Carrie scoots under one arm, I slip under the other and we walk the suit up the stairs. He’s got his arms draped around our shoulders, Carrie’s left tit in one hand, my right tit in his other. I make a mental note to keep an eyeball out for Billie and Loretta. They’re like a couple of newlyweds, or, more accurately, bitches in heat. Call it what you will, it’s hard to keep them apart and they’ve laid claim to a little corner of carpet in the hallway that leads to the upstairs lounge. I’ve tripped over them more than once, curled in to each other, head to hole, buried up to their respective ears in the others cooch. But tonight, with this heavy drunken load on our shoulders, it’d be easier not to have to two-step over that particular lesbian love-fest.
It’s not easy maneuvering the staircase, but we finally drop into a soft blood orange velour couch. The room is all red shadows and a slight chemical scent; it has all the romance of a photographer’s darkroom. It’s dark enough to miss the worn fabric on the couches, stained with souvenirs of previous visitors; dark enough to overlook the threadbare carpet, a wig gone slightly askew, or the smeared makeup of a long night. And there’s just enough light to tell a single from a fifty.
Perpetual twilight makes you ignorant of time and place. Add booze– and as far as I’m concerned, adding booze improves any given situation–and you’re disoriented, your guard is down, your judgment impaired. It’s the same for Times Square as for Vegas. The difference is scale, sure, but the theory is the same. Hope, booze, sex & fantasy. Illusion and sleight of hand.
Chinese screens separate the couches from each other so each “lounge” feels private, but really you’re sitting in a giant mirrored room with four or five little enclaves and a former high school football player roaming around making sure none of it gets out of hand. Quarterback Jack or Nicky Fireplug are supposed to make sure everything’s safe and legal, so the Billie & Loretta chow down outside? That’s not supposed to happen, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and you can’t blame the boys for watching the show.
Some of the Butterfly girls sell keys to non-existent hotel room with the promise of future satiation; some stall for time till the next bottle hustle; others take advantage of the privacy selling a little of this or that. Last week I’d sold a second bottle to customer slurping away at a girl’s pussy like it was chocolate ice cream. She was perched on the couch back, legs spread, comfortably resting against the mirrored wall, already holding the cash. Reaching over his head, she handed me what I needed and what I wanted on top of that. I pulled the unopened bottle out of the bucket and then put it right back in. Tucking my tip into my leotard, I left and let them finish their business. It’s a win-win strategy.
Officially, that kind of stuff doesn’t happen. Unofficially, for the right price, everybody gets what they want. Upstairs is the illusion of privacy, an illusion of intimacy, an illusion of desirability and popularity. It’s all illusion.
Tonight’s illusion is that for five thousand dollars, Ronnie the Suit will finally get his dick wet. The illusion is we’re hot sisters, desperate to get our hands and our mouths on his solid gold dick. The reality is while not solid gold, it is the dick that laid the gold American Express card. That single unopened bottle of champagne cost him a total of five thousand dollars and between the foot of the stairs and the upstairs couch, Carrie’s managed to make her cash deal with him. I’m not so good at the back room transaction action. Given a choice, I’d rather pick a pocket than offer an honest trade – but what I’ve brought in from this suit alone totals just over thirteen hundred dollars for the night, I’m satisfied.
Ronnie is seated between us and he pulls us closer to him, closer to each other.
You gotta use what your mama gave you, so I tuck my legs under me and sit up, bringing my breasts up to eye level. For the record, even in my leotard, I have terrific tits. Let me revise that – I have good breasts, but I have terrific nipples. They’re as big as the last joint of your pinkie, and persistently erect. I can hang things from them, necklaces, ribbons, ties, you name it. If it hangs, it can be hung from my nipples. They are my only trick. Carrie, who actually has perfect breasts, upturned and firm, matches my pose and faces me. Mirror images facing each other over a drunken suit; we slowly lean towards each other. The suit has his hand between my legs, playing with my cooch through my red leotard; just for the fun of it, I fondle his semi-hard dick through the soft gabardine of his pants. As we lean into each other, Carrie reaches out and slides her hand inside the tight spandex of my leotard, thumbing my nipple roughly. We rise up on our knees, our bodies pressed against each other over the suit, his hand busy tugging at my cooch, then sliding back and caressing the cheeks of my ass.
In the dark, we find each other’s mouths and kiss. Slowly. Deeply. I am kissing the mouth that launched a thousand hard-ons, the best blowjob mouth in the bar, and I understand why. Her tongue, strong and warm, pries its way into the deep recesses of my mouth, making me want more, urging me on.
I wouldn’t do this in the daylight, kiss a girl. I’m just not that way. Or maybe I am, because I like it, I’m into it. I want to kiss her, touch her, feel her touching me. And I never have to admit that, because I’m being paid to be here. Well, in a manner of speaking, because actually, I haven’t made a cash deal with Ronnie. I’m not getting any extra for this show.
Out of the corner of my eye, reflected in the mirror, I see the Quarterback watching us.
Tonight is a good night to die. I’ve made enough money to pay 6 months rent, I’m kissing a beautiful woman and being watched by two men. The one with enough money to have paid for this show is getting me off with his hands; the other–thick, young and muscular–I simply enjoy performing for.
And there it is. I’m enjoying this. Enjoying their hands on me, enjoying being watched, enjoying the suits weakness. In the daylight, in the civilian world, there’s shame and labels and stigma about all this. Here, well, here no one thinks twice. I can do anything I want in the dark, I can let you do anything to me. So, it’s more than fantasy and illusion. It’s permission.
“Last call!” the Quarterback cries out, ready to hustle the suit out of the bar.
I hold up my hand towards him, index finger urgently raised. Not yet, God no, I think, I’m almost there. Our bodies grind against each other, hungry; I clutch Carrie around the waist, holding her tight to me, cupping her head in my other hand. She pulls at my nipple as the suit tugs at the lips of my snatch. I feel the Quarterback standing over the three of us watching as both Carrie and the suit work to get me off, and the Quarterback’s blatant voyeurism raises the bar, making the whole thing even steamier. The suit grinds his hand against my swollen puss, pulling the material to the side as he does. A thick musk rises off me, enveloping us. Carrie’s body, pressed hard against me vibrates with her own sexual excitement as I cup her breast, roll it in the palm of my hand, she lets out a little noise, a small gasp for air letting me know she’s as ready to explode as I am.
I slide my hand down between her legs, her pussy is moist through her leotard, I massage and push against her cunt—and the suit suddenly slips two fingers deep inside me and starts to pump them in and out.
“Shit. Last call,” the Quarterback’s voice catches in his throat.
The suit drives his fingers into me, Carrie tweaks my nipple and Quarterback Jack watches. Carrie slips her mouth down and bites me on the neck, hard, and I explode, dripping my juices onto the suit’s hand, grinding urgently down, impaling myself on his fingers, pulling Carrie tighter to me as my body spasms in orgasm and looking into the footballer’s eyes in the mirror.
“Last call.” Last call, indeed.
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Posted December 14, 2009 at 10:39 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1980, Butterfly, dirty money, partners in crime, Times Square. Bookmark this post. Follow any comments @ RSS feed for this post.
