I’m in a public place and people are probably watching us, I forget about my friends, I forget about my former father-in-law, I forget about my problems, and I forget about never having what it takes to be a stripper. I listen to the music and I move to the beat. I breathe in the man whose lap I’m sitting on and forget that he killed my dreams just moments ago. I forget about everything but the way it feels to be pressed up against him, how empowering it is to know I turned him on and made him forget how to speak, and how long it’s been since I last had an orgasm.
The heat from his body radiates against my own flushed skin and despite that, I still break out in goosebumps when he turns his face into the side of my neck and I can feel his warm breath panting against me as I continue my slow, seductive dance on his lap.
My entire body is on fire and there’s a tingling between my legs I almost don’t recognize, since I can’t remember the last time I felt anything even closely resembling want and need. I thrust my hips harder and faster against PJ, chasing that feeling and never wanting it to end. He jerks against me, his own hips lifting up to meet mine, pressing himself harder between my legs as I continue to swivel and slide and move around in his lap to the beat of the music, wanting nothing more than the sweet oblivion of release. I want to feel the shiver that starts at my toes, works its way up my body and explodes between my thighs. I want to tear off his shirt and claw my nails down his back when I see stars and shout his name at the top of my lungs. I want to experience everything I’ve been missing out on my entire life that my ex never gave me, and that I’ve only read about in romance novels or seen in the pornography I purchased, which I may or may not have watched alone in the privacy of my own bedroom with the shades drawn and all the lights out before throwing the DVDs in the trash and pretending they’d never been in my home.
PJ’s arm tightens around my body, one of his hands sliding up and tangling into my messy bun, clutching my hair tightly in his fist, causing my hips to jerk against him with how good it feels.
Oh my God, it feels so good.
He curses under his breath again with his lips right against my ear, and the sound of him losing control pushes me closer and closer to the edge. I want to tell him to tug on my hair harder, move his hips faster, stand up and walk me over to the closest wall and push me up against it, anything to make this ache between my legs disappear and finally make me topple over into an ocean of bliss.
I want the ocean of bliss. I deserve the ocean of bliss.
“I knew it! I knew you’d get off on having your hair pulled!”
The sound of Ariel’s voice has me immediately disembarking the plane to Orgasm Town in a frantic crash landing, and scrambling off PJ’s lap just as quickly as I got on it a few minutes ago. I am less than graceful in unstraddling PJ. My knee smacks right into his groin and my elbow clocks him on the chin as I go. Ariel is completely oblivious to my mortification. She flops down on the bench right next to me while PJ leans forward with both of his hands between his legs, moaning in pain as I get myself situated next to him, cross my legs, clasp my hands over my knee, and pretend like I didn’t just almost get off in the middle of a packed club, with a man who is practically a stranger, a man who irritates me with his arrogance and thinks I lack the confidence to be a stripper.
“Soooooo, what have you kids been up to?” Ariel asks with a wide grin, looking back and forth between PJ and me when he finally stops whimpering like a child and sits up.
I try not to let my humiliation get worse when PJ calmly leans forward to grab his drink from the table, and I see a bottle of Moscato sitting in an ice bucket that Jennifer must have quietly dropped off while I was obliviously gyrating in PJ’s lap.
While PJ takes a sip of his drink, Eric walks over to our table and starts talking business with PJ, momentarily distracting him. I silently give Ariel a wide-eyed “If you say one more word about what you just saw I will take you outside, rip your arm off and beat you with it” look.
She sighs and shakes her head at me. It’s uncanny how easily she can read me after not knowing me for very long.
“Fine. I’ll change the subject. But I’m not going to forget about this. You will tell me everything about why you walked over here an hour ago just to talk business and suddenly I find you riding him like Seabiscuit. Hashtag, never forget. Hashtag, ride his pony. Hashtag, you’re a dirty slut,” she whispers, making a hashtag sign with the first two fingers on both of her hands before leaning forward to look around me and at PJ.
“So, PJ. There’s this story I heard about whe
re a stripper gave a guy chlamydia when she pissed in his eye. Eye chlamydia, if you will. Have any of your strippers ever given a man Clam-Jam Eyeball?” Ariel asks, making me groan, close my eyes and drop my head into my hands as Eric laughs at her question.
This is definitely not what I meant when I wanted Ariel to change the subject.
“You’re adorable,” Eric tells her.
“I’d like to strike my question from the record,” Ariel says as I open my eyes to find her glaring at Eric. “Tell me, does it burn when you pee? Wait, that’s dick chlamydia. Does it burn when you cry like a little girl?”
PJ coughs as he tries to cover up a laugh.
“My dancers are all clean. I’m sure that’s just some sort of weird, urban legend or something,” PJ tells her.
“It’s not an urban legend. It’s all true! True, true, true! True is a funny word. Truuuuuuuuuuue,” Belle says, crossing her eyes to try and look down at her mouth as she speaks while Beast removes his giant arm from around her tiny body and gently deposits her on the bench on the other side of PJ.
“She’s drunk,” Beast mutters in annoyance, stating the obvious as Belle’s head flops down onto PJ’s shoulder.
“It happened in Thailand,” Belle speaks up again, her head still resting on PJ as she holds her hand up in front of face and stares mesmerized at her fingers as she wiggles them. “A bunch of guys were having a party in a hotel room and they hired strippers. One of the strippers urinated on one of the guys and the next day, he woke up blind. They took him to the hospital and found out he had chlamydia in his eyes. Did you know people who enjoy golden showers are called urophiliacs? I don’t think I’d like to be peed on. . . .”
Belle trails off as Beast points his finger at Ariel and me.
“Keep a better eye on her next time. I’m not a fucking babysitter.”
Ariel and I both shiver in fright at the anger in his words and the look on his face, but Belle’s head pops right up from PJ’s shoulder and she smacks the finger that he’s still aiming right at us.
“Don’t be mean,” Belle tells him in a stern voice.
The two of them silently stare at each other, neither one of them backing down until Beast finally lets out another irritated growl, and turns and stomps away. Eric gives us all a wink and wave before following him.
Ariel slides out of the bench and rounds the table, grabbing Belle’s arm and pulling her up from her spot next to PJ. Belle starts swaying as soon as she’s on her feet, and Ariel wraps both arms around her.
“I’m gonna take her outside for some fresh air. It’s almost curfew for our drunk little librarian. I’ll call an Uber and meet you out there,” Ariel tells me, making a point to widen her eyes and nod her head in PJ’s direction, indicating that she’s giving me a few minutes alone with him. Then she turns and helps Belle walk through the club and to the door.
I don’t want to talk about what I did, and I certainly don’t want to talk about it with the man I did it with. Scooting away from PJ, I stand up from the bench and avoid eye contact with him as I try to smooth out the wrinkles in my silk tank top.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I reply lamely as I turn away from him, almost wanting to roll my eyes at how ridiculous I sound.
“Cin, wait!” PJ shouts as I continue moving away from him.
“Don’t call me Cin!” I shout like a petulant child over my shoulder, wishing Ariel were still here to help me come up with better comebacks.
“Sorry, no can do!” he shouts over the music and hum of conversation as he continues following behind me. “I’m gonna keep on calling you Cin because what you just did to me was sinful!”
My steps falter at his words, but I lift my chin and keep on walking.
“I don’t really like it when someone proves me wrong, Cin!” he yells, emphasizing my new nickname as I walk faster, the smile on my face growing as I add a little extra sway to my hips as I go.
Chapter 15: Hairy Troll Vagina
What about party planner, Cin?
Stop calling me Cin. And stop giving me other business ideas. We’re doing this.
You shouldn’t have given me the best lap dance of my life if you didn’t want me calling you Cin. What about interior decorating? Cin.
I’m blocking your number.
“Sweet mother of God where did all your stuff go?” Ariel asks, standing in the doorway of my sitting room, which is now devoid of furniture. I quickly shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans.
“I sold it,” I tell her with a shrug, surprised that I don’t break down into tears as I look around the now-empty room.
The time for crying over my life and my struggles is long gone. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have to do whatever it takes to pay the bills, and right now, selling things we don’t need pays the bills until we get our business up and running. Looking at this empty room with fresh eyes, I realize how pointless this space was. Who even uses a sitting room? No one, that’s who. The only time anyone ever set foot in this room since the day I bought the furniture and decorated it was the day I passed out on the front lawn and I woke up to find Ariel and Belle staring down at me. It was a spotless, impeccably decorated room with white walls, white furniture, and white window treatments. No one ever set foot in this room because Brian never wanted it to get dirty. Anastasia was never allowed to play in here, we never entertained guests in here . . . it was a waste of a room and a waste of very, very expensive furniture that I sold in a local Facebook garage sale group in less than an hour, making enough money to pay the month’s bills.
My phone dings with another incoming text and I sigh in annoyance as I pull it back out of my pocket and shoot off another text to PJ, telling him to stop bothering me.
“Ooooh, sexy man liked your dry hump sesh! Nice!” Ariel says, looking over my shoulder and reading the string of texts from this morning.
“I don’t even know how he got my number,” I complain as I join her in the doorway and we lean against opposite sides. “He’s gotten lap dances from professionals. I’m sure getting one from a housewife was less than thrilling. He’s just saying that to be annoying.”
Hence the need to change his name to “Annoying Man” in my phone. The first message from PJ came a week ago, the morning after our field trip to Charming’s and the morning after an entire night filled with tossing and turning and entirely too many replays of what I did on that man’s lap. At first, the text messages were all about business. Sadly, his idea of discussing business is just giving me other ideas for what we should do. Even when I asked him if we could borrow his strippers for a few hours this weekend for a little more instruction time, he flat out told me no and continued suggesting other ideas. As our communication increased day-by-day, so did his irritating mentions of the lap dance I gave him.
I mean, I could definitely feel that he enjoyed the dance I gave him. I felt it right between my legs. But he’s a man. A hot-blooded, gorgeous, typical man. He probably gets an erection every time the wind blows. I’m sure getting a lap dance from me was not the highlight of his year. Even if it was the highlight of mine.
“He’s totally flirting with you. And I saw that man’s face when I came up to the table and watched you grinding your ass all over him. He was two seconds away from coming in his pants like a fifteen-year-old with his mother’s Victoria’s Secret catalogue,” Ariel says with a laugh. “Have I apologized lately for interrupting you and ruining your chance at an orgasm with a real man?”
I made the mistake of spilling everything to Ariel as soon as we got in the car to drive home from the club that night. I was still on a high from what happened, even though it was terribly embarrassing, and couldn’t stop talking once I started. I also couldn’t stop thinking about how good it felt letting go and doing something crazy, or wondering if it felt so good because of the man I was with or if it would have felt the same with anyone who wasn’t my ex-husband.
“He looks like the kind of man who could go for hou
rs, doesn’t he?” I ask with a dreamy sigh, wishing I could just keep remembering how annoying he is instead of constantly reliving every single moment of straddling his lap, moving against him, the feel of his warm breath against my neck, the curses he muttered in my ear, and how tightly he clenched my hair in his fist.
Is it getting hot in here or is it just me?
“Who wants a man that can go for hours? I’ve got shit to watch on my DVR, and I need my beauty sleep. Get in and get out,” Ariel replies.
“It’s silly that I’m even entertaining any kind of thoughts of what PJ is like in bed. Maybe he did enjoy what happened, and maybe he did see the error of his ways and is trying to make up for it by helping us, but what he’s doing is not helping. He still doesn’t get it. He still doesn’t think I’m cut out for this, even though he claims I proved him wrong. And besides, he’s not even my type.”
Ariel sets her coffee mug down on the counter and raises an eyebrow at me.
“How is he not your type? He’s a hot guy with a penis. That’s every straight woman’s type.”
“He’s not my type because . . . he owns a strip club. I mean, what kind of man decides one day to open a business and says ‘You know what would be a great investment? An establishment where women take their clothes off for money!’? A pervert, that’s who. Someone who likes seeing a bunch of naked women all the time and isn’t satisfied with seeing just one naked woman,” I explain.
“Now who’s being judgmental?” Ariel throws her hands up in the air in annoyance. “You have no idea why he owns a strip club. Maybe he sends all of his money to orphans in Africa or something. And hello? What kind of woman wants to open a business where women go to someone’s home and take off their clothes for money? Desperate women, that’s who. Women who want to take charge of their destiny and do something exhilarating and fun. Brilliant women. Now, take off your clothes.”
Her abrupt change in subject makes me forget about feeling a little guilty that I’m judging PJ without knowing anything about him, just like he’s doing with me.