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"Brenda,
are you sure this is OK?"
"Look,
Joyce, we've been through this before. You agreed to come along
with us. It's too late to turn back now. You'll have fun. You'll
see."
"Yeah,
don't be such a pansy," Melissa piped up from the back seat.
I looked in the rear view mirror and watched Sandy roll her eyes.
The four of
us were on a mission. I attended a bachlorette party for one of
the girls at work a week ago. At first I was taken back when we
pulled up to a "strip joint" until I found out that it
was ladies' night. Well, the whole place wasn't just for ladies,
but they did have the back room especially reserved for the activities.
The main bar was still mostly for men.
Our side of
the facility featured the "all male review." These guys
were hot. Many of them were students at the local college. One of
them told me that he made more money for a couple of hours' work
here once a week than he did at his full-time weekend job. He lamented
that the girls next store made even more money. Apparently drunk
men tip better than drunk women.
The guys might
have been hot, but they were "kids" to us matronly types.
Well, as forty-something housewives college boys were kids to us.
The adventurous side of me wanted to lead my sisters-in-boredom
on a little expedition in excitement.
"Are you
sure this is OK?" Joyce asked again. "I mean naked men
… I mean you can actually see their …their …"
she tailed off fumbling for the correct word.
Sandy supplied
it for her, "Penis!" she yelled from the back seat, "Penis!
It's called a penis, cock, dick, dong, schlong, Johnson, tool, wang.
John has one, Bill has one, Henry has one, and so does Andy,"
she said naming off our husbands. There's a reason we call her "Randy
Sandy."
"Yeah,
but?" Joyce protested.
"But what?"
Melissa said.
"But they
belong to someone else. I mean; I'm not married to any of them."
"Who's
asking you to marry them? They're boys. From what Brenda tells me,
well-hung and in-shape boys, but boys nonetheless. They are eye
candy, toys to look at. Maybe even cop a feel. "
Joyce shut
up and bit her lip nervously.
I tried to
put her at ease. "Look, once you get there, and you are immersed
in a room full of screaming women, you'll get in the mood. I thought
I'd have a problem with it but when everybody else is doing it,
it's easier to go along. You'll see; it will be fun."
So I was taking
the girls back to show them what I have found. Our cover with our
spouses was that it was a "girls' night out;" the four
of us were going to dinner and then to see a "chick flick."
Our husbands joyfully declined, saying they were going out for a
couple of beers and watch "the game."
"The game!"
There's always "the game." So our husbands were going
to watch their weekly "game of the year." Just as well,
it will keep them out most of the night, and we'd probably be home
before them.
Kids were comfortably
shuttled to a friend's house. She ran a day care, had enough room
and toys to handle dozens of kids, and was glad for the lucrative
bonus the opportunity provided. For the kids too, it was a party
and a night out away from their parents. Everybody was a winner.
I found the
place and parked in the corner of the lot. As liberated as I thought
I was, I was still concerned that somebody I know would see us here.
We got out
of the car and walked across the parking lot. Melissa, Sandy and
I fixed our sights on the appropriate door and walked towards it
as confidently as we could. Joyce was mincing her way through the
parking lot like Dorothy timidly stepping through the forest speaking
"Lions, and tigers and bears. Oh my!" clutching her purse
like Dorothy clutched Toto.
The entranceway
was brightly lit, so as soon as we crossed the threshold into the
darkened interior, we were blind to all that wasn't in the spotlight.
And what was in the spotlight was most interesting. It was a young
man in a fireman's outfit, the pieces of which were already scattered
around the stage leaving him in his hat, boots and posing pouch.
I had learned
on my last trip that the performers wore a number of outfits, and
sometimes the same performer would wear different outfits at different
times during the evening.
Our waitress
showed us to our table and we got ourselves comfortably settled
in. Joyce, of course, selected the seat facing away from the stage.
Randy Sandy turned her chair around, spread her lips with her fingers
and let out a whistle shrill enough to penetrate steel. I guess
being the only girl raised in a house full of boys gives a girl
the chance to pick up some talents not normally associated with
members of the female gender. Nonetheless, her tribute to the performer
was almost lost in the storm of feminine laughter and shouting.
The act was
almost over by the time our first drink order came. Each of us had
the house special. I don't know the exact recipe, but I do know
is that it was made with several different kinds of liquor and served
flambé. The establishment obviously wanted to get its patrons
intoxicated quickly.
I really don't
know how many of the house specials we had, and how many different
naked men we saw that evening. I do remember the last act we watched.
It featured
a young man in green medical "scrubs" complete with cap,
green paper booties over his shoes, and the stethoscope hanging
off his neck. He called himself, "Dr. Love."
The four of
us girls were feeling no pain, and laughed and chatted away like
a bunch of schoolgirls as on stage, Dr. Love was losing various
pieces of his outfit.
By the time
our glasses were almost empty, Dr. Love was down to his G-string
and booties. The G-string was made of some sort of stretchy material,
so it didn't hide anything. It might as well have been a condom.
As he flung his last shred of clothing off to the side, he jumped
off the stage into the crowd.
I've been to
the aquarium. I've seen them feed the sharks. I know what a brave
gesture this young man was doing when he dove into a pool of estrogen-crazed
and alcohol-uninhibited women. Hands groped at him everywhere. Women
waved bills at him and he came over to them and made the appropriate
gestures with his hips. These women took their time to place their
tips carefully in his G-string, lest he lose them.
Dr. Love worked
his way over towards our table. Sandy held up a large denomination
bill. Dr. Love re-adjusted his treasury to place it closer to the
family jewels.
There's something
about predatory animals; they can sense fear and uncertainty in
their prey. Although Sandy was waving the bait, Dr. Love circled
towards Joyce. Her face turned as red as her drink. She put her
hands up in front of it, but certainly not over her eyes. They were
firmly fixed on the bulging pouch inches from her face.
Sandy yelled,
"Show her what you got. Give her a dose of your medicine."
Dr. Love started
to move his hips in an interesting rocking motion. The bulge started
to take shape and a pink tip peeked out from the top of the pouch.
I licked my lips. I stole a peek at Sandy and Melissa. Both had
eyes wide open tracking every subtle movement. Joyce was in kind
of a trance.
Dr. Love put
his hands on his hips hooked his fingers into the pouch and wiggled
around some more. Like a moray eel slithering out of its hiding
place, more of the prize slowly and smoothly emerged.
I don't know
why this should excite me. I've been married for a dozen years.
I've dated for a dozen years before that. I've known what a penis
looks like since I was about 6 years old. I've babysat and diapered
dozens of boys. Sandy and Melissa both have brothers, I'm sure they've
seen them naked at some point in their lives.
So why did
this take on a totally different aura? Alcohol for sure had something
to do with it, but I think the room also had its effect. When everyone
else is doing *it*, whatever it is, it becomes OK. I would never
look at another man under any other circumstance, but this wasn't
any other circumstance. It was like each woman in the room shared
the collective enthusiasm as her own. I could feel Sandy and Melissa's
excitement coursing through my veins. I felt the heat of Joyce's
embarrassment in my face.
I know I wouldn't
feel the same way watching this show on a TV screen. You had to
be there.
Meanwhile the
doctor's penis was bouncing up and down in front of Joyce's eyes.
"Touch it!" Sandy yelled out. Joyce shook her head. "Touch
it," Melissa added. Joyce buried her head in her hands, but
then snapped it back up. She reached out and put a fingernail on
it. She traced it down the shaft to where it disappeared into the
pouch.
From out of
the crowd came a roar of encouragement, and a hand with a bottle
of hand cream. There were several of them placed strategically around
the room, and it was expected that one of them get passed along
to where the action was.
Melissa nudged
Joyce, "Go ahead, go do it girl."
"Hold
it like a hot dog and squeeze that mustard on it," Sandy advised.
The good doctor
put his hands behind his back and pushed his crotch forward. Joyce
squirt the pink liquid down the length of his shaft. She wrapped
her hand around it. Doc humped in and out making love to her fingers
and palm. His penis, which was hard to begin with, got even bigger
and plumper.
The previous
week was the first time I've seen a young penis in action in decades.
The action happened a lot sooner than I remembered and with a lot
more force that I've seen for quite a while. Bill was still virile
for 40-something, but he's "lost a little off his fastball."
Not that I'm complaining, what he lacks now in speed and force,
he more than makes up for with endurance and skill.
Doc's performance
was no less impressive than those I saw last week. Joyce squealed
as he shot off.
As doc left
with G-string bulging with more than just wadded bills, the waitress
handed Joyce a moist hand towel to clean up. "That's our signal
to get out of here, girls," I announced, "It's already
10:30. I don't know how long 'the game' is going to last, but I'd
like to be home before the boys get there." I knew I needed
to freshen up a little. I smelled like cigarette smoke, and none
of us smoked.
We paid the
bill, and made our way back out to the parking lot. Joyce put her
hand on top of the car, and calmly announced, "Excuse me."
The next thing I know, she's emptying the contents of her stomach
all over the side of my car. Oh well, at least the door was closed,
but it looked like a trip to the car wash tomorrow.
I got us all
in the car, belted in, and turned to Melissa, "Make sure Joyce
is OK." Melissa smiled back at me dumbly. Well, at least she
isn't vomiting. Joyce already had her eyes closed.
I pulled out
of the parking lot and turned onto the highway. Almost immediately
blue flashing lights filled my rear view mirror. I slowed down and
the blue lights were still there. I pulled over and they didn't
pull on past me.
I watched the
side view mirror as the police car sat there for a couple of minutes.
Then the officer got out and walked towards the car. I smiled trying
to imagine the last time I saw a man in a police uniform …
and out of it. It might have been a half hour ago.
All of a sudden
there was the glare of a flashlight in my face. I rolled down the
window. "I need to see your license, registration and proof
of insurance please." I leaned over to the glove compartment
to fumble for the necessary documents. I handed them to the officer.
"Stay right here ma'am." He walked back to his car. He
returned a couple of minutes later.
"Step
out of the car ma'am." I got out feeling a little uneasy about
the process at this point. "How much have you had to drink
tonight ma'am," he said shining the flashlight directly into
one eye and then the other.
"Oh, a
couple." I am sure he's heard that response a lot. "Ma'am,
I'm going to ask you to do some simple tests." So here I am
standing on the side of the road doing arm extensions, nose touches
and other exercises. At the conclusion of which he stated, "I
am going to have to cite you for driving while intoxicated."
He made all
of us get out of the car. The rest of the girls were in no better
shape than me. Several minutes later, another cop car appeared.
The second officer walked up and our officer asked me to give her
the car keys. The second officer then pulled my car back to the
side of the road and locked it up.
"Come
on, ladies," he beckoned, "you're going for a ride."
Sandy and I wound up in one car, Melissa and Joyce in the other.
We met again at the police station. There I underwent a breathalyzer
test.
I was finally
allowed my one phone call, and that went to Bill who was annoyed
at first because I interrupted "the game" by calling him
on his cell phone. As soon as I filled him in on what happened,
his mood changed. "I have the guys here with me right now.
We'll be down to pick you up in a moment."
In the meantime,
we sat in the corner of the jail (at least not behind bars) as another
consignment of drunk drivers came in. This was followed by what
had to be the ugliest woman I've ever seen until she pulled her
wig off. With this girl was a balding, almost timid looking middle-age
man who was booked for solicitation. The real prostitutes came later
as they were both arrested for assault and disturbing the peace;
apparently a cat-fight over something.
At last our
knights in shining armor arrived. Well, if they had armor for them,
they could use a pot-bellied stove for part of it. However at the
moment, they were our saviors; anything to get out of this place!
I could hear
Bill talking with the cops or at least the part he was excited about.
"The car is where? What were they doing in that place?"
Most of the rest of the conversation was conducted in murmurs. I
could see the four men talking with each other and looking in our
directions.
It's amazing
what a sobering experience being arrested can be. I swear every
one of us girls was right on alert by the time we were released
into the "cognizance of our respective spouses." As soon
as I was allowed to, I ran to Bill hugged him and kissed him. He
kissed me back but said, "We're going to have to talk about
this when we get home."
The ride home
was very quiet, at least in the car I was in. We all wound up at
my house. Bill and the boys told us to wait in the living room while
they "went over some things" in the kitchen. Again, I
could only catch snatches of the conversation.
Meanwhile us
four girls waited in the living room. Melissa broke out crying and
the rest of us went over to comfort her.
The men came
into the living room and looked around. "OK girls, stand up!"
Bill commanded in a firm voice. Each one of our husbands ordered
his wife to her feet. Bill pointed to one of the walls and said,
"Line up here and face us." I felt like I was going to
have my mug shot taken again.
The men sat
on the couch and chairs facing us. Bill was apparently in charge
of this interrogation, as the other men seemed to be content to
let him do the talking. Occasionally one of them would whisper something
in his ear to refresh his memory or even less often one of the other
men would address his wife. This arrangement meant that I had to
do most of the answering.
"What
were you girls doing tonight?" Bill demanded.
"We were
just out to have a little harmless fun," I answered.
"Harmless
fun?" he bellowed back. "You call that kind of lewd activity
harmless fun?"
I looked at
my toes.
"You are
grown women. You should know better. You should know how to behave
yourselves. What would the kids think if they saw you at a place
like that? What kind of a slut would they think you are? You're
supposed to be an example for them. Are you proud of what you did
there?"
I mumbled an
almost inaudible, "no."
Bill roared
back like a drill sergeant, "What's that, Brenda? I can't hear
you?"
"No,"
I said again, louder but with no more confidence.
Each of the
men demanded the same kind of confession from his wife. Again I
felt that embarrassed feeling, but this time it wasn't a good excitement
that was turning my stomach.
"Brenda,
look at me!" Bill continued, "How would you feel if Karlee
(our daughter) went to a place like that when she gets older? How
would you like it if Bill (yes, he's a junior) worked there?"
It wasn't a
fair question. Bill was 11 and Karlee was 8, so I couldn't even
comprehend what they would do when they got old enough to do it.
It did get me thinking though. Every one of the women in that room
was somebody's daughter. How would she react if she knew her offspring
partook in such heathen pleasure? I wondered what my mom would think
if she found out. Every one of the boy performers was somebody's
son. What would his mother think of how he made a living?
People don't
raise their children to behave this way. Yet it happened, and I
was a part of it. If women didn't show up to watch the boys perform,
then there would be no performance, and even if there was, a single
woman or even a small group of women wouldn't have the courage to
go on with the activities I saw tonight. My attendance actually
encouraged it.
"Bill,
it isn't like that …" I started.
"It isn't
like what?"
"I mean
our kids would never do something like this."
"Nobody's
kids would ever do something like this. Yet YOU did. …and you,
and you, and you." He said pointing to each one of us in turn.
Bill let that
sink in for a while.
"Then
there's the matter of DWI. We can hide the fact that you girls were
at a strip joint. I know I'm not going to brag about what my wife
does for fun around town, and neither are the other guys. The DWI
is a matter of public record. Suppose one of our neighbors reads
about it in the paper? You know we have very nosy neighbors. What
are they going to think?"
I had to admit
that getting in a car as drunk as I was wasn't one of my better
decisions. I wouldn't have done it otherwise, but how would I explain
going back to get the car at that place. Now I had to explain it
AND face the DWI charge.
"I am
not even going to try to figure out how much this is going to raise
our insurance. We will have to tone down those vacation plans."
Bill got up
and strode up and down in front of us.
"The guys
and I decided that you girls need to learn a lesson. You have endangered
yourselves and possibly others. You've embarrassed the shit out
of us, and you've behaved like spoiled little girls. We're going
to have to punish you like spoiled little girls. We're going to
take you over our laps and spank some sensibility into you."
I couldn't
believe my ears. I hadn't been spanked since I was a little girl
about 9 years old.
"OK girls,
pull 'em down."
"What!"
I could swear we all said the word in unison.
"Your
jeans, skirts and panties. They're coming down." Bill replied,
"Either you girls do it yourselves, or we'll do it for you."
I was very
reluctant to move, but somehow the inevitability of the situation
overcame me. I undid the buckle on my skirt and slowly moved the
waistband down. The other girls followed my lead. That made it a
little easier for me. There was a different dynamic at work here.
Instead of the frenzied, selfish, heat of the moment emotions generated
at the club, this was a more bonding experience. We shared a common
shame, and that made our sisterhood stronger.
I stepped out
of my skirt and kicked it towards Bill defiantly. Removing the panties
was more difficult psychologically since it was the last protection
I had, as frail as it was, against my vulnerability. The men had
the extra shielding of a mere couple of pieces of cloth, but they
could have just been as well in a suit of armor. The difference
in vulnerabilities was that strong. Nonetheless, I pulled down my
panties as quickly as doing a toe touch.
Soon all four
of us were standing there naked from the waist down, facing our
husbands.
Bill took me
by the hand and led me to a chair. With one continuous movement,
he bent me over his lap. I tried to resist but it was more than
muscle that overpowered me. I just seemed to bend with his movements,
he led my body, and my mind followed it. Bill was firm and controlling
but for that gentle all at once. I knew that in spite of his strength,
he wasn't going to hurt me.
That comfortable
feeling eroded when I found myself butt up in the air and very exposed.
I had forgotten that it was only one of four such exposed butts
until I heard a slapping sound and a yelp from one of my partners
in crime.
My turn came
soon enough. Without any warning, not even a shifting of weight,
Bill's hand came down on my behind. It was shocking and took me
by surprise. At first I felt the impact, but nothing else. There
was no sting, no burn, no hurt … nothing! As he raised his
hand feelings started to flood into the area. First a rushing sensation,
then a sting and then warmth.
I heard other
slapping sounds around me. I couldn't see what the other men and
women were doing, and I didn't want to turn my head to find out.
Bill delivered another spank to the opposite cheek and I let out
a cry. Soon Bill was delivering spank after spank.
I dare say
that the man knew his business. No individual spank was particularly
hard, but the cumulative effect went deeper. The stinging remained
on the surface, but the heat and tingling worked its way down to
the very core. Things became hazy. Maybe I had some residual alcohol
on board. Maybe it was my body position which had my head below
my butt.
Whatever it
was, my senses started shutting down. I could feel the spanking
on my behind, but somehow the pain of it didn't register. I knew
that I was draped over Bill's lap, but I didn't seem to sense gravity.
The sounds of the spankings and the cries of the women reached my
ears as though through a wall of water. Even my own cries seemed
to die in my throat.
My entire existence
was being drawn into my own mind, and the consciousness only of
the attention that a very specific part of my body was experiencing.
If Bill were talking to me, I couldn't comprehend him. I recognized
neither his voice nor his words. My entire understanding of the
world around me was the skin to skin contact of Bill's hand and
my behind. What a unique way to communicate and experience the world!
I felt winded
and weak. I suddenly realized that the spanking had stopped. Bit
by bit pieces of reality started to drizzle down on my consciousness.
It was like coming out of a dream slowly. I became aware of the
sobbing of one of the girls. I could feel the tears on my cheeks
as well. Had I been crying?
Bill gently
guided me off his lap. Dizzily, I stood. The world started to come
into focus again. Pain started to penetrate though the protective
shield. The heat and tingling continued.
Our husbands
made us stand and face the wall with our hands on our heads. I gave
a sideways glace to Sandy. She smiled back at me. I looked the other
way to see the grins on Melissa's and Joyce's faces. I knew that
next Friday night, we'd have to get together and talk about this.
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