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LENNY THE BOUNCER

We've had special gigs before this.

Usually some big spender wants the joint reserved for hisself and a few of his buddies. Business associates. Whoever.

They come in after hours, or early, or a Sunday, and the music is played at a noise level the rich guy can stand, and he and his buddies get the unreserved attention of the ladies.

I always call 'em ladies. It's easier than other things that I might accidentally say and get them riled up at me.

And some of them are ladies. Just down on their luck, or paying their way through college (honest!).

Most of them get seduced by the (relatively) easy money, and all the bullshit they get told by the guys who come in here hoping to dip their wicks in one of the beautiful dancers.

Eventually the dancers get a little slutty or nasty then.

After all these years I can usually see the transformation taking place, and it's still sad to see. I'm not stupid, just a little undereducated, maybe. And I do this job so easy I've never felt like changing. I'm young and lazy, I guess. Besides which, once in a while one of the girls will choose me for a friendly fuck. That's a strong incentive, believe me. Especially since the gals who work here, even the waitresses, are high-quality females in the looks department. So I'm a male pig. Big deal.

A lot of the gals cope with the job, however. They separate dancing naked from their essential selves. They take the words the patrons blow into their ears with a laugh and 8,000 pinches of salt, and just go on to tomorrow.

They all get a little cold about men, though. It's too easy to make men jump through hoops when you're young, cute, female and all you're wearing is a G-string. The men let their little head do all thinking for them, and the girls lose respect for the men.

The sanest ones go schizo, sorta. Completely.

Life becomes something quite apart from being a sex object, which is the job. Their lives are something else. I can see them turning 'it' on when they walk through the door or put 'it' in reverse when they're walked out to their cars by me at the end of shift. It's just a job to them, and their parents and partners usually support their getting so much money and not getting tied up with some sleaze-ball male.

They don't. Which is why most of the nice ones never let me come on to them. I'm a nice guy at work, but I'm in The Life just as much as they are. There's The Life and there's reality. The pair don't mix.

There's also the lezzies, and they're another category altogether. Mostly sweet gals, but Lord help ya if you put moves on them, or their Butch thinks you're cozying up to her girl. Which brings me up to tonight.

It is past hours, and we've got locked doors, and I'm running the DJ station (pre-selected music) with a remote, and tending bar and being me.

The audience are two of the lezzies. Lovers, actually. That's rare, that two of the Pole Cats become real-life girlfriends in that way they use the word. The special dancer tonight is something extraordinary.

My boss.

Now, we've got the catwalk and two poles in the center of the place, and most times the action goes down there. But we've also got these four booths to the side.

There's a lattice of wood fencing between two railings and the ceiling, and it's easy for anyone to see the dancing going on in the 'Special Section'. The law more or less demands easy visual access. And the open entry takes up more than half the distance between the side walls. Wide open. Doesn't mean non-legal dancing doesn't rake place. Just means they try to be a little discreet about it.

Four low tables are bolted to the floor, and footstands exist on either side of the padded couch the customers sit on. The ladies can stand on the footstands and with almost no effort wiggle their G-strings right in the gentleman's face.

All the comforts. Most often I continually prowl the special dancing area and keep an eye on things. In addition, the ladies all have signals I can catch.

For instance, a head nod might mean for me to come on in the section and visually glare at the customer, as he's getting a little rambunctious.

Palm out, and I scan for cops and keep an eye out for anyone too curious about peeping what takes place next.

Which can get pretty raunchy, even if lasting for a few seconds only. The lady gets a bigger tip, the customer usually sits and pants and tries not to be bothered by the diamond-cutter he just grew. I earn brownie points, the Club makes more money and repeat customers. And besides I like looking at the tight young nude female bodies. So I'm a pig in some ladies mind. Oink, oink.

And there are side benefits.

One blond, she'd earned a few C-notes off a customer, and I suggested to her I'd shave her if she wanted. Glad to help. Not one of my better lines, I admit it. But it worked.

Nice sweet looking round-faced teenager. We shaved each other daily for a few weeks. Side benefit in spades.

Doesn't happen often. But it happens.

Anyways, tonight the place was closed, and two of the Pole Cats were the customers, for a change.

There was Seven (no one knew her real name); she was tall, blond, and built like you wouldn't believe. She could sit down in front of the Pole and walk up it using her legs and thigh muscles alone. Her girlfriend called her a Gymnast once. Damned tall for a Gymnast.

The girlfriend was a Latina looking gal, who was actually a Southern gal. Midnight hair, drawl and all. Came from Alabama, which she had often joked had an education system clearly better than that of Chad, Somalia and Mississippi.

Seven was in her usual make-up, mini-skirt, and heels, and Belle Anna was in her usual no make-up, trousers, vest, man's dress coat and attitude. If I was a bettin' man, I'd lay good money down that Belle Anna's the Butch, the Daddy of the pair. Both of them beauties some men would kill for. And for a good tip they'd do anything at all for the customers.

After all, it's only some male they're pleasing. Their attitude is who gives a damn about a man?

Tonight I seated them in a private booth, and took their drink orders, and paused on my way back to talk over the music selections with the Boss.

She wanted stuff she could dance to. I was surprised at a few of the selections. "My Sharona" is energetic, man!

Seven and Belle were sipping on their orange juices, and the music began to roll. I let it start low, and build up.

Like the usual dances, Janeway flounced onto the low table in her gauzy halter and ocean green sarong skirt. Like any of the gals, she began to dance in high heels. Most men want the Pole Cats to dance in high heels.

I'd presumed the Boss had been in The Life at some point, but her as a Pole Cat was a new one on me.

Janeway, a little older and more - ah - solid built than the usual Pole Cat, was not someone I would have figgered would make a good stripper, not now. She was small, and had a nice dark auburn mane of hair, and sported a nice chest. Nothing like Seven had, but larger than Belle Anna's.

I would never toss her out of bed, mind. She'd just never appealed to me as a babe before this.

The music began. Hot Chocolate came on with "You Sexy Thing", and Janeway got into the grind after taking her time doing so. She circled and circled, and hiked her skirt up so everyone could see her dark hose was held up by a dark garter belt. Flirting with the "customers" and talking to them. Blowing smoke (figuratively) in their ears, working hard for those extra tips.

Janeway's short legs suddenly looked very good.

Eventually there was a pause, and Janeway crouched on the little table, her hands leaning on Seven's gorgeous long stems. Belle Anna ran her fingers through some of those auburn hairs.

Once Gary Numan came out with his electro-tech "Cars", the pace picked up. Janeway shed her halter, and flaunted her bra covered tits: almost caressing them and milking them. Belle Anna leaned forward, her eyes riveted on me. Janeway nodded her head for me to check for undercover cops.

I automatically looked around before almost laughing at myself. The place is empty.

Janeway was building a fantasy.

Belle Anna fondled Janeway's breasts, lifting them and massaging them. Seven leaned forward and chewed on the nipples hidden behind the cover of the sheer black bra.

The dancing became a slow hip movement as Janeway's nipples were fed into one set of jaws after another. I grew real wood watching Janeway close her eyes and get lost in the feelings. A few times she moaned, but I don't think she was being hurt.

The skirt was lost as the music swung into "That's The Way I Like It". Janeway was vigorous in her dips and circles by now, her garter belt and high-thigh black panties drawing the eye. And Seven's languid caresses. Lots of caresses.

Seven liked to let her hands wander the buttcheeks, while Belle Anna caressed the belly and lower abdomen with a concentration more typical of a woman seeking salvation than a soft red-head's hot quivering skin.

Suddenly Janeway was standing on the footstands, and Seven and Belle Anna were both inches from panty-clad pussy. Janeway gyrated that crotch right into Seven's rapt face.

Seven licked the crotch of those black panties. Belle Anna eased her hand down the front of those panties, her hand finding the moist parts of a woman twice her age, at least.

I groaned in unison with Janeway, my Magic Johnson hurt so much. Right then I would have given my left nut to screw her.

It got a little frantic when "My Sharona" began. Janeway shed the bra, and swung her tits right in Belle Anna's face. The little brunette took the hint and obviously tried to draw a quart of milk from those red-tipped breasts.

Then Seven started sucking on the other one. And all the time Janeway was trying to dance to the Knack's hit music.

Belle Anna pulled a knife out of somewhere and cut off Janeway's panties from her body. Seven took the remnants and sucked noisily on the crotch while Belle Anna let her fingers do the walking.

"I Can't Get No satisfaction" by the Stones was rocking the trio while Janeway obviously came on Belle Anna's friendly digits.

Song was wrong. I think Janeway got satisfaction a coupla times.

I wouldn't have believed it could have gotten any more torrid, but it did. I was living a dream, the fantasy some men ache for with all their heart.

Janeway was poised between Seven and Belle Anna. Seven was crouched at the edge of the couch, and attached somehow in a dozen places to the still gyrating woman in front of her.

Belle Anna was standing behind Janeway, her vest and coat gone somewhere. The little brunette stuck her fingers in Janeway's mouth to wet them, make 'em slick. She then stuck them in the rear hole of tonight's private dancer.

Janeway visibly convulsed as two sets of fingers entered her. Seven made loud obscene sloppy fucking noises as she fucked Janeway in the pussy. Fast and hard. Belle Anna slapped Janeway's ass machine-gun fast as her fingers slid in and out of her asshole, slapping her on the ass loud each time.

Women have stamina.

All those three did all the way through "Heart of Glass" and then "Beast of Burden" was fuck. I won't even estimate whether Janeway was coming continuously or having multiples one after another.

They fucked. They thrashed in place, they shook and cried out loud and God knows whatall. Without touching my weenie, I came. I damned near passed out myself as Janeway collapsed all over Seven. Belle Anna never stopped working her fingers in that tight rear end hole of Janeway's. Seven kept Janeway erect with her fingers inside the Boss.

"I Love The Nightlife" Was in my ears when Janeway finally began to revive. Both gals supported their victim, lover, whatever, until Janeway could stand by herself.

Kisses and caresses were constantly played out on Janeway by those two loving dykes.

What a dance!

Janeway tossed her head, finally. Looking around, getting her bearings.

Ah, SHIT!

This is the part I hate.

As soon as she began speaking the words I remembered what I was. DamnDamnDamnDamn!

"Computer," she whispered. "Terminate Holodeck program JB7 slash SC."

END