I enjoyed the tiramisu after our day at the races.
"Hey, dream face," snapped James, wiping his moustache with a napkin, "don't fantasise about strippers; see them; finish your yummy, boozy cake and let's go."
I scoffed the last mouthfuls; the dessert deserved better.
We moved as a unit of six out of the restaurant. One of James' mates knew the location of the closest strip club. Under a street light, we joshed about pole and tabletop dancers. We filled the sidewalk as a group and raucously joked our way there.
Passing a bar, it became our agreed meet-up spot for later.
The adult establishment, when located, fronted the narrowest of entrances leading up steep stairs. Positioned at the top of the landing, I saw a burly dude, his tattooed arms folded. We filed in pairs up the wooden staircase, entering dimness and repeatedly creaking stairs.
Filing her nails, a bored, short-haired blonde leaned behind a high counter on the first floor. A chalkboard above her head listed an array of mind-blowing options. James nudged me and pointed to toe sucking! My eyes popped at the bisexual trio option! And in bold lettering the establishment's rules.
I glanced at the bouncer; he showed no emotions, his arms permanently folded. As the day's biggest winner, I shelled out for six private lap dances. I splashed the race earnings carelessly. We were asked if we preferred a blonde, a brunette or a red-headed dancer.
I chose a brunette. Following nudges and winks between us six, another big guy directed us along a narrow corridor. Like James and his mates, I anticipated hot action.
In a rabbit warren building, we traipsed another flight of stairs decidedly narrower. We were ushered along a hallway where dark curtains hung at regular intervals. One by one, the bouncer pointed us to a curtain.
The small booth I entered billowed with looping, dark, heavy, full-length drapes. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a single chair, a rounded table and a chrome pole farther back. To my right, a mini film screen played a porno.
The room's low orange lighting, I surmised a feature to make flesh glow attractive. Side drapes parted, and a girl emerged. A tall brunette, who flounced curly hair, introduced herself as Carmen.
I gawked at her slinky movements. She wore a stripper's requisite tartan schoolgirl skirt. Her white short-sleeved blouse tied in a flourishing soft knot beneath her breasts. Her midriff and lower displayed generously. Her belly button drew my attention—her silvery dangling jewellery. A star swayed inside the curve of a rhinestone crescent moon.
I wished her closer. I took out my wallet and placed additional money on the table. She slithered closer. Nonetheless, her sequence remained impersonal.
I mentally digested her body. The focus was on her body, despite an explicit anal scene in the movie playing soundless, on the screen, to her right.
Porn floated through my life.
Carmen started grinding into my crotch, professional in her engagement, though wholly mentally disengaged. She followed a routine using her chosen music, which faded in the background. Her blouse slipped off; her black lace bra smothered my face. My view of the world was cleavage-centred, and my senses drowned in her strong mandarin citrus perfume.
Placing another fifty dollars atop the table upped her pace. Her bra unclasped, allowing her nipples to sweep across my cheeks. I combined the strange sensation of nipple softness and two days of stubble. I imbibed everything she offered.
It was sexual, not sex.
Consensual, yet it remained a tease.
She spun as my memory retained her. Her short skirt dropped to the floorboards as her heels tapped sharply. Her buttocks rubbed my face—a heavenly, firm rump. I stared at her G-string, a thin line of satiny black fabric disappearing into her crotch. I smelt her sexual richness. She couldn't mask her natural scent; you can never pay for it. It's either present or absent. Her unique, signature aroma wafted.
I craved the tease to end.
Damn this!
Let's leave imagination hour.
I dispensed another fifty dollars of unimportant race winnings. Though not facing me, she reacted to the cash. She poised, a mistress of the ideal viewing distance. She teased off her G-string, holding her butt cheeks sealed. Deftly, she bent and spread, her hands sliding to and gripping her ankles.
Her moist lips dangled, crinkled tissue paper thin like shiny pink satin. She knew she possessed allure, and she flaunted it. Carmen whirled to her music. She posed her pussy centimetres from my face.
I recalled the house rules: no touching by the client. The girls could go as far as they liked, depending on the dollar flow. Her scent rose sharp and blunt, heady but dull. Her movements stayed measured yet professionally lively.
She was not Jenny.
Carmen delivered total value. Her longish labia flapped in their coral-hued fullness above my lips. She flashed her clit between her fingers.
She was not Ruby.
The music stopped.
She planted a hurried kiss across my cheek and murmured a professional, polite thanks. Her extended arm indicated the way out. She gathered her scattered skimpy clothes and dived into a velvet curtain of darkness.
Leaving the private booth, I became disoriented in the dim corridor. The exit signs at each end of the hallway confused me, and the curtained-off rooms between them emphasised sameness.
I decided right. I recognised the landing and stairs at the end of the corridor. Coming up the stairs were a trio. An older, well-dressed gent whose face I couldn't see between two younger people. Both of these sported long, flowing hair.
I assumed women as they dispensed personal attention to the dude's neck and ears. A redhead on the group's left glanced up and noticed me. She guided her party wall side, allowing me to squeeze by. I saw the gent's head resting on a guy's shoulder in passing. I erred in thinking the long blonde hair suggested another girl.
A bigger surprise occurred as I saw the older gent was Ruby's dad, Gabriele!
Avoiding being recognised here, I lowered my eyes. Yet, in passing, I glanced relieved he ignored me and focussed on his dual company. At the bottom, tempted, I looked up. The party spread out, Ruby's father between the pair, patting their rumps.
I passed the reception and the twin bouncers at the top of the stairs leading down to the pavement.
Street side, I thought through a chance sighting. I sought a rational answer; maybe Ruby's dad owned the place.
Next, I considered the smutty possibility of Gabriele, a client like me.
I baulked at delving into his sexual preferences. I decided it was none of my business. Clicking my fingers in a hasty, unexplored ponder, I left it alone.
Arianna's and Ruby's concern!
I noticed what I hadn't when I entered the club all macho swagger: a promotional photo poster featuring Carmen. Her name was emblazoned in bright gold lettering. I liked the strategic tassels and her shiny navel piercing.
I left the poster and the club behind and joined James and his mates in the designated bar.
Now, memory ponders what I failed to pursue.
What could I have changed in the chance Ruby trackside encounter? Like complimenting her fascinator. What if I had?
I hesitated to follow Jenny to Byron Bay. I stalled. What if I had?
I recall how time idled with a young woman in an amusement park should have unfolded differently. What if it had?