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Bestowal By Adam Gunn I’m winded but I know Christie will keep going. I wave her on, she trots down the firm sand of the Carolina beach. We’ve played this game all week, and I know she’ll go another quarter mile while I rest up, then turn around and together we’ll race back to our starting point. I watch the muscles in her long, strong legs as she pulls away from me, and then, further up, the bottom of her firm gluteus maximus peeking out from the cutoffs she’s wearing. I love the way her blond ponytail swishes first left, then right as she disappears into the haze of the early morning. For two or three minutes I huff and puff, stretching, then dip my hand into the waves and cool my face with a splash of salt water. Less than five minutes have gone by and I sense her approach. The soft golden eyebrows, the length of her aquiline nose with nostrils flaring in exercise, the full lips surrounding perfectly white teeth and, always, the cobalt eyes, the orbs that bore through to my soul. Below her taut neckline and long collarbone lies the amazing midriff surrounding the navel most men would grovel to place their pinkie into. Between her neck and flat stomach, the breasts, the ones I finally know to be flawless. Even though the thick fabric of the athletic bra binds them, I realize just how beautiful they are. Strikingly round where they rise from her breastplate, they climax to the zenith of the rosy aureoles, protruding from the firm flesh, crowned by the tip of her nipple. Women five years younger than she would be proud to have any single part of this Elysian body, but they would sell all they would ever have for simply her breasts. I fall into step beside her and tell her simply, “You’re gorgeous.” “I know,” she replies. “You’d be all right, too, if you’d lose that life preserver.” She’s teasing, at twenty-seven I’m in better shape than any of my friends, studiously avoiding the beer belly I might develop through constant workouts. For another mile we trot wordlessly past the seaside grasses covering the dunes. Finally we halt at our backpack and retrieve the water bottle. She drinks from it first, and then passes it to me. I catch a hint of lipstick in the taste and wish I could kiss her. But I know this is meant to be the impossible dream. We kick off our shoes and stroll into the slight ocean waves till our knees are covered in the water. I started this tradition the first day of our sunrise runs, and she now expects it. She shades her eyes from the glare of the reflected sun with her hand, and catches me admiring her elegance. “You’re thinking of last night.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Yes,” I admit. “You jerked off, thinking about me, didn’t you?” Subtlety has never been one of Christie’s vices. Trying to sound nonchalant, I reply “Of course. Do you mind?” “No, if you hadn’t I think I’d be disappointed. I could be an exhibitionist, you know,” she divulges. “Really? Have you ever done anything like that before?” “Once.” She pauses, and I wait with the ripples of the ocean lapping at my thighs for her confession. “In college I was at Cancun on spring break, and during a wet t-shirt contest a boyfriend persuaded me to go up on stage. When a couple of the other girls ripped off their shirts, I did too.” “Would you do it again?” I prod. “For a long time I thought about being an exotic dancer. I just never got around to it when I was in college, and now it’s too late.” “You wouldn’t do it for a second job?” “Right,” she smirks. “I can just see it now, ‘rising young executive wannabe caught shows the world her bush.’” I reveled in her laughter. “How about private parties?” I ask. “Like for you?” “Sure, why not?” “Maybe I will,” she suggests. “But if I did, you’d have to give me something.” “Like what?” “I’ll think about it. It’ll be something big, though, bet on it.” “Okay,” I promise. I know we’re just teasing, the chances of anything like this happening are infinitesimally small. “But I want to see you go all the way.” “You mean totally nude, not just topless?” She gazes into my eyes. “If he doesn’t object, it’s a deal.” It’s coffee time. We walk the two blocks back to the condominium and enter her uncle’s timeshare. Entering by the patio door, Christie yells into her bedroom, “Get up, lunkhead!” “Why?” Jake sleepily replies. “For one thing,” I holler, “we’ve got an early tee time.” “Shit, I forgot.” Christie and I putter around the kitchen, grabbing the cereal, fruit and juices, putting a pot of coffee on. We’d been sharing this chore every day since we’d arrived, five days before, and I still thrill every time she puts a hand on my arm or we bump together. Left to our own devices I would have put a move on her long ago. Somehow, perhaps telepathically, I get the feeling Christie would probably enjoy the pass, maybe even cooperate, but you simply don’t try to make your best friend’s girlfriend. Well, at least I wouldn’t – you can never tell about Jake. By the time we’ve got everything on the table Jake emerges from the bedroom, dressed in boxers and a shirt that doesn’t quite cover his protruding stomach, his hair uncombed. Christie pours him a cup, quickly kisses him good morning, and sarcastically tells him, “You look great today.” “Shut up,” he replies, only half in jest. “When do we have to leave?” he asks me. I look at the clock. “About twenty-five minutes.” This was typical. Ever since we’d been in grade school together I was the one who prodded Jake, made him get his act together. All our friends in high school thought it was perfect when we got the starring roles in the junior class production of The Odd Couple. I, of course, was Felix, the anal-retentive neatnik. Jake didn’t have to stretch very far to play the boorish Oscar. Now that he’s living with Christie, she’s taking up most of my duties. “What are you going to do today?” Jake asks Christie. “More of the same,” she tells him. “My thesis is coming along nicely.” Christie’s taking night classes to get her MBA and her final hurdle is due in less than two months. “And it looks like it’s going to be a great day. I’ll probably sit out by the pool awhile.” Half an hour later, Jake and I are driving to the golf course. “Shit, she was hot last night,” Jake brags. “She gets so turned on sometimes.” I thought back to the evening. After we watched some chick film on Hulu, Jake threw an X-rated video on and the three of us watched the people on the tube screwing. For a few minutes I felt embarrassed. I mean, I’d never done anything like that with any girl that meant anything to either of us around. But Christie got into it, particularly the part where the woman was stripping. She made the same lewd comments Jake and I always do and after awhile it seemed like old times. Then Jake started making out with her, and I figured if they wanted privacy, they’d go into their bedroom, so I stayed and watched. When Jake took her blouse off and started sucking on her tits, she locked eyes with me and smiled invitingly. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but she soon pulled Jake into the bedroom with a lilting, ‘good night,’ leaving me with her bra and lewd thoughts. Sure, I whacked off, right in the living room, thinking not of the naked people on the screen, but of the couple in the bedroom. “Remember the time the two girls swapped on us?” Jake asks. He probably banged Christie three times last night, but he still wants to talk about other women. “Yeah,” I reply, “The one you were with first needed me to finish her off.” “Screw you,” Jake laughs as he pulls the car up to the bag drop. Seven and a half hours later we get back to the timeshare. I whipped Jake’s butt all over the golf course and we smell, I’m sure, of chicken wings and beer. Christie’s nowhere to be found, and Jake figures it’s time for a nap on the sofa. Sitting in a golf cart all day isn’t my idea of activity so I decide to take a swim and head for the beach. Only a few couples laze in the warm, late afternoon spring sun, only one elderly woman wades in the ocean. I’m not disappointed, I learned the first day we were here that this commune is populated by mostly retired couples escaping the snows of winter. The nearest hope of nightlife is ten miles away, too far for comfort. No, this is a vacation simply to relax. I see a blond reclining in the lee of a dune, and when I approach to within shouting distance I’m sure it’s Christie. This isn’t a clothing optional island, but apparently the restriction hasn’t bothered her; she’s topless. “Hey,” I call from twenty yards. Quickly a hand drops to her cover up, and then she recognizes my voice. I can almost see her shrug, as if musing, ‘he’s seen it before.’ “Hi,” she calls, a slight movement of her hand waving me over. I refuse to quicken my pace, and as I approach I take long looks at her from behind the safety of my sunglasses. Her only adornment is a necklace and her very brief bottoms. Her mons rises between the sharp hipbones and I wonder if she shaves or waxes. Quickly I notice her nipples crinkle, then smooth, as if she’s had a dirty thought she decided to put into a mental drawer. I sit down beside her, facing the ocean, hoping she doesn’t recognize the erection inside my baggy trunks. “What are you doing here?” she joshes. “Just getting some exercise,” I reply. “Had enough of the homework?” “I put four and a half hours into it. Then I started going through my calendar. Listen, did Jake ever get you anything for your birthday last week?” “No, not really. He called, talked about going out one night.” I couldn’t tell her our birthday bashes were over now that he was living with a woman. “It’s okay, really. This trip is sort of a birthday party.” She doesn’t buy it. “Jake told me about some of the things you guys used to do. Is it true you set him up with two girls for his birthday once?” What the hell has Jake been sharing with her? “Yeah,” I admit, a little guiltily. I remember how three years earlier I talked a lady I was going with into getting one of her girlfriends to go out to a swank dinner for Jake’s twenty-fifth. After we went back to our place, the girls started fooling around with each other and stripped naked, sort of a lesbian scene, and then they both did Jake while I just watched and snapped pictures that I printed out. I wonder where he hid them so Christie wouldn’t find them. “Didn’t you mind sharing your girlfriend with him?” Now her nipples are definitely crinkling; I can tell there’s a perverted side to Christie I’ve never seen before. “Linda wasn’t really mine,” I explain. “We were both seeing other people, and it was actually her idea. Haven’t you ever teased a guy you liked?” “Not like that!” she protests. “But you’ve thought about it?” “Sure. Who hasn’t? But I couldn’t afford to do anything like that. The world’s becoming too much of a safe, secure place. Something like that would be too much of a risk.” “I don’t know,” I disagree. “Yesterday, I wouldn’t have thought you were an exhibitionist, yet here you are.” “Yes,” she agrees, a little shyly, “letting my tits hang out for all the world to see. And you know, it doesn’t really bother me. I’ve been like this maybe an hour, and ten or twelve people have walked past. Most of them just ignored me, but two older guys hung around, getting a good view. It was funny, they kept looking out to sea, then they’d sneak another peek. After awhile I thought about inviting them over, just to see what I’d do but they moved on. And it doesn’t bother me that you keep checking me out.” “What do you mean?” I try to act cool, but apparently my wrap around shades aren’t effective. She just laughs. “Yeah, right. Well, anyway, when you see me naked I know what I want.” This is getting serious. For a second, I consider backing off. After all, this is my best friend’s girl. But I remember now he didn’t worry about it when Linda came on to him. And he took a shot at another girl I was dating back in college. If Christie wants to play . . . . “Okay, I’ll bite, what?” “Once I dated a guy, and he really got off by watching me masturbate.” Her body is flushing now, I watch the pinkness spread from her cheeks down to the pointy nipples. I take off my sunglasses and stare frankly at her nudity. “But he’d never do it for me. Will you let me watch you jerk off?” I’m rock hard, I’m ready to do it right now, right here. “You’ve got to help me,” I bargain. “No, no touching. You see me in my birthday suit, I see you come.” “When? Tonight?” “No, I’m still not sure Jake will go for it. Maybe when we get back home.” It’s the classic tactic, she doesn’t really want to do it, just wants to talk about it. Maybe this is the way she gets herself hot for Jake. But I’m not going to burn any bridges. “Expect my call a couple of days after we get back,” I promise. She smiles, pulls her wrap on. Jake still isn’t happy about dinner – he wanted burgers, Christie and I opted for grilled fish – but after four or five beers he’s feeling better about it, lying on the couch. We’re watching some NBA game on the tube, it’s close with twenty minutes to go. Christie’s bored, she’s never been much interested in any spectator sport. “I’m going to take a shower,” she announces. “Take one for me,” Jake suggests. “I’ll take two for you, you need both of them,” she retorts, a little petulantly. She heads into her and Jake’s room and closes the door. Fifteen minutes later, she pops her head out and asks, “Sweetheart, do you have any Q-tips?” “Nope,” he says, absentmindedly. “I’ve got some,” I say. “Let me get them for you.” I head into my bedroom, grab the box and hand it to her. She’s shielded by the door, but I catch a quick glimpse of shoulder and the curve of a bare breast she didn’t try to hide very hard. “Thanks,” she whispers, with the hint of a blown kiss. I return to my chair, notice the bedroom door is slowly swinging open. Jake can’t notice it, he’s facing away from it lying on the sofa. From my vantage point I see a reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door of Christie tweezing her eyebrows. My mouth goes dry as I realize I can see her complete back, all the way down to her stupendous ass. When she turns just the right way, I view a teat in profile and once she turns around so that I should be able to see her abdomen, but it’s concealed by a towel draped over her arm. She cavorts for some time, and I think I’m being treated to a most fortuitous voyeuristic session. Then she puts the towel around her waist, turns and smiles at me in the mirror, and reaches over to close the door. Once more, I’ve been had! With a minute and a half to go in the game and a three-point spread, she emerges from the bedroom, smelling clean and fresh, wearing shorts and a thin blouse. Immediately I can tell she’s decided not to put a bra on. Jake’s yelling and screaming – he’s got a bet on the game – and I watch her pour herself a glass of wine. She sits down next to Jake, making him get up, and silently watches the end of the game with us. When the other team sinks a three-pointer at the buzzer to win by two, Jake could spit nails. He’s hollering, throwing pillows at the set, complaining it was a bad call, all the tricks guys use. For a while, Christie just sits and chuckles at his behavior, and then reaches for the remote control and clicks the set off. “What are we going to do now?” she asks the two of us. Still in a bad mood, Jake snarls, “We could sit around the camp fire and tell stories. It’s boring around here.” “Good idea,” she agrees merrily. “Derek, tell me about the time you two swapped girls.” “Huh?” I reply wittily. I know Jake’s told her about a few of our exploits, but that one’s really out there. “Oh, I’ve got Jake’s side of the story. He tells me about all the other girls he’s had. He loves to impress me that he wasn’t a virgin when we met. But I want to hear how it really happened.” “Well, uh . . . .” I stutter. “It wasn’t really much to talk about,” I try to escape. “Jake, do you hear that? And you told me it was great.” “It was,” he drunkenly retorts. “Go ahead and tell her. Give her whatever she wants.” “I don’t know,” I object. “Oh, come on,” Christie begs. “Do it,” Jake commands. “Okay, if that’s what you want.” For a few seconds I pause, trying first to remember what really happened, then attempting to figure out how Jake might have minimized or, worse, embellished the story. Finally I decide to tell it pretty much the way it happened. “It was four or five years ago now, when we were roomies, just out of college. Neither one of us had anyone special at the time, and we went out one Friday night to a bar and a pair of girls were sitting there. We bought them a drink and told them some lies . . . “ “What were their names?” Christie interrupted. “Stacie and Stella.” How could I forget, the ‘S-Twins.’ “Cool. Jake, how come you can never remember the girl’s names?” He just ignored her, so she says, “What happened next?” “It’s getting pretty comfortable, so I invite Stella up to our place for a glass of Chablis, and the next thing you know the four of us are in the living room. I’m on the couch with Stella and I’ve got her bra off, and Jake takes Stacie into his bedroom. I take my good old time, and Stella’s about ready to explode, when we hear Stacie’s voice. ‘You ready yet?’ she asks. Stella yells to Stacie, ‘not yet,’ then she yells at me, ‘I’m coming.’ She was a loud one, screaming at the top of her lungs. We go at it some more, I’ve forgotten about Stacie interrupting, and then, when it’s over, Stella hollers, ‘Okay, your turn.’ She gets up and marches into Jake’s room and Stacie comes out to me without a stitch on.” I can tell Christie’s loving the story. Once again, her neck is blushed, and she’s got that look in her eyes. “What did you do?” “What do you think? I gave her what she came out there for.” “You were able to get it up again?” “Hell, yes. That was definitely not a problem.” “And Stacie came with you?” “Most assuredly.” “What about Stella with Jake?” “That, I don’t know. I didn’t hear her screaming again.” “Jake, you told me she wanted it all night long.” Jake just sits there, glumly, recognizing he can’t say anything that won’t come out wrong. “And then what?” “As I remember, an hour or so later the girls get their clothes back on and leave. They left us a number, but it turned out to be dial-a-prayer.” Christie laughs, a hearty chuckle. I figure turn-about’s fair play, so I say, “Your turn. What’s your deep dark secret?” “I don’t have any,” Christie demurs. “Oh, come on. How old where you when you lost it?” “Don’t you know?” She bats her big blue eyes at me. “The night I met Jake.” “Oh, crap,” he intercedes. Then Christie suggests, “Listen, why don’t we put that video on again. I didn’t see the end of it.” This cracks me up. “They all wind up the same way,” I laugh. “But this is the first one I’ve ever seen,” she innocently lies. “Okay, let me go get it,” Jake says, and scrambles onto his feet, disappearing into the bedroom. Christie comes over to me, leans down so I can see way down her blouse at all the good stuff and whispers in my ear, “If this works out the way I think it will, remember, you promised.” Then, before Jake gets back, she’s busy turning off the lamps and lighting candles she’s brought with her. When Jake gets the DVD set up and the TV is showing naked bodies conjoining again, Christie starts doing the play-by-play. “Oh, so that’s what that’s for? How come you never showed me that, honey?” Just like last night, within a few moments Jake’s got his hand on her thigh and he’s kissing her. I watch as he unbuttons the blouse and pulls it off her, and I’m watching him suck on those wonderful, pointy nipples. I figure pretty soon, like last night, she’ll get him up and they’ll head into the bedroom to finish off, but Jake continues to ignore my presence and his hand slips down to Christies shorts. The elastic band slides over the swell of her hips, and I see she’s not wearing panties. Quickly I’m treated to a glimpse of the bush, possibly just a racing stripe of tight blond curls, and then Jake’s head is between the legs, hiding what I want to see from my spying eyes. Christie catches my eye and silently mouths, ‘do it.’ I know what she wants, and I stroke my erection through my slacks, letting her see the thickness of my penis, but I refuse to unzip myself. Her eyes flash in anger at me, daring me to expose myself, but I ignore her pleading, concentrating instead on the back of Jake’s skull, hoping he’ll come up for air. Instead, I see Christie’s body tense, and listen to her breath come in quick, sharp grunts. I see her hands lock into fists, and a foot rises into the air, toes curled in orgasm. Jake stops then, and lifts his head. He stares at me staring at his girlfriend, then says to her, “Come on, honey, let’s go into the bedroom and finish this off.” He stands, the bulk of his body looming over her, protecting her from me, and she slowly rises from the sofa. Again, I quickly catch a glimpse of all of her, then Jake steps in front, either accidentally or purposefully shielding her, and they stroll to the bedroom, closing the door behind them. The sun is shining through a bank of clouds, and Christie is giving me what for. “You didn’t come through with your end of the bargain,” she complains. Her foot curls around a perfectly formed shell, and I’m amazed at the coloration of her toenails. “You didn’t give me time,” I retort. “If you two had gone on a little longer, I would have. And besides, I never got a real good view.” “That wasn’t part of the deal. I was naked, you were supposed to masturbate.” She laughs, letting me know she isn’t truly angry with me. “I’ll bet it was pretty good when you did, wasn’t it?” I hesitate, not knowing how to retort, and she teases further. “Oh, come on. You can tell me. I’ll bet your orgasm was better than mine!” “Didn’t Jake do it for you?” I banter back. “Oh, he was his normal self, adequate, but I was thinking of you. After he got done and rolled over, I got up and came out to the living room, hoping I could get you to perform for me. But you’d already gone to bed.” “You should have knocked on my door,” I offered. “Sure, right. Then Jake gets up, finds out what’s going on, and guess what would happen.” She smiles at the thought, however. “I wonder . . . no, that wouldn’t work. Oh, well,” she sighs, and I consider what the fantasy might have been. After 8:30, we arrive back at the condo, and Jake, as usual, is still fast asleep. We breakfast on our fruit and granola, sharing the local newspaper until the phone unexpectedly rings. I grab it. “Hello?” “Hi, Derek.” It’s Michelle, Jake’s admin. I dated her for a while, a long time back, and Jake went out with her a few times, too, before he met Christie, ignoring the proverb about not sleeping with anyone you work with. “Is Jake around?” “Hold on,” I say to her, then ask Christie to tell Jake the office is calling. He trundles out, and speaks for four or five minutes to Michelle. Most of the conversation, at least on this end, consists of grunts and obscenities. Jake grabs a pencil, scribbles on a note pad, then tells Michelle, “All right, I’ll be there. Tell Danny he owes me big time, though.” He hangs up, then looks to us. “Bad news,” he reveals. “Our biggest client is on a warpath, they were on CNBC this morning, and Dan wants me back in the office to help with the peace offerings. They’ve got me on a 1:40 flight coming back this afternoon. You guys can drive me to the airport, okay?” “I’ll go home with you,” Christie offers. “Me, too,” I add. We’ve still got one day to go, but it looks like the vacation is breaking up. “Naw, that’s stupid,” Jake decides, scratching his stomach. “The company’s picking up my plane flight, if we try to get you guys back you’ll have to pay the change fees. Besides, just because they screwed me doesn’t mean you have to get in the cross fire.” I expect Christie to argue some more, but she surprisingly gives in. “Okay,” she says, “Derek and I will find some way to keep amused.” Jake gives her a look, semi-threatening and sort of irritated, then looks at me. “Just remember, bub, she’s my girl. I’m going to take a shower.” While Jake’s packing, Christie and I go out for some tennis. She’s wearing this cute little number, and every time she retrieves a ball I can see her panties and ass peek out from the skirt. As we rest between sets, I try to have a conversation with her. “Do you think this is a good idea?” “Why not?” Christie retorts. “Jake trusts me. Besides, this will give you a good chance to pay up on our bet.” When she sees my shocked face, she laughs, then bounces to the base line and proceeds to whip my butt in yet another set. We grab a sandwich at a Burger King on the way to the airport – Jake’s happy, at least – and as Jake gets out at the entrance, he thanks me and says, “Be nice to my girlfriend, now – keep her safe for me, okay?” I drive the rental car around the perimeter while Christie goes into the ticket counter with Jake, keeping him company until he has to run the security gauntlet. Finally, she pops out and climbs in the passenger seat. On the way out to the expressway, she says, “Hey, are you in a hurry to get back to the condo?” “Not really,” I admit. “Why, you got something you want to do?” “Sure, let’s go into town and do the tourist traps.” We’d thought about this on the way down, it’s an old southern city, but Jake nixed the idea, just wanting to lay around the resort. “Sounds good.” By the time we get there, I find out Christie has a full itinerary planned around the shopping district. I don’t really mind, though, walking with her through the old slave market. Just watching her face light up with a bargain is enough for me. We stop for a drink, chat about little in particular, then stroll through the palms and magnolias, admiring the mansions and gardens. We come across a restaurant, and decide to step into the courtyard and sample the menu of grilled halibut and crab cakes. The waiter dribbles the French wine into our glasses; I notice Christie seems to be imbibing the scented liquid faster than I. Jake’s presence, or lack of it, seems to be forgotten. Under the table, I sense Christie’s foot bump against mine, she doesn’t seem to be in a rush to move it. After we refuse deserts or an after dinner drink, we stumble through the late twilight to the car, and begin the drive back to the island. The route takes us through a business district, one lined with gas stations, Taco Bells and carpet stores. We pass a gaudily lit establishment, Christie remarks on the signboard advertising ‘Girls, 24 hours a day.’ “Do you and Jake go to those kind of places often?” “We used to. We haven’t been to one since you moved in with him,” I reply. “Why do you like it?” “Me? I don’t, not that much. Jake’s the guy who always wants to go.” She thinks about it for a few moments. “I’d like to see what he finds in it,” she declares. “Can we go back there?” “You sure?” I question. “It can get a little . . .” I search for the proper adjective, “. . . raunchy, I guess.” “But a woman like me wouldn’t be accosted, would she?” “No, not as long as you were with a guy.” “Well, I’ve got you,” she decides. “Come on.” At a stoplight I make a U-turn, and three minutes later the bouncer is letting us through the panel door, relieving me of five dollars in the process. “No cover for you, sweetie, it’s ladies night,” he says, pointing to the poster of events behind him. We turn a corner and enter the establishment. Quickly, I scan the crowd and realize that it’s early, only twelve or fifteen guys are in the dive. Four or five of them are gathered by a pool table in the corner, more interested in solids and stripes than the wriggling flesh on the stage in the middle of the room. We find a table somewhat out of the way where we can observe the action, Christie takes in the horse-faced woman on the platform, now topless and playing with her g-string. A bikinied woman comes over, I order a scotch, Christie opts for vodka tonic. Now she’s full of a thousand questions. “Are these girls prostitutes? Do they make a lot of money? The guys seem to just sit there.” As I answer her questions, the song ends and the girl on the stage is replaced by another and the announcement from the DJ, “Folks, put your hands together for the lovely Angela.” Christie watches intently as Angela, dressed as a construction worker, begins to gyrate and tease the few patrons. After the girl is down to bare boobs and panties, Christie asks another question. “The signboard said last night was amateur night, what does that mean?” “Oh, sometimes guys bring their girlfriends in and they get up on stage. Usually there’s a fifty dollar prize or something.” I notice, even through her bra, that Christie’s nipples dilate at this suggestion, and wonder if she’s excited with the idea. “Did you and Jake ever bring your girlfriends to these places?” “A few times. Once Jake got a girl he was with to go up on stage.” On the dais Angela is down to her panties, and a customer slips a large bill between the fabric and skin. Angela gives him a big smile, and as the third song of the set begins she daringly pulls the elastic of the waistband further and further until, finally, the panties join the rest of her getup discarded on the stage, and Angela’s bush and labia are displayed for the few observers, including us. As Angela trots off the platform, only to be supplanted by still another strumpet, Christie lets out a long sigh. She waves her empty glass at our waitress, and soon our drinks are refreshed. Christie observes while Angela steps from behind a curtain, now skimpily dressed, and goes to wait on one of the few customers. We have little to talk about now, and Christie watches the next stripper. I’m getting bored, Christie excuses herself explaining she has to powder her nose. Ten or fifteen minutes later Christie’s not back yet, and I’m starting to get a little nervous. I wonder if maybe I should ask one of the dancers to check the restroom out, then hear the DJ announce, “Gents, we’ve got a very special event for you. We’ve got a very special lady for you – this is her very first time on the stage! Say hello to Christie!” Christie ambles to the stage as a slow song starts, dressed in a man’s dress shirt with a tie, short skirt and high heels. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s clean and fresh compared to the other dancers. As she takes center post, she stops, as if she’s confused, then looks around, getting her bearings. Then she closes her eyes and begins to sway. For a full minute she stands there, grooving to her own rhythm, and I notice the conversation around the bar has stopped, no clink comes from the balls on the pool table. Only when she has the attention of every person in the hall does she begin to play with her tie, pulling on the end as if she’s going to unknot it. She’s playing with the crowd, and although her face is calm I know how excited she must be – the fabric of the shirt, as it droops over the curve of her breasts, is crinkled with the extension of her nipples. Finally, she pulls the tie off and unbuttons first the collar, then the top two buttons. By the time the first song is over, she’s exposed nothing more than her legs and a bit of skin below her neck, and hasn’t moved her feet from the spot she planted them at the beginning of the music. Everyone in the room awaits her next revealment. A second song begins, a little faster than the first, and now Christie begins to stroll around the dance floor. Another button pops, and now the opening is large enough to expose the swell of her breasts. Facing directly towards me, she leans forward and I catch a glimpse of those perfect globes. She understands the power of this simple movement, and repeats it for a number of her other watchers. Soon she’s upright again, and now she’s playing with the waistband of her skirt. It seems to be almost an afterthought, and with little ado she steps out of the garment. Every man wishes to see the curve of her hips, but they are disappointed – the long tail of the dress shirt hides both her behind and front. Exactly on cue, the second song blends into the third, a rhythmic tune with a good beat. Christie’s hands move back to the buttons of the shirt, and soon they’re all unfastened, clearly exposing the flesh between the mounds. She plays with the fabric, pulling it open a bit, enough to see the curvature, then closing it again, vexing her audience. Soon she advances, and hints of the aureoles are given. Now she takes the opportunity to play with the tail of the shirt, and glimpses of her wonderful arse ensue. It’s difficult to see if she’s wearing panties or not, then a string is seen above the crack, only two or three shades darker than her smooth skin. She stands facing away from me, then bends forward and simultaneously throws the fabric to the side, allowing me to see between her legs, the vagina hidden only by a small patch of cloth. Quickly she stands and pulls the shirt wide open, revealing to me and the other men those perfect, conic breasts. A catcall comes from someone, ‘take it off,’ and Christie obliges, throwing the shirt over her shoulder, and parading around the dance floor topless, her mound covered only by the slightest of g-strings. As the song winds to a close, she winks and blows me a kiss, and rambles back through the curtain to the dressing room. The crowd is silent, mesmerized by the beauty, and the pause is broken by the DJ spouting, “Let’s hear it for Christie!” The applause and screams from the gallery is almost deafening, far outstripping the small crowd. Christie pokes her head out from the curtain to see the commotion, and the DJ, seizing the opportunity, quickly starts another song. Christie ducks back in, but now the call goes up: “More, more!!!” Not to disappoint her audience, Christie soon emerges, the white dress shirt left behind, and stands proudly, the points of her breasts hardened, acknowledging the cheers. As the music rises, she once more begins to gyrate, moving across the stage, and men reach across with green paper to stuff into her g-string, but she avoids them, not wishing to be touched. Moments later, she traipses back into the dressing ground, leaving the room stunned. After the crowd begins to quiet, the DJ announces the next professional, and I feel bad for her; she is almost forgotten in the hubbub. Strangers come over and congratulate me for having such a great girl friend, and when I try to explain our relationship they fail to understand. Soon Christie joins me, fully dressed now, and the men try to talk to her, buy her a drink, but she refuses and says to me, “Let’s get out of here.” I follow her to the car, and I can tell she’s still high from the experience. “Did you see me, Derek? It was great!” We drive back to the island, talking about the experience. She wants to know what I saw, to tell me about what it felt like. After we enter the apartment she drags me to the couch and sits facing me. “Okay, it’s time to pay off.” “What do you mean?” I ask, innocently, knowing full well what she wants. “You weren’t naked up there tonight – you had that g-string on.” “Oh, yeah? Well what about last night? Are you going to claim I had earrings on or something?” “I never got to see the good part,” I complain. “Jake’s head was right where I wanted to see.” She ponders this for a moment, then apparently decides not to make an issue of it. “Okay,” she agrees, then stands and quickly pulls her blouse over her head and drops the shorts to the rug. All that’s covering her most private parts is a frilly bra and the minuscule thong as she approaches the stereo and puts on dance music. Smiling, she begins to gyrate as she did in the strip joint, and within a minute her hands flip behind her back, unleashing the décolleté, and with little ado the skimpy garment joins it’s discarded fellows. Now she’s prancing across the floor in front of me, playing with the elastic band of her g-string, drooping first the left side, then the right, and then her back is turned to me, the panties are drooped until the most beautiful butt is exposed to my view. Twisting, she faces me again, and watching me intently, she quickly and gracefully steps out of the panties, exposing the bush I knew was there, the fine yellow curls masking a protruding Venus’ mound. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” she asks, standing on one leg, a lanky thigh just disguising the portal between the extended legs. “Yes,” I agree, even though I know I’d love to have the entire vagina exposed. But even in this state of excitement I realize that’s way too much to ask. “Okay, then, it’s your turn to give it up.” I tear my eyes from her frame and catch her eye. Her stare announces it’s not a joke, she wants me to fulfill the bargain we jokingly made. When I hesitate, she seduces me with just one word, “Please?” She sits on the couch, crouched against one arm, and arranges her legs so I have no hope of catching the faintest glimpse of the pinkness. I stand and quickly shuck my shirt and trousers, then pull my boxers off. I’m as naked as she is now, and my pecker stands straight from my body, as hard as it’s ever been. I recline on the other end of the sofa, facing her, and ask, “You really want to see me jerk off?” “Yes,” she huskily replies, “yes.” I’ve been masturbating now for going on fifteen years, and I’m an expert at it. Usually, I visualize a woman, any woman, and what I’m doing to her, but this time I simply gaze at Christie, at her long legs, the throat, those perfect globes and below the waist her curl of hair, and I don’t need to pretend. Spitting into my left hand for a bit of lubrication, I stroke the head of my penis with my palm while my right hand toys with my balls. Christie’s eyes are fixed on my gonads, and soon her hand creeps down to her netherland, and she spreads her legs, allowing me a complete view of the wondrous pussy. I can see how moist it is and one of her fingers exposes the coral clitoris. This is too much for me, and my strokes quickly bring the seminal liquid to the surface. The juice spurts from the tip, nearly a foot into the air. The next gush is lessened, and within ten or twelve swipes, I’m simply dribbling. Christie’s still fondling herself, but all the while she’s been watching me carefully. “Beautiful,” she murmurs, then stretches her legs further open until I can see everything, the stunning double folds of skin surrounding the moist tunnel that I want so much to penetrate with a finger, a tongue, or, dream of dreams, my manhood. As her index finger coaxes the button, the middle finger immerses itself inside the vagina. Her other hand goes to a breast and titillates a nipple. As her head droops back onto the pillow, I realize she’s going to allow herself to come while I gawk. Her breath is exploding from her lungs in short pants, then I hear a low rhythmic moaning, “Oh, oh, oh, oh.” I watch as her entire body takes on a roseate glow. It is easily the most erotic episode of my life. I want to help her, to be a part of her reveling, and I place a hand on her ankle, but she pulls her leg away from me – it’s obvious my assistance isn’t desired. After she completes her orgasm, she looks at me and smiles. “That was beautiful,” she confides, and I’m unsure as to how to end, or continue, the encounter. But I’m saved the embarrassment – Christie stands up shakily, takes one last look at my semen covered midriff, mouths “I wish” wistfully, then plods to her bedroom, brushing my face with her hand longingly. I’m not sure if I should follow until I hear the door close and the click of a lock. And so, I realize, it’s time for me to go to my bed and sleep, should that be possible. I’m having a dream in which a beautiful woman is cuddled against me and stroking my manliness, and then I awaken enough to realize it’s not a dream, Christie is beside me, holding me. I know I’m fully erect, and Christie pushes me back and straddles me, mounts me. I’m entirely inside her, and when I press a palm to her breast she clasps it, cherishing the caress. Quickly she’s moaning in her sudden climax, and just as quickly I’m coming, my juices mingling with hers. Without words, she understands my needs and presses her pelvic bone hard against mine, allowing for the ultimate fury. She controls the motion, and I allow her to dominate the act of love. Even after I finish, she continues to gyrate in orgasm, and I hold the wisp of a waist, helping her to move, to inflame. When the passion is consummated, she simply leans forward, her chest on mine, and we snuggle. I feel our pounding heartbeats calm, and soon I hear the soft sounds of her heavy breathing indicating her loss of consciousness, and minutes before I, too, drift off I feel my softness slip from her silky passage. The sunlight streams through the window as I rouse, and the first vision I have is of Christie’s sapphire eyes looking at me, watching me awaken. Her smile immediately brightens my day, and I hear her say, “I couldn’t stop myself. Do you mind?” “Of course not,” I say, and mean, and I clutch her to me, sensing our flesh converge. For an hour or more we make love in spurts, first I on top of her, then again, she on top of me, then hunger and thirst drive us to the kitchen, and she sits on my lap, feeding me fruits, sucking juices from my mouth with her kisses. She pulls me to the couch, and again we share our bodies. Afterwards, we discern the day is passing and we need to pack for the trip home. And it is at that point, when we are showered and clothes again hide our beautiful bodies from each other’s stare, that shyness begins to settle in. Christie is more subdued now, less likely to embrace or caress me. On the drive to the airport, she smiles at me as if recollecting the passion, but the intimacy we shared for a few wondrous hours dissipates. On the flight to Atlanta she sits beside me yet few words pass between us. As we wait for the plane to depart Hartsfield, she sighs heavily and confesses, “We shouldn’t have done that. It was my fault, of course, I never should have let it go so far. I wonder what will happen when Jake finds out?” “You’re not going to tell him, are you?” “I have to,” she seriously declares, “it wouldn’t be fair to him not to know what I’ve done.” “But . . .” I start, then stop. I want to tell her not to, I want to explain it’s not necessary, and I want to ask her to leave Jake, to come with me. But I haven’t the nerve to ask for even the smallest boon. We’re separated on the full flight, she sitting in the front rows, I near the back pressed against a window, watching the evening gloaming from thirty-five thousand feet, wondering just how my life has changed. When the aircraft approaches the jetway and the two bells alarm us to the arrival, I barely glimpse the blonde ponytail depart long moments before my chance looms. When at last I’m freed from the tunnel, I lumber through the terminal. Occasionally I spy Christie through the crowd, her hair swishing first left, then right, her rump following suit. She’s nearly jogging, and I know there’s no chance I’ll catch her in the crowd. I lose her as she passes the metal detectors and I trail her down the escalators to the baggage claim. And then I see her, poised next to my best friend, perhaps my newest enemy. Christie droops her head in shame, and Jake grimaces. I realize he now knows of the treachery. He catches my approach, points his finger at me and crooks it, bidding me to approach. As I gravely draw near, ready to confess my sins, I’m shocked to detect the silver tones of Christie’s giggles and Jake’s joyful cry of, “Happy Birthday, Bud!”