YVETTE'S LAST DANCE
by Joris K. Huysmans

If you've been to a strip club-- oh, pardon me, Gentleman's
Club-- in the last decade or two, you know what the girls look
like these days.  Long and lean, muscular and aerobicized.  The
day of the buxom burlesque queen, or even the natural-breasted
cornfed honeys of the 1970s, is long past.  If you like back, at
best you might get the occasional black dancer with some booty,
but the white girls all shop in the petite section.

Don't get me wrong, I admire a gal like that as a sort of
architectural construction.  They're certainly young and sort of
beautiful, and that's what strip clubs hire for.  And I'm
impressed to see one of them hoist her 108 pounds up onto the
pole, flip upside-down, and slide down slowly, like an Olympic
gymnast.  But when they come by after their dances to invite me
to go drop a wad on a private dance, well, I find a way to
politely pass.  I'm happy to watch girls built like that, but
having them writhe up and down on me is like having a teenage boy
do it, which is not something I have any intention of actually
experiencing, ever.

So the first time I saw Yvette-- that was her stage name,
anyway-- at Primroses on Baxter Road near the airport, she stood
out because, well, things on her stood out.  She had rounded,
floppy breasts, a curvy behind, real hips, soft arms and thighs--
in short, somehow she didn't fit the muscular profile, but she
got hired anyway.  And once she got on stage, it was easy to see
why-- she had an immediate connection with the audience, knew how
to keep them interested and act as if they were turning her on. 
Too many dancers seem to be off in their own private world
(possibly drug-enhanced), but Yvette had the gift of making every
man in the room feel like she was dancing just for him.

Now, you know you have no business going back for a private dance
in any club unless you're willing to see money vanish at a
startling rate.  So I ration such activities carefully, using
them to make a serious contribution to the income of a dancer
who's really put on a great show, and not just to pad the
checking account of every girl who works me.  But Yvette got me
three times in a couple of months, not only because she did a
great private dance, and didn't seem to mind my hand brushing
against things I wasn't strictly supposed to touch, but because I
liked having a soft, curvy woman like her rubbing all over me. 
It got a reaction that those lean, bony gals didn't quite
achieve.

So I was surprised one Friday night when she seemed distant and
even angry on stage.  Fight with her boyfriend? Red-light-camera
ticket? Hard to say, but when she left the stage without even
trying to hustle me for a dance-- me, a known sucker!-- I was
curious.  I saw that she stopped over by the bar to talk to
another of the girls, so I took my $4.50 Bud Light and walked
over by her, waiting politely until she saw me and said hi. Which
she did, sullenly.

"Not such a good night?" I said.

"You could say that," she said.  "Try, my last night."

I was shocked.  "You got fired?"

"You don't have to announce it to the whole world," she said.

"Oh hell, getting fired is nothing," I said.  "If you don't get
fired once in a while, you're not worth the trouble of firing. 
Is your boss an asshole?"

"Damn right," she said.

"Well, then, why give his opinion any validity by listening to
it?  What was his problem?"

"Maybe we should go sit down," she said.

We went over to one of the tables, a row or two back from the
stage so the skinny dancer on stage wouldn't expect me to pay too
much attention to her.  "So what happened, did he harass you?"

"He said I wasn't thin enough to be a dancer," she said.  "I know
I've put on a few pounds lately, but I'm always first or second
in tips--"

"Which means he has no frickin' clue what guys like me like," I
said.  I looked her over.  Yeah, maybe she was a little broader
in the behind lately, and her little tummy pooched out a little.
But she was totally hot, and those soft curves were a big part of
the reason why.  "Honey, you're gorgeous, and the tips prove that
I'm not the only guy who thinks so.  So why the hell is he
listening to his own dumbass opinion instead of the money you
bring in?  I was under the impression that strip club owners were
at least somewhat interested in money," I added, and she laughed.

"Okay, maybe it's not as bad as all that," she said.  "But it
just makes you feel so worthless.  I know I'm hot--"

"You are so hot.  But you knew I thought that."

"Yeah, I've felt something that made me think you think that,"
she said.

"Listen," I said.  "If this is going to be your last night here,
I want to send you off with a ba-- er, in style.  One last dance,
and I promise you a very big tip.  To tide you over till you land
at a new place."

"It's a deal," she said.

*  *  *

She led me back to the private area and I sat down on a soft
couch, sinking backwards into its cushions.  I looked up at the
curved mirror which was mounted at the end of the room, and saw
the bouncer watching us, bored.  Then Yvette pushed my hands down
onto the couch to give me the signal that no touching was
allowed.

The music started in the other room and she started moving in
front of me.  She unbuttoned the flimsy black top she was wearing
and revealed her breasts-- of course, I had just seen them on
stage a few minutes before.  Yes, maybe they were a little bigger
and droopier than they had been when she first started.  We
should all have such problems; they were gorgeously round and
dangling, and soon she was pressing my face in between them,
swaying gently back and forth so that her boobs caressed my face.

She moved up, my nose rubbing against her soft, round little
belly until she was standing over me on the arms of the couch,
her panties in my face.  She gyrated her crotch over me,
pantomiming rubbing herself up and down my lips.  She'd done this
before, but this time she came closer and closer, until-- she
pressed her pussy right against my face, I could feel the pelvic
bone and the softness around it, separated from me by only the
thinnest layer of silk.  Nervous, I glanced up at the mirror, but
realized that the bouncer couldn't see, from this angle, if she
was six inches away or smashed into my face.

She hopped down, giving me a look that suggested she was in a
particularly mischievous mood.  Now she sat down in my lap, right
on my boner, and purred as she felt it.  If her ass was a little
bigger, it found no objection from me as its soft curves spread
out in my lap.  She arched her back like a cat, nuzzling my neck
with her lips as her ass dug into my crotch, massaging my hardon
like a pair of hands.  Meanwhile, her hands reached for mine and
placed them alongside her hips, inviting me to feel her ass.  I
rubbed and squeezed it gently as she rode my lap, it was a
beautifully-shaped ass, round and smooth, any man would give his
left nut to make love to such a gorgeously, indisputably female
ass.

She put her mouth against my ear.  "Would you like me to earn a
really big tip on my last night?" she asked.

"How much," I said, a little concerned.

"Whatever you think it was worth, sweetie," she said, and then
stood up again.  She got down on her knees and started rubbing
her body up my lap; then down again, my boner tracing a line from
her belly, between her breasts, and up to her chin.  She moved up
again to my face-- and this time she deftly reached for my fly
and zipped it down, allowing my underwear-covered boner to pop
out like a tentpole.  Unless you were one of us, though, there
was no way of seeing what she'd just done, and from the bouncer's
perspective, it would have looked exactly the same as she rubbed
my hardon against her belly, then between her breasts, and down
to her chin-- where she planted a playful kiss on the end of my
dick, or at least the cloth covering it.  Then as she moved up,
she stuffed it back in and zipped the fly over it-- not entirely
comfortably for me.

"Move over a little, would you hon?" she said.  I scooted over to
one side of the couch and she made herself a place next to me on
the other side.  Then she got up on her knees a little and
started nuzzling my neck again.  It seemed an odd position from
which to do it-- and then I felt her hand take mine and slide it
up her thighs until it was pressing against her pussy in the
cloth.  Again, she had calculated exactly how to block the
bouncer's view via the mirror; it would just look as if my hand
was down where it was supposed to be.

As she moved her breasts up and down my face, she also rubbed
herself against my hand, her breath getting heavier.  I felt the
panties grow warm and wet, and then I felt her reach quickly down
and pull the crotch of her panties to one side.  Again she acted
as if nothing had happened, but now my hand was up against her
velvety warm pussy, her actual soft juicy pussy, her juices
flowing onto my hand as she humped it.  I moved my index finger
slightly and she moved down onto it, seeming to suck it inside
her pussy, fucking my finger.

A song ended, and the deejay made the usual bored, inane
introduction ("Gentlemen, show your appreciation for Latisha...")
 She withdrew her pussy from my hand and stood up again, facing
me.  She brought her breasts to my face, and as she rubbed them
against my face, I could see her keeping an eye on the mirror. 
After a moment another girl came into the room with a customer--
and in the flash of an instant, she had zipped my fly open again
and fished my cock out of my underwear, leaving it fully exposed
to the air.  She whipped around and had her ass in my lap in no
time, my cock pressed backward against my stomach.  As she
shimmied her ass up my lap, I felt her pull her panties to one
side again-- and then she sat down on my cock, stuffing it inside
her warm, wet pussy.

I had to admire the contortions she could go through to fuck me
without looking like she was doing it.  Her ass was pressed
against my crotch, so my cock entered her from behind, while her
back was arched so that her stomach seemed to cover a clear view
of what her crotch was up to.  She moved rhythmically,
languorously, seemingly to the music, and only she and I could
tell that in those slow, sinuous movements, she was humping my
cock, feeling its friction as it rubbed deep into her pussy and
back out again.  It only took a minute-- maybe she didn't want it
to last too long-- and then I had to stifle a groan and sit
rigidly still as I pumped my cum into her.  When I was done she
slid off me, flipping around to quickly prevent a view of my
cock, and then she used her torso to block a view of her hand as
she pushed my falling cock back into my underwear and pulled the
zipper up.

She sat down next to me, that mischievous smile still on her
lips.  "Thanks for making my last night so special," she said.

"Uh, no, you made it special for me," I stammered stupidly.

"You'd better go," she said.  I reached into my wallet, pulled
out a healthy stack of twenties, and gave them to her.  "Thanks,
sweetie," she said, and kissed me on the lips for the first time.
 I kissed back, and then the bouncer let out a stage cough and
she stopped.

I stood up and started to reach for my beer.  "No, seriously, you
need to go now," she said, suddenly very serious.  I looked into
her face and there was a different girl there now, more like the
one when I'd first walked in, angry, yet also determined.  And
urging me to leave, now, before-- what?

I didn't ask questions; I didn't press my luck.  I waved Yvette
goodbye, and within sixty more seconds, within three minutes of
an amazing fuck, I was turning out of the parking lot and on my
way home.

*  *  *

The next morning I logged onto the local newspaper's website.  I
have to admit, Yvette's last words, her sudden change of
temperament had left me a little uneasy.  How much did I know
about her, really?  How real is the persona a stripper presents
to the customer?  It wasn't impossible that her words of warning,
and her unexpected fuck, had been the prelude to-- what?  Arson?
Murder?  Suicide?  Who knew who Yvette was, really?

The top story was about a tornado in another part of the state. 
Nothing close by to confirm my fears-- and then I saw it.

UNDERCOVER POLICEWOMAN ALLEGES PROSTITUTION AT LOCAL CLUB

Next to the story there was an official photo of a dark-haired
woman, identified as Officer Stacy Niehringer of the State Bureau
of Investigation, awarded several citations for her past work. 
In this case, Officer Niehringer's undercover work as a dancer at
Primroses on Baxter Road had led to the arrest of manager Robert
L. Protheroe on charges of allowing his premises, specifically a
private dance room, to be used for prostitution.

I looked at the photo.  The dully official photography and the
stern look on the Officer Niehringer's face were a world away
from the shadowy atmosphere of Primroses.  But you could just
imagine what she would look like, working undercover in that
place.

Yeah, I figured Yvette wasn't her real name.
