“Put a dollar between your breasts.”
His mouth never actually touches my skin, but the wash of his breath across my breasts is stimulating enough. He lingers, putting on a good show in the darkened room, his teeth grasping the dollar bill and pulling it straight from my cleavage.
Hands wrap around my rib cage and jostle so my breasts jiggle, eliciting a husky chuckle (or is it a girlish giggle?) from me. He may have buried his face there again, he may not have. A whiskey sour or two on an empty stomach and so little sleep make my memory faulty. I do know he wraps his legs (recently shaved) around my hips and pumps, mimicking the sex we’ll never actually have. Another dollar in his lemon yellow underwear and I let my hands glide up his thighs as he undulates against me.
I grab a handful of ass because the dollars in his underwear say I can. It’s my right when a man this muscled plasters himself to me.
I don’t stop to wonder about how I’m oppressing the men dancing and removing their clothes anymore than I did when I watched the women strip a few weeks ago. My alcohol fuzzed brain can’t help drawing parallels between the two moments in my life, namely that women who strip demand more respect in their nudity. Men don’t scream at them while they circle the pole, remove their bra, reveal their body. It’s a sedate affair while she performs.
But this? This is a spectacle, this is a show. This is women catcalling, being allowed to grope and grab, being bent over chairs and pretending sex. This is women being allowed to go wild and express their enjoyment of a damn fine man. Damn fine men.
It’s funny because many women sport sashes denoting an important event in their lives. Their transition marked by letting their friends buy them drinks to celebrate the fact that they technically can’t do this once the ring is on.
I’m single with a birthday coming up in a matter of days and I happen to enjoy the male form. As that man bends me over that chair, his clothed cock snug against my ass as he performs for more than just me, I can think of no better way to begin the last year of my twenties.
In fact, if the one with the yellow wants to do more than pretend, I’d be happy to play along.