point when otherswere not inclined to be friendly to me, and when most of them didn’t last more than a handful of shifts anyway.
Blanca appeared on the doorstep as I approached her loft apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, not too far from my old quarters in Queens, but much more upmarket. She did okay for herself, I thought, as she showed me through to the kitchen with its shiny stainless-steel fittings and the airy living room adjacent where I would be sleeping on a fold-out couch. Probably scooped off some of the dancers’ tips as well as her own wage and the house fare that the other girls paid for each set. But, as far as I was concerned, she was worth every penny, for making sure the Grand kept its upmarket feel and not lowering standards as the other bars in the area had done for the sake of cheap girls and easy money.
It was the first time I’d seen her outside of work, where she usually dressed in long, flowing gowns with her ample cleavage displayed like two plump white bread rolls begging to be taken into a willing mouth.
Today she was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain white blouse, her auburn hair scooped up into a loose bun on top of her head. She was about the same height as me, but in contrast with my thinness, Blanca had a full-figured, ample form. I guessed she was in her thirties. I knew that she had danced for years at the Grand before taking over as the girls’ supervisor, and it showed; her figure was round in all the right places but also firm and meaty and when she turned to show me around the apartment my eyes drifted down to admire her buttocks, perky and wonderfully fleshy, sculpted tight beneath the denim fabric of her trousers.
As I watched Blanca’s arse sway with each step, it occurred to me that I might have another option besidesmen. My relationship with the male species had always been a matter of give and take. One asset exchanged for another. A matter of rational calculation, cold hard logic. Romance, sure, but more than that was the matter of survival, of sex in exchange for safety and comfort. Not that I didn’t like the sex. But even that was a transaction, my body for his, one orgasm granted in return for another experienced.
Maybe it would be different with women. Less of a power trip and more of a meeting of equals.
For the first few nights, I distracted myself from the pain with a mixture of fury and lust, remembering all the ways that Chey had hurt me and all the reasons that I had to hate him, or by wondering about Blanca’s voluptuous body standing nude under the hiss of the shower water in her tiny bathroom, questioning whether her nipples stood erect parting the flow of the droplets that ran over her skin as she massaged herself with soap, and whether her pussy was still shaved like a dancer’s or if she had allowed her hair to return, covering her inner secrets like a curtain. I would ease myself to sleep by slipping my hand under the thin blanket and caressing my own smooth mound until an orgasm sent me to my dreams happy and light headed quicker than any drug.
But Blanca didn’t give me any reason to think that she returned my affections, and her arse remained firmly zipped into her jeans for the duration of my stay. Worse still, I wasn’t the only girl that she provided a refuge for, and I was soon sharing the fold-out couch with Dee-Dee, a Jamaican girl who had just arrived in New York City and walked straight into the arms of a Lev or a Barry who had upgraded her to Blanca once they realised that she had some rhythmin her long legs and breasts good enough to appear in a lingerie catalogue.
With the sleeping Dee-Dee snoring alongside me and her thick limbs taking up most of the bed, my episodes of nightly self-pleasuring disappeared and my dreams turned darker, full of bullets and steel barrels that I pictured in all different forms. Sometimes I was inside the gun, dancing like a Bond girl, sometimes the gun was pressed to my forehead with Chey holding
Blanca appeared on the doorstep as I approached her loft apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, not too far from my old quarters in Queens, but much more upmarket. She did okay for herself, I thought, as she showed me through to the kitchen with its shiny stainless-steel fittings and the airy living room adjacent where I would be sleeping on a fold-out couch. Probably scooped off some of the dancers’ tips as well as her own wage and the house fare that the other girls paid for each set. But, as far as I was concerned, she was worth every penny, for making sure the Grand kept its upmarket feel and not lowering standards as the other bars in the area had done for the sake of cheap girls and easy money.
It was the first time I’d seen her outside of work, where she usually dressed in long, flowing gowns with her ample cleavage displayed like two plump white bread rolls begging to be taken into a willing mouth.
Today she was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain white blouse, her auburn hair scooped up into a loose bun on top of her head. She was about the same height as me, but in contrast with my thinness, Blanca had a full-figured, ample form. I guessed she was in her thirties. I knew that she had danced for years at the Grand before taking over as the girls’ supervisor, and it showed; her figure was round in all the right places but also firm and meaty and when she turned to show me around the apartment my eyes drifted down to admire her buttocks, perky and wonderfully fleshy, sculpted tight beneath the denim fabric of her trousers.
As I watched Blanca’s arse sway with each step, it occurred to me that I might have another option besidesmen. My relationship with the male species had always been a matter of give and take. One asset exchanged for another. A matter of rational calculation, cold hard logic. Romance, sure, but more than that was the matter of survival, of sex in exchange for safety and comfort. Not that I didn’t like the sex. But even that was a transaction, my body for his, one orgasm granted in return for another experienced.
Maybe it would be different with women. Less of a power trip and more of a meeting of equals.
For the first few nights, I distracted myself from the pain with a mixture of fury and lust, remembering all the ways that Chey had hurt me and all the reasons that I had to hate him, or by wondering about Blanca’s voluptuous body standing nude under the hiss of the shower water in her tiny bathroom, questioning whether her nipples stood erect parting the flow of the droplets that ran over her skin as she massaged herself with soap, and whether her pussy was still shaved like a dancer’s or if she had allowed her hair to return, covering her inner secrets like a curtain. I would ease myself to sleep by slipping my hand under the thin blanket and caressing my own smooth mound until an orgasm sent me to my dreams happy and light headed quicker than any drug.
But Blanca didn’t give me any reason to think that she returned my affections, and her arse remained firmly zipped into her jeans for the duration of my stay. Worse still, I wasn’t the only girl that she provided a refuge for, and I was soon sharing the fold-out couch with Dee-Dee, a Jamaican girl who had just arrived in New York City and walked straight into the arms of a Lev or a Barry who had upgraded her to Blanca once they realised that she had some rhythmin her long legs and breasts good enough to appear in a lingerie catalogue.
With the sleeping Dee-Dee snoring alongside me and her thick limbs taking up most of the bed, my episodes of nightly self-pleasuring disappeared and my dreams turned darker, full of bullets and steel barrels that I pictured in all different forms. Sometimes I was inside the gun, dancing like a Bond girl, sometimes the gun was pressed to my forehead with Chey holding
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