by: Mattieu Dominic
I probably wouldn’t have gone with her if she hadn’t grabbed my beer. Bob didn’t exactly help the situation by slapping a twenty into my hand and drunkenly shouting “She’s on me, buddy!!” I wished she were quite literally going to be on him instead of me. I wasn’t ready yet. I was still reeling over the loss of Reina, the love of my life. The whole reason I had agreed to come here in the first place (though a reluctant and cajoled agreement it was) was because of how shitty I had been feeling since Reina left me.
I hadn’t been out much she had sacked me a couple weeks before. Maybe I should have seen it coming; the lone email she sent me after jetting described in detail all the ways she had telegraphed the impending split in the weeks prior. In truth, I didn’t think I could be blamed for being clueless. Reina was perfect. She was the girl who fed-up husbands, smashed and crying to their buddies in hawk-and-spit taverns, wished their wives were more like; the girl who loved giving head so much, I would often wake up in the morning to find my dick in her mouth (if ever there was a cock that crowed in the morning…). She was a unicorn, a glorious dream that everybody had but no one ever really lived. Except me.
I was in emotional disarray, and afraid of what a naked woman would do to me (literally and figuratively). At any rate, I was entirely too shit-faced to put up much resistance. I had initially protested feebly, but Bob’s money, my kidnapped beer, and a painfully blissful pinch to my head (the sober, more southern one) were far too effective. She grabbed me by my tie, an easy leash for a spaced-out strip club puppy dog, and walked me to the back room.
I used to be well put together. I inherited the smooth talking charm from my dad’s side. Years of watching him and other male relatives pick up women in bars, malls, parking lots and wherever else the scent of fresh snatch led them had invariably rubbed off on me. The good looks, I surely got from mom’s side. My granny was a closet Miss Universe, and my grandfather was known as “starboy” in his circle for the celestial allure of his visage. I had picked up the good genes from both sides and had a less than difficult time scoring bombshells. Then I met Reina, my ultimate bombshell. She was the best I ever had. and she obliterated me.
In the back room, my new friend made me sit down on a semi-circular duvet-typed thing (“seet een meedle, baybee, need room to sprayed my laygs”) . She took off my glasses before returning the hostage she had nabbed earlier, but not before taking a hearty swig.
“Raylaax, hoenee, we do next song, ya?”
I guessed from her Russian-y accent that she was eastern-European. She pulled out two pieces of white cloth from under the seat. One of them she spread across my lap (undoubtedly protection against an ‘untimely arrival’) and with the other she wiped the sweat from her (I had just noticed) very attractive face. Her eyes were a crisp emerald green, almond shaped and twinkling superficially against the strobe light. She had terse and very curvy lips. they were bathed in a bright red balm, and glistened as she wafted them seductively with her tongue.
She came towards me and whispered in my ear (“Yoo like what yoo see, sugardick?”. At least that’s what I think she said). She smelled delicious; like a strawberry daiquiri. Fitting, I guess. Something I loved to knock back, but in secret because I was too ashamed to do it openly.
She was nothing like Reina, save for the fact that she was gorgeous.
Reina used to smell heavenly. She was never drenched in fancy creams or oils like many of the other girls that used to frequent my dorm room (sometimes I felt I was fucking giant fruit baskets or floral bouquets). She had a poignant aroma, sweet, fleshy and distinct. She smelled like a woman, and her scent never really left my nose. She also knew how much I hated make up and never wore any, save for that purplish thing she would smear over her eyes whenever we went dancing. My buddies were never impressed by her. To them, she was an album-filler at very best. But she was always a classic to me. Her beauty was that song perpetually stuck in my head. She was a musician in her arc, hitting all the right notes. She strung me like a glorious melody; and then, as if she suddenly lost her passion for the music, she left me hanging mid-chorus.
I looked around, trying to fight off the dizzying inebriation ( “That Cabo Wabo is a creeper”, the bartender had warned. I hadn’t listened). A young man, who looked entirely too young to be at a strip club, drooled in googly-eyed stupor, pinching the nipples of a petite blonde who was grinding on his crotch. Another dancer, a slender, olive-skinned brunette, was servicing a couple. She sat cat-spraddle on the guy’s lap, patting her pussy as if it were her pet, all the while groping the girlfriend’s box through undoubtedly moist jeans as she (the girlfriend) nibbled on her (the stripper’s) tits.
For the next song the DJ changed the flavor from dirty dancehall to an eargasmic electronica track. My girl pinched my crotch again and winked playfully at me. She leaned into me as she slid her barely-anything halter dress down to reveal her humble yet very perky tits.
“What’s your name?”
“Tanya” ( or was it Anya?)
“Where you from, Tasya?” (Talia?)
Tamina straddled me cowgirl-style, but didn’t settle. “Hold me good, beeg boy” she smilingly warned, and somehow I managed it, wobbly arms and all.
She settled deep into my lap and, bracing herself with her palms to my knees, swung her left leg onto my shoulder, and then she started to gyrate. Her skinny frame flexed bewitchingly as she slowly moved her hips clockwise, then stopping in an agonizing tease as she switched to counter-clockwise, then reverse and repeat. I could feel the heat in my groin as rivers of steamy blood gushed downward. It was the first hard-on I had gotten since Reina split. I lifted Tasha up as I straightened my back and re-positioned her so that she rested more comfortably on the rising mound below her. I closed my eyes and ran my fingers between her breasts and down her midriff; velvet, and moist with blood-hot sweat.
I used to trail my fingers down Reina’s spine as she gently writhed atop me. She would move with a seamless fluidity. I would feel like I was making love to the ocean, the rhythmic ebb and flow washing over me, the gentle moan of the waves. The passion, an immeasurable expanse that carried me away on journeys I wished would never end. My lips would quiver at her flesh, savouring the salty sweetness.
When my five-minute jet ski ride in Tatyana’s choppy waters had expired, I felt marooned. She rose from me abruptly and rubbed her thumb and index finger together impatiently. I gave her Bob’s folded note and she promptly turned to leave. Panicked, I grabbed her hand like it was driftwood, and pulled her back to me.
“One more song.”
Christina Milian’s “Dip it low” was next in queue. Tamara resumed where she left off. She straddled me and starting grinding again. We were both sweating profusely by now, only adding to the overall moistness of the situation. I felt like I had just taken a dip in the ocean.
I thought of Reina and the nights we made love in the shallow near her parents’ beach house in Tobago. We never minded how much the saltwater and sand burned our flesh, or the flotsam and jetsam that washed against us. We, hungry sharks, devoured each other, and our screams out-roared the waves.
I could feel the passion welling up in me, and I began to crave the taste of Reina’s skin. I was a tidal wave and her body was the shore I wanted to lick furiously. Inhibitions doffed, I pulled Tamika close to me, cupping a breast as I did. I brought her neck to my lips, tasting her. One mouthful and I abruptly pushed her away, spitting as I did. Brackish.