




                         SUCKER BET

                             by

                          Joe Doe



[Part 1]

My first mistake was telling my husband my fantasies.  My second 
was making that stupid bet.

First of all, I'm not an exhibitionist.  My skirts always cover my 
knees, and my blouses always button to the collar.  

The fence around our backyard pool is higher than the walls of most 
penitentiaries.  I wear a modest black one piece suit, but I NEVER 
swim when anyone other than my husband is around.

My friends tease me about dressing like the last Victorian.  I AM 
a bit prissy, I suppose, and maybe slightly spoiled, but I prefer 
to think of it as being "decent," "decorous," and "responsible."  
I certainly don't apologize, however, either for my life-style or 
for marrying well.  I keep busy by serving on a number of our 
town's charitable boards.  I am widely regarded as a pillar of 
our community, and (not to put too fine a point on it) a temple 
of our civic virtues.

The reason for my prim behavior is because I am, in most things, 
almost pathologically modest, not because I'm ugly.  Far from it.  
I know what men think about when they look at me.  Beneath my 
layers of frumpy clothes, I'm actually quite sexy.  I know that 
many men who see me would like to see more. 

Not that I would ever show them.

		******************************

All that is prologue, however.  I am currently in something of a 
"situation," the catalyst for which was the surprise opening of 
a strip club, "The Meat Rack," in a largely industrial area that 
I and others considered much too close to downtown.  Since I chair 
the local library board, and since the club was only a few minutes 
from the library, I was naturally asked to serve on the committee 
to abolish that club.

The first meeting went well enough.  We organized and set a date 
for the public hearing.  When they tried to elect me chairman, I 
declined, since my husband was being transferred abroad, and I 
was quite busy preparing for the move. 

I did, however, feel it important to be on the committee, to 
emphasize the moral aspects of the matter.  (A heavy majority 
of the committee seemed far more concerned about the effect of 
the strip club on property values than its sinful influence on 
our civic virtue.)  

Out of a sense of duty, I reluctantly agreed to go on a 
"fact-finding" mission to "The Meat Rack."

		******************************

It was a slow night, and the club manager, a big burly mob type, 
was not at all pleased to see us.  He tried to throw us out, but 
one my fellow committee members was a policeman, and, when he 
flashed his badge, the manager knew it would be smarter to let 
us stay.

The club was smokey and sleazy, and the "music" was loud and 
unmelodic.  The girl on the low stage seemed unaware of the 
audience, and her performance was jaded and mechanical.  The 
crowd seemed unimpressed, at least until her final garment 
fluttered to the floor...and she squatted to pick up her first 
"tip."

Propriety prohibits me from telling you where that tip was tucked, 
but you can well imagine.  I demanded that the dancer and customer 
be arrested on the spot, but Carl Levitt, our cop friend, pointed 
out that the club was built on a narrow parcel of unincorporated 
land, and our local ordinances didn't apply.

I watched the dancer saunter over to another customer, a greasy 
trucker type.  At his command, she bent over and spread the 
cheeks of her bulbous bottom.

The second tip found a different, but no less shocking, home.

I felt dizzy, confused.  The noise, the garish lighting, the casual 
chatter as the woman debased herself for a dollar were all too much 
to take.

I excused myself and headed for the exit.

I was past the bouncer and heading out the door when I suddenly 
stopped short.  A crude poster had caught my eye:

	  See the sweet girl next door TOTALLY NUDE!*
	Tuesday Night is AMATEUR Night at The Meat Rack!
	$300 Grand Prize, $100 2nd prize, $50 3rd prize!
	Local Girls!  College Co-eds!  Horny Housewives!
	           Flash Your Gash For Cash!

I stared at the garish sign.  I couldn't believe it.  

Local girls nude?  We had a respectable town.  And now these 
low-life creeps were attempting to corrupt our innocents with 
this indecent proposal.

I was disgusted, shocked, enraged.  The girls in this town were 
respectable young women.  Did they really expect them to prance 
around on stage for a few measly dollars?

Not that $300, or even $50, was measly these days.  I mean, I 
myself really didn't need the money, but this was a college 
town, and I knew a lot of young women did need it.

Yes, no doubt there would be plenty of takers.  And these contests 
would attract not just the girls.  Men are pigs, and obviously 
they'd love to see a girl they knew, a girl they had fantasized 
about, degrade herself on stage.  Yes, they'd smile, and leer, and 
smack their lips as they watched the poor girl blush and squirm 
under their lewd appraisal.

The "*" next to "TOTALLY NUDE" confused me for a moment, until I 
saw the tiny note on the bottom of the poster:

	Sorry, ladies!  All entrants, once on stage, will be 
	required to strip BIRTHDAY BARE.  No exceptions! 

(The footnote was followed by a smiley face.) 

I shuddered.  Totally bare?  Absolutely naked?  It was an outrage.

I re-read the smug footnote.  "Ladies" indeed!  As if a young woman 
would still feel like a "lady" after she had pranced around naked 
-- totally naked -- for everyone to see.

"No exceptions!"  What if the girl quite sensibly decided to back 
out?  What if she changed her mind or realized the enormity of what 
she was about to do?

Changing her mind was a woman's prerogative -– but not at this 
rotten club!

But it was the phrase "birthday bare" and the smiley face that 
galled me the most.  It was obvious that the club regarded an 
innocent lady's understandable reluctance to bare herself for a 
drooling, howling mob of lechers to be merely an amusing conceit, 
a silly indulgence to be swept away with a laugh and a sneer.

The proud, intelligent, and well-educated women of this community 
would not only be required to strip -– they would also have to 
prance around "birthday bare" for the enjoyment of anyone who 
cared to watch.  

They'd be regarded as just silly little bimbos, whose modesty meant 
nothing.

I was so absorbed in the poster that I didn't hear the voices 
behind me.  It wasn't until one of my fellow committee members 
tapped me on the shoulder that I realized that they were talking 
to me.

"All you all right, Julia?" Agnes Snoup (one of the women on the 
committee) asked

"Umm...yes....  I was just looking at this sign."  

"We all can see that," Mr. Wallace (another committee member) 
chuckled.  "And, from the way you were staring at it, I 
imagined you were thinking of entering the contest yourself." 

My jaw dropped.  Me!  In that degrading contest!  Outrageous!

It wasn't until I heard everyone laughing at me that I realized 
that it was a joke.

The group broke up, then, and I drove home quickly.  As I 
masturbated in bed, I thought of the glaring lights, the 
blaring music, and the leering, disgusting faces of the 
scummy crowd.  After several orgasms -- four or five, 
anyway -- I fell into a deep sleep.

		******************************

The next committee meeting passed quickly.  Our police officer 
friend told us that a number of the girls were performing "various 
acts of prostitution" in the alley behind the theatre.  The 
Sheriff's men could arrest them, of course.  But, although he was 
undoubtedly pimping his girls, the club manager would doubtlessly 
claim ignorance.  

The old girls would be gone, but new girls would take their place.  
And the club would go on.

"Exactly What sort of 'acts of prostitution' are they performing?" 
Mr. Wallace asked.  

"Mostly hand jobs and oral," the officer said.  "$25 a pop."  

A few of the women on the committee blushed, and I looked over at 
Mr. Wallace disapprovingly.  What difference did it make what they 
were doing?  

I had never liked him.  He was older, a widower, and a former 
Marine.  I didn't like his attitude.  I didn't like the way he 
looked at me.  I didn't like the way he had leered at the girl 
on the stage....

And I particularly didn't like the way he had smiled at me when it 
had been suggested that I was interested in amateur night.  

No, I didn't like Mr. Wallace at all.  He caught my dirty look and 
smiled back.  I didn't like his cheeky behavior.  I didn't like the 
way he was often the spokesman for the "amoral majority" on the 
committee.  Most of all, I didn't like the fact that I seemed to 
feel compelled to address him as -- even to think of him as -- 
MISTER Wallace.

At our committee's suggestion, the town council had already taken 
steps to incorporate that piece of land.  Once the club was under 
our jurisdiction, we could zone it out of existence in a month.

Mr. Wallace thought the club was pretty much "off the beaten path" 
and "essentially harmless."  And he said that "anybody who didn't 
like the club just shouldn't go there."  

Fortunately, no one else on the committee seemed to agree with him, 
and we voted to proceed with the annexation and zoning restrictions.

The meeting was about to break up when I raised a new point. 

"What about stopping amateur night?" I asked.  "If we close the 
club down a month from now, they'll still have time for four or 
even five amateur nights."

"So?" one of my fellow committee members asked.

"The woman dancing aren't going to be professionals," I explained.  
"They're going to be college girls and secretaries and maybe 
even...housewives.  Four weeks isn't soon enough."

The chairman tried to calm me down.  "We all want the club closed.  
But we have to be patient.  I'm sure that, in a few weeks...."

I lost it.  "That's easy for you to say -- you're a man.  What 
about the girls who are going to be dancing there next Tuesday?  
Or the following Tuesday?  What about them?"

"Julia, if a girl chooses to...."

"You don't know that it's a free choice!" I shouted.  "The sign 
said that, once on stage, the girls had to strip 'birthday bare.'  
What if the girls who enter the contest don't realize that?  What 
if they change their minds?"

"I'm sure if...."

But I was on a roll.  "No, wait.  I've been thinking about it.  
What if it were a Tuesday night, and my car broke down.  It's 
dark, I can't get a signal on my cell, and the only place nearby 
is that club.  I go inside.  I don't have any change, and I need 
to use the phone.  The club manager -- that big, fat pig of a 
disgusting club manager -- recognizes me from our visit.  He 
knows I'm in trouble.  He knows I need help.  Don't you see?  
I'd be at his mercy."

"He looks me up and down, real slowly, and smiles.  'You can always 
EARN the money,' he says.  'After all, it IS Tuesday.'  I wouldn't 
want to do it, but what choice would I have?  I'd have to dance.  
I'd have to strip.  It would be the only way.  And don't think he 
wouldn't take advantage of it.  Before I knew it, I'd be up on that 
stage -- dancing, swinging my hips, bumping and grinding for all 
those perverts.

"And what if someone I KNEW came in?  A neighbor, or one of my 
husband's friends, or even this damn committee?  It wouldn't 
make any difference.  I'd STILL have to strip.  The sign said, 
"birthday bare," and I wouldn't have any choice.  I'd have to 
strip off every stitch.  And, when our friend Wallace pulled out 
a dollar bill, I'd have to bend, and squat, and give him a big 
smile, even as he stuck his fingers right up my...my...."

I stopped.  Everyone in the room was staring at me. 

They couldn't believe it.  I couldn't believe it.

What had I done?

The room was deathly quiet.  I was upset, but I wasn't crying.

I was excited.  Oh, god!  Dripping....  

After an awkward pause, the chairman adjourned the meeting, and 
we went our separate ways.

I drove home.

		******************************  

That night I was grateful for two things:  

1) That, in little over a week, I'd be gone from this town, and I'd 
   never have to face those people again.

2) That my vibrator ran on house current, rather than on batteries
   (no matter how long-lived they were supposed to be).



Edited by C. Lakewood
