stripping and irony

Part two of my friends going away celebration was last night. It started off at the usual after-work watering hole, but since it's been over two years since I worked at this company, the people have changed and I found myself once again around a bunch of people I don't know. But B. was there and while the beginning of the evening might have been a bit dull, the second part turned out much better with a trip to The Pussycat Lounge.

B and I made ourselves comfortable at the bar and found ourselves in front of the coolest girl in the place: a cute little thing, with short cropped black hair and an awesome scarification of a spider web between her tiny tits. She had a slim, tight little body, an entirely edible ass and a wicked smile. The rest of the gang did their best not to look at the gyrating, half-naked bodies and clustered together chatting. I just think that's rude, honestly. I mean, these girls are up there showing there stuff trying to make some money here. The very least you can do is watch for a while, smile and hand them some bills! Stop being such fucking tourists!

It reminds me of a conversation I had with my cousin. She's a pilot and I asked her if the flight attendants care that no one pays any attention to them while they're doing the safety presentation. "Yes!" she said passionately. "It really bothers them!" So now, I make a point to put down my magazine and watch the demo, even though I've seen the routine a million times and know it by heart.

The girls in our group clutched their drinks and tried not to look as desperately uncomfortable as they were, the guys looked guilty. Meanwhile, B. and I were slowly draining our wallets, dollar bill by dollar bill. She came over to us and hung out for a while during her break. Mission accomplished! We chatted for a while about this and that, about the club, the other girls there and living in NYC. She was sweet and smart and charming and had us both wrapped firmly around her finger.

After a while, I said "I don't want to keep you from work." I noticed an older business man flirting with her.

"That's okay." she said, scooting closer to us. "I'd rather hang out with you cool guys." Of course, I bought her a drink. I'm a sucker, I know. I can't help it.

B. and I were the last of the group to leave. He hopped in a cab and I wandered around Wall Street trying to find an open subway entrance. The sidewalks were deserted and wet with rain. I thought of the fuck buddy I used to have who lived down there and the nights when I would get lost in the twisting streets trying to find his apartment in the brick and granite forest, my underwear wet with anticipation, my clit aching, my heart beating fast with excitement. I remembered the early mornings when I would stumble out into the street with the first batch of business people just starting their day. I would shuffle to the subway blissfully exhausted, my hair a wreck, mascara smeared, my body aching and come on my breath.

I stumbled into bed insanely horny. I haven't seen Ben in over a week and I'm having the weirdest period ever. I grabbed my handy dandy utility vibe for a quickie to help me sleep, but it took me forever to come. Maybe because my dinner consisted of mostly whiskey and a few stale Tostitos. In my drunken stupor my mind wandered: it started with me fisting the stripper on the stage in front of an audience of lecherous businessmen. This blended into Ben fucking me on his sofa while he spit on my face calling me a slut. It concluded with Jefferson grinding a Hitachi on my pussy and commanding me not to come, which I find kind of funny.