by Joanna Angel
“I want you,” I said. Such a generic thing to say, but sometimes it’s the only thing to say. People far more poetic than me have used the same phrase to express their carnal desires. The Beatles. Marvin Gaye. Bob Dylan, to name a few, and now me, in this strip club bathroom. It’s the lyrical equivalent of, “I really really want to have sex with you, right fucking now.”
“Aww fuck, babe. My cock is raging hard right now.”
“Keep stroking it,” I said. I was angry at his hands—I wanted my mouth and my pussy to be the only things that could make his cock raging hard. At least, in my own bedroom. I wanted to swallow his cock, I wanted him to fuck my face, and I’d never wanted anyone to do that to me until this very moment. It must have been something about the glitter and the dingy bathroom and the fact that I was lying that made me feel so dirty, and it was incredibly frustrating that I couldn’t release this newfound sluttiness all over Rob’s cock. All I could do instead was cling for dear life to the cell phone between my ear and my shoulder, with one hand on my gushing pussy.
“Are you touching yourself in the bathroom at work?” he laughed.
“Maybe,” I replied.
“You should’ve had me come over there. I could’ve fucked your pussy in the back of that coffee shop.”
Uggggh. The image of Rob fucking me over a bag of beans while a bunch of snooty Hell’s Kitchen residents complained about the density of the foam in their lattes flashed through my mind. Then the image of Rob fucking me over this toilet in my heels and stripper dress—the two fantasies jumped back and forth in my brain like I was flipping between porn on two different channels and I couldn’t decide which one was better. The innocent barista getting railed in the back? Or the slutty stripper getting pounded in the bathroom? Hmm. This was a tough decision that I actually didn’t have to make, because this was phone sex, and anything could happen in my head.
“I’d fucking love that,” I said.
“Don’t toy with me. I’ll come over there right now and do it—I don’t give a shit. I’ll walk right in with my boner and fuck you.”
He would, probably. Guys in bands have some superhuman ability to have sex anywhere, and not ever get in trouble for it. Now I was even more turned on, and while I was really enjoying this bad barista fantasy, I had to keep it in check seeing as how I wasn’t actually at the coffee shop.
“Oh come on! Don’t get me in trouble!” I giggled.
“But I want to,” he said. I could hear his breathing progressively getting heavier, and then turning to grunting and groaning. That was good news, not only because he had the sexiest grunts and groans in the universe, but also because he was obviously not on his way out the door to head to a coffee shop with a boner.
I slid two fingers into my pussy.
“Rob, I want you to stay in my room and fuck the shit out of me as soon as I get home. I want to walk through the door, and I don’t want you to say hi, I don’t want a kiss, I don’t want a hug, just bend me over and stick your cock inside me. Okay? I want it. I need it again.”
He took a deep breath. It sounded a little different, like his grunts and groans were underwater.
“Hello?” I said. “You there?”
“Oh yeah, I’m here,” he said. It still sounded a bit different.
“Did you put me on speaker?” I asked. It would make sense—he probably needed to use his other hand . . .
“Nope,” he said. He breathed in heavily.
“What are you doing!” I was dying to know.
“I’m sniffing your panties,” he said.
“OH MY GOD!” I replied. “Which panties?” I asked, as if I had sniffable and non-sniffable panties and I wanted to be sure he sniffed the right ones.
“The one’s you wore last night. They were in the bed,” he laughed. Those panties had had a very productive day. They’d walked from Hell’s Kitchen to Times Square, they’d been taken off and put back on at the strip club, then taken off again by Rob. They’d gotten more action than any of my other panties, and now they were getting sniffed by Rob. The thought of him inhaling the scent of my sweat and juices, mixed with a twist of crisp dollar bills, was so gross and sexy and wonderful that it made me finger myself harder in this tiny bathroom. No one had ever sniffed my panties before. What a kinky bastard. I appreciated his honesty, and even pride, in sniffing my panties. The fact that he told me made it hot. Had someone sniffed my panties and NOT told me . . . they would have been a certifiable creep.
I fucked myself with my fingers as hard as I could while keeping the phone against my ear.
“Mmmmm, so fucking good,” he said. “You were real fuckin’ wet in these.”
He knew it. I mean, he knew it before he sniffed my panties, but now there was physical proof of how attracted I was to him. There was no sense in trying to be coy or shy or in playing hard to get. Just take my fucking pussy Rob, it’s yours. You jerk.
“Yeah, I was, and I am now,” I replied. Not that I had any panties to get wet, right now—I just had moisture dripping down my thighs.
I imagined my arms pinned back and Rob bending me over the toilet, sliding his cock in and out of me, holding his hand over my mouth to muffle my voice so no one could hear us. More and more fingers slid inside my pussy as I imagined him fucking me harder.
“Put the phone near your pussy,” he said.
“What? Really?” I replied.
“Yes. Really. I wanna really hear it.”
I moved the phone down so he could hear the sounds of my fingers inside me. I knew it was turning him on, so I fucked myself even harder to make more noise, like I was turning the volume up on my pussy, or something. I kept going, harder and faster. The thought of him listening to me and sniffing my panties back in my bed was driving me crazy.
I kept going until I came. I put the phone back up to my ear so he could hear me moaning.
“Fuck, I’m coming!” I said. I shook, but balanced myself in my heels and still kept the phone against my shoulder. This was the most impressive multitasking I’d ever done, but this orgasm was worth it.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I repeated. It felt like he was right there, but at the same time it was incredibly hot that he wasn’t there—that he was somehow able to get me off without touching me. I mean, yes, my hand did the manual labor, but he did all the work. Like he had possessed my body to masturbate.
It was the kind of orgasm that didn’t leave you satisfied, though. The amuse-bouche of orgasms. It needed to be followed by more orgasms.
I was just contemplating how to get myself off again when someone knocked on the door.
“The fuck is going on in there? If you’re gonna turn tricks, do it in the fucking VIP room. Not here!”
It sounded like Melody, because . . . shit, it was Melody. I hung up the phone. I wiped my leg with the three remaining dried baby wipes on the ground. I collected myself and opened the door. She looked really confused when she saw I was alone.
“Well,” I paused. “I was . . . talking to that dick on my phone,” I said. “I’m sorry.” She had clearly been impressed by that penis, perhaps she’d understand?
“I need to pee,” she replied, pushing past me. “And,” she added, “I’ll take my dress back. I’d rather save it for a girl who actually wants to work.” Then she slammed the door shut behind her.
Abashed, I took off the pink dress and put it next to Melody’s things. I stood in the dressing room naked, listening to the thumps of the music from the club. I wasn’t sure what to do. The irony of having nothing to wear at a strip club made me chuckle, but it was actually a problem.
What the hell was I doing here? I hated Times Square. I was the one at parties who sat in the corner and silently judged the other people dancing. I didn’t like anything sparkly and pink, and even if I did, that didn’t matter because that dress had been stricken from my wardrobe as quickly as it had been added.
Melody walked out of the bathroom. She stood right next to me, looked in the mirro
r, and sprayed herself with some strawberry-scented spray. She made no eye contact with me whatsoever, like I was a ghost. The ghost of LeClaire. The French stripper, who wasn’t French. And wasn’t a stripper, if we’re being honest.
My phone rang. It was Rob. I turned the sound off, but he continued to call. I looked at the screen, the missed calls. I stared at the dick pic. All I really wanted right now was another orgasm, and I didn’t want it to be in that small bathroom. At this point, I wasn’t even sure if I’d be allowed back in there. Melody may have blacklisted me from the bathroom.
I put my stonewashed jeans and oversized V-neck back on. I grabbed my makeup and my torn American flag bikini and threw them in my Trader Joe’s bag. I walked back through the club, through the empty coat room, and toward the door. No one stopped me—no one even knew what the hell I was doing there in the first place. As soon as my feet hit the busy sidewalk, I grabbed my phone and texted Rob.
“Got off early, I’ll see you soon xo.” I laughed to myself, remembering how I did get off early.
Perhaps one day I’d tell my grandkids about the time I almost became a stripper, or kind of was a stripper? Until then, I’d leave my short-lived adventure at Club 42 a secret. I’d find another coffee shop job somewhere, or maybe I’d try to work at a bar, or maybe I’d figure out how to actually use my degree, or maybe . . . I’d come back tomorrow and try this all over again.
I headed toward the subway, which would take me to another subway, which would take me home to Brooklyn, to sit on Rob’s cock.
Good-bye Club 42. It’s been real.
THE END
To go back and follow Melody, turn to page 146.
I followed Melody as she ran down the stairs into the strip club part of the strip club. Yes, she ran down the stairs in her stiletto high heels, and thankfully, because my heels were not nearly as adventurous as hers, I managed to keep up. I had no idea that finding a new friend here would unwillingly enlist me in some sort of Ninja Warrior balance challenge. I panted and took a moment to catch my breath. Melody smiled at me.
“Good job!” she said.
I wanted to ask her why we had to run so fast, but I was catching my breath, which was still full of secondhand bong smoke. She pointed at the DJ booth, which was beaming all of those light colors he’d been previously testing. I guess it’s safe to say, they passed with er . . . um . . . flying colors. Anyways, amongst all the proudly working lights I saw the DJ look at us, nod, and scribble something on a whiteboard. What the hell was going on?
“TJ puts the girls on stage in the order of who get down here first,” Melody said. “So you always wanna get down here as fast as possible, before all the good guys gets snatched up for a lap dance.”
“Got it!” I said, and I nodded even though I still had a myriad of questions, the most pressing being: how did a DJ ever get the name TJ, and was it a coincidence or intentional?
“Fuck! God damn it Natasha. What a hustler. She’s always here first,” Melody said, looking at a chaise lounge near the bar where a buxom blonde in white thigh-highs rubbed her ass cheeks against the crotch of a dignified-looking businessman. I used my deductive logic and assumed this was a lap dance.
I made a mental note from my quick stripper tutorial. Get down here fast, so you can go on stage fast, so you can give someone a lap dance fast . . . well the lap dance wasn’t fast—from the looks of Natasha, it was actually quite sensual—but the selection of a crotch had to be fast. Aside from a DJ named TJ, everything made sense to me.
A rush of men in various well-tailored suits suddenly flooded the room and the next few hours were a blur. I’d go on stage, I’d dance, I’d pick a target, I’d flirt, I’d lap dance. It was like speed dating, but the date was three to five minutes of intense dry humping, and the hobbies you talked about included ass-shaking, seductively dancing to songs you don’t really like in front of strangers, and spreading your vagina lips open as wide as they could possibly go.
I was high on myself. As more money littered the stage, my dances became more dirty, more sensual, and less inhibited. I wanted to show these men every last crevice of my vagina, and I wanted them to see it from every possible angle.
I would dance, I would sweat, I would “shower” with baby wipes and Melody’s “Japanese Blossom Body Spray” (she told me I could make myself comfortable using it). I gave lap dance after lap dance, and at a certain point I stopped saying, “Would you like a dance?” and started saying, “Come on, you’re next, let’s go!” Everyone agreed, when ordered, and followed me into the darkness to get dry humped. It was like a day at Fix when every customer loved their coffee, left a tip in the tip jar, and told me to have a nice day—only a day like that never happened, obviously.
I have to admit, I felt victorious when I felt the customers’ cocks get hard in their pants. Sometimes they’d get so hard I could get a true mental image of what was behind the curtain. I could feel the girth, the length, I could tell if it curved, I could even tell if it was circumcised by how pronounced the head of the penis was. Some guys enjoyed small talk, some guys didn’t. Some treated me like a girlfriend, some treated me like a whore. Some needed love, and some needed a good smack in the face, and I was happy to be of service to anything that got that cock hard.
My Trader Joe’s grocery bag was swelling with money. I mean, obviously it wasn’t completely full, because if you’ve ever had a Trader Joe’s grocery bag yourself you know, it’s a big fucking bag. Dollar bills from the stage and twenties from the lap dances accumulated in the same place where I transported discounted produce. If things kept going the way they were, I could possibly upgrade and get my produce from the boutique natural market near the train station . . . or perhaps even from a Whole Foods.
The stream of customers dwindled down as the lunch rush went back to work. I noticed a stream of girls leaving the floor and heading toward the staircase that led to the dressing room. I circled around the same four men, asking them if they would like a dance for the sixth time. Their polite rejections were getting more frank and less polite. “No thank you” was turning into “no,” and one guy actually got up and left when he saw me heading in his direction.
Melody walked over. I felt like I hadn’t seen her in ages, but it had only been about two hours and we’d been in the same room the whole time. She peeked into my grocery bag. She herself had an elastic garter wrapped around her ankle with a giant wad of cash rubber-banded around it. It didn’t look like a safe way to carry your money, and certainly would be an impossible way to carry produce.
“Well, you had some beginner’s luck! That’s for sure!” she said.
“That wasn’t luck. That was skill!” I said.
“Ohhhh right.” She smiled and brushed back her mermaid hair. “Well, you came in here blushing over a giant cock on your phone. Clearly you’re not a prude! There was a little slut inside you just waiting to come out.”
I felt a wave of guilt, and I didn’t like it. I’d forgotten about Rob . . . and his dick pic . . . and my entire life outside of this club.
“Well, you’d better go get changed. The night shift girls are gonna start coming in soon, and I’d advise you to get your stuff out of the dressing room if you don’t want it drenched in hair gel.”
“Really?” I said.
“Oh yeah,” she replied. “It’s their polite and friendly way of telling you that your shift is over and to get the fuck out.”
“But . . .” I stammered.
“But what?” she said.
“But . . . who still uses hair gel?” I said.
“They do,” she laughed. “Come on, let’s go get changed out of our whore clothes, and we can exchange our singles for big bills up front.” She peeked in my reuseable grocery bag. “I have a feeling you’re gonna have a lot of them.”
She pulled me up the stairs, with my sweaty hand in her sweaty hand, both of us reeking of the same cheap perfume—ahem, I mean body spray—with a bag full of cash on my shoulder, and I guess
it wasn’t so surprising that I started humming Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.”
After piles of sweaty crumpled bills went through a money counter, I was handed six crisp one-hundred dollar bills, two twenties, a five, and four singles. I had never made this much money in one afternoon, ever. Was this common? If I made this amount of money every day, I’d be in the same tax bracket as the strip club customers, and then I’d have to find a strip club to go to myself.
I took out my phone and almost cried as I clicked open the Lyft app, something I only used to go a few blocks when it was pouring rain or hailing ice and I was intoxicated in Brooklyn. I was choosing to spend fifty-two dollars over a two dollars and fifty cent subway ride just because I felt like it. This must have been how it felt to be Cardi B.
“What’s your address? I’ll add a stop!” I said to Melody. We were both sitting outside of Club 42. She was dressed in denim leggings, aka “jeggings,” Vans high tops, and a washed-out Iron Maiden tour T-shirt. I would believe she legitimately went to the concert, and didn’t just buy the T-shirt at a vintage clothing store or on Etsy or something.
She gave me her address, which was in the slightly more residential side of the neighborhood. “Make sure to share the ride with me so we can split it,” she said.
“No! I got it!” I replied.
She paused, and then chuckled to herself. “Ah, you feel rich right now, don’t you?”
“Yes. I AM rich right now,” I replied, only half joking.
“Well, alright then, big baller, I’ll take it!”
A 2019 Toyota Camry driven by someone named Josh pulled up moments later and picked us up. I had multiple unanswered calls and texts from Rob. People always say that if you slightly avoid someone, they chase after you more, a theory I’d never been able to test because I was always the one chasing. Usually, playing hard to get consisted of waiting an incredibly agonizing twenty minutes to answer a text, and then patting myself on the back for how independent and strong and busy I must have appeared in those twenty minutes. I put my phone in my pocket and didn’t text him back.