[pedonbio]

I love reading this thread.  Tales of lust, philosophy and the apocalypse.

And the sense of smell. As we get older I think we come to rely on it more and more.

[DruulEmpire]

And at last this thread becomes fun again.

At some point in the next couple of months I hope to have the final Elwell chapter, and I'm hoping it can be a sweet one, but just yesterday, Friday, Christmas Eve Eve so to speak, I tried to figure out how to squeeze in any club time with all the perfectly sweet and nice friends and family time that gets spent over a Christmas weekend, so I not only hit the club, but I revived Project Perversity.  That's right, the false phallus that I haven't shoved down my pants since early 2008, just before Elwell REALLY made my fantasies come true.  I figured, all my favorites are away, Columbia was momentarily away -- time to have fun wowing a new stable of girls with the old experiment.  As I say, its effects were never terribly dynamic first time, apart from sweet comments from a girl from down South.  Last night it paid off.

Without really planning to, I got there just before a show by Miss Nude World 2011 Krystle Cummings, your basic fine-looking big-busted pec-flexing luscious athletic blonde.  It was a good basic show, and I hoped she would eventually turn up down off the stage but she never materialized, so far as I could see.  Her loss.

Good old Lockley (if I recall her code name correctly) grinned and came directly over to me, and we got in a couple of booth dances.  I suspect she knows I was funning around, to the extent that she may have noticed Perversity at all, but we had a really nice fast intense whirlwind session over a couple of songs, she really rode me -- but maybe she would have done that anyway, which is nice to know.

Now the last time, I took Columbia on a rare upstairs dance and while up there I flirted briefly with a new girl, let's call her Vela.  Not a particularly BEA class girl (Columbia isn't either) but a good enough body and, I think, a great look, black curly hair and dark eyes and a sweet smile.  She has big tattoos of lilacs and tiger lilies down her right back and my sexual radar was saying, Maybe she's a bit freaky (even for a dancer).  So I get her into a booth for what I always call a "test drive."  She very nicely strips right down and starts dancing even though she says she won't charge till the next song.  It takes only moments of being up against me before she says "I'm sure you've heard it all before, Murdock, but -- damn!"  And I figure that might be all about that, but two minutes later she asks "Seriously, how big is your dick?"  That's a bit tricky, because the prop is simply eight inches but I think what really creates a tactile illusion is the girth of the thing, so I just say "It depends on how excited I am" and she says "I'm impressed."  Anyhow, I see her sparkling with tiny glints of sweat and she remarks on how hot she's getting, so I figure: get her upstairs.

Another bonus is that we're sort of abandoned by one "pimp" but we get taken care of by no less than Richie, the man who back in 2008 helped to try to set up my Murder -- and he remembers that, too, so it was a great chance to say Thanks to him once more.  So Vela and I get on with our half hour, I get her onto my lap and ask "And what would you like, little girl?" and she says "My two front teeth" but after a minute of grinding adds "And a guy built like you under my tree!"  So after a while I think, Now or never, because a half hour goes so fast, so I tell her, If you want to go for it, go for it -- in other words, if she thinks she can get herself off, I'd love it.  She is of course deferential, saying she'd like to get me off, but I have to decline, saying it's rare that a girl gets me off (and that's talking about my REAL cock, and that's Elwell territory).  So over the course of the session we get in some serious (dry and zipped-up, you understand) galloping.  I let her hold onto my simple gray scarf around my neck and I say she can ride me like I'm a stallion and the scarf is my "reins."  At some points we make the couch awfully thumpity-thumpy and squeaky-squeaky.  (I noticed Richie peeking in, but he was too late, and besides, technically we never really "did" anything.)

She declares "I should be paying you!" and that sets off a reverie.  Suddenly I'm back with that Czech Olivia Newton-John, Heidi's roommate, the one who got whirlwind courted and married and snatched away, the one I've called Nolin earlier in this thread.  Of all dry-humping stripper orgasms I've treasured Nolin's the most, not just because she was so fucking beautiful but because her pursuit of that orgasm was so intensely earnest and resulted in her own "I should be paying you" comment.  Summer Leigh was spectacular, no question, but for me Nolin was tops.  (The orgasms of the bitchy Natalya were the most dramatic but, I'm afraid, the most dubious.)

As we go along she remarks on how she's just a gal trying to save up money and get through school.  I ask her what she's studying and she's saying social psychology, in the hope of becoming a sex therapist.  I suspect this is a line but she's pretty serious about it, and it's certainly a turn-on, so I ask Doctor for her advice and she says "The Force is with you!  Use it well!"  Somehow I never noticed a sexual advice scene in the Star Wars movies, but that sounds good to me.  (At least we didn't talk about lightsabers, let alone the Schwartz.)  She never quite cums, at least in any obvious dramatic way I can detect, but she declares the session quite a workout and "the best date I've ever had."  She gets off and nearly trips over one of my long legs and I take the blame, saying I have big feet (at least that much is true), and she says "You prove the myth is true!"  So I get up when her back is turned (because truth to tell, I stand up and Perversity is starting to travel down my right pants leg like he did earlier in the evening -- he has in fact been quite a comedy of errors so far as the smuggling process has been concerned) and grab my folded-over coat and we talk.  Things are quite nice and cozy and lovey-dovey between us in the afterglow -- and it's still early in the evening, it only just turned 7 PM and there's a new shift on and Vela is getting off (so to speak), but Perversity has actually been a lot of trouble (except for the past half hour) so I shuffle on home.  Even now I think back on Vela, a starry-eyed new beauty who believes that I'm packing a cannon, and I imagine looking her up maybe one more time and allowing her to play sex therapist for me.

Have yourselves a merry horny Christmas and New Year, faithful readers.

PS: it occurs to me that my favorite girls have a catchphrase.  (Except Columbia, she doesn't have to say anything in particular, she just IS.)  Nolin coined "I should be paying you" ahead of Vela, sad to say.  Heidi said "You are better than Duquesne Club" and Elwell said "I love making you happy."  But I had forgotten something else that Vela said, something that went a little beyond the prank I was playing.  She once murmured "Mister Murdock" and I had to point out (so to speak) that it was my first name and not my last (because you do have to stay in character).  She said she knew that.  "But you deserve to be a Mister.  You should be called MISTER Murdock."  I admit it's not the same as being called MISTER Tibbs, but it gave me a thrill.  

[DruulEmpire]

(Incredibly, I think I bypassed the story of the very last time I saw Brandi Morgan.  She wasn't even officially active as an entertainer -- she went and retired -- but she happened to be in town to catch a U2 concert and agreed to meet with me secretly upstairs at Blush anyway.  Nothing earthshaking happened, it was just a very sweet session.  And now to the thread proper -- )

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Murdock, who was "Murdered" on April 7, 2008, actually died today on February 15, 2012.  I had already told Heidi my real name ages ago (news flash: she's learning how to ski!), and of course Elwell has known awhile.  But yesterday I came clean with Columbia, not only about the name but my always having been in Pittsburgh and my reason for the Murder, and she laughed, she seemed to appreciate my reasoning.  The thing is, Columbia is the last veteran there -- there is one veteran black dancer but I never really got into her, so Columbia is my Last Mohican.  So I told her, on Valentine's Day (and of course, I got her a valentine), that I'm hanging up the whole Murdock scene and the club scene as well.  Yes, I might visit Columbia on a special occasion (her birthday in summer, Christmas) but I see that as just the two of us.

So this thread may be over after all -- but not before I met yet another Czech chick, built a bit like Natasha the Giant of the Nineties but with a sweet face, let's call her Jordan.  (It's thread's end, so I don't give fuck all if this name gets duplicated in reality.)  I had my werewolf mask with me -- no real plan for it, I was desperate for nostalgia -- and Jordan got me in a booth and I swear to God, she promised me that she would bring out the wild animal in me.  I told her "You don't know the half of it!"  Then she got distracted for one moment in mid-dance and I slipped it on.  She liked it so much that when we were done she slipped it on and stark naked burst out of the booth growling at everyone out there.  It is true, it is true, there have been some magic moments.  But it was really my time with my Red Queen Columbia that I treasured.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

I saw Elwell.  But she had been kicked out of the club.  Desperate for work, to keep her wildly ambitious cash flow up and steady, she worked about one week in a smaller club and the money sucked there (certainly compared to Blush), so she's found other work.  So I wanted to see her.  She would not join me in the William Penn -- which is a shame, because it's a great hotel.  So I considered going to the other club.  I idly threw out the option of her place -- I didn't think there was a prayer of that.  And yet, yesterday and today, that is where I went.

Yesterday was an interesting failure, she had simply too much website work to do and that left us only an hour before she had agreed to go out with friends.  What can I say, she takes her entrepreneurship very seriously -- and that's just the current company, on top of endless angst left over from an old restaurant venture with her awfully shameless (first) ex-boyfriend.  So today, there was time and peace and smiles and jokes and yes, sex -- and here we reach the cascading edge of the Flat Earth that is this thread, and find ourselves in a whole other social realm which I no longer wish to share too intimately.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.  She was sweet and good to me in a way I will treasure forever -- but in a context I can never understand.  Four years later and she has seen fit to share some of the deepest secrets of her life and yet I have no idea what I am to her.  To listen to her half the time, I'm some project.  She bought me a cell phone.  I don't need a fucking cell phone.  But her cerebral computer won't accept the possibility.  It's inconvenient to her endlessly fluid let's-change-plans-at-the-last-minute mentality, which somehow reasons that it's shame on me for missing an FB message of hers from one hour ago WHILE I WAS IN TRANSIT.  And that in and of itself sounds petty, I know, but I begin to understand how untenable my position is.  Nothing is real for her unless it's constantly on her phone, her attention span refuses to assimilate as much as a single paragraph -- and the thing is, if I'm her secret, to be held apart from everything else in her life, and she can never mention my existence to anyone, out of this endless web of people she knows, while she's endlessly adoring everyone else's existence and then sharply criticizing the obsolescence of my own ... then I don't get it.  Of what value am I to her?  Today I thought I was at the very least worth a good screw.  The act itself ... I'll just say, it seems to speak for itself.  But then right after she says, eh, she can take or leave sexual ecstasy.

I wish there was a single factor I could point to.  She's all plugged-in and I'm just not, so there's that.  But I get to wondering if, in some way, she's too male for me, that I've too much the classical feminine in me to put up with this squeezing and scrunching of time and demand of protocols, basically bossiness -- and it doesn't even sound like bossiness, coming out of her voice, with an attitude claiming to be one of helpfulness and concern.

She turned on to me in the first place because I was so alien -- and now she can't seem to stand it.

I can keep trying to thrash this out, but I think this is the end.  Yeah, I know, cry me a river, hot woman has sex but then buys you a phone, oh no.  But you weren't there.  At every turn I could only be bitterly reminded that I do not really belong in her life.  I'm almost nauseous right now with how much mindfuck I've put up with today.

I have known the dream, what I always assumed was Everest -- and it is not enough.  I always harbored a suspicion that we could never fit.  Now I know.

I don't think she values me enough to come hunting for me, to come tracking me down.  I was just one odd little extra fleck of colored glass getting swirled around in her fun little kaleidoscope.  Her kaleidoscope will spin on just fine without me.  I've thanked her, and pleaded a headache which I blame on myself and said I'll drown my brain in chianti -- and you know what, that's still not a bad idea.  And if she starts bugging me, I'll just take it very slow and very cool.  Because as hot as she is, and it was, she is not SO hot, sell-your-soul-at-a-whim hot, Angelina hot.  I have scaled Everest -- and you know what, it seems more like one of the bigger rides at Kennywood.

It was, yes, the best of times -- and I am in zero hurry to ever have another one again.

later update:

I notice this is my 11,776th post.  Am I discussing here what could at long last be my personal declaration of independence?  It's hard to say.

Now that I've had a chance to catch my breath -- to literally **82** on it -- I can better appreciate a few things.  One, the whole "Can I dump the hot sexy babe who's only out to mess with me for messing's sake?" issue is no issue, because I did it before.  In 1990 I got involved with a brilliant but bipolar woman who, desperate to hang on to me, showed up at my doorstep in a raincoat and nothing else, and I dumped her.  (Okay, so I dumped her two months after that admittedly persuasive raincoat stunt, but still.)  So I can do it again.

I think it's perfectly natural for an organism to reflexively want to defend itself from invasion.  The problem being, I look around at this life of mine and I have to confess "Fuck all, man, you NEED an invasion."  But is she the right invader?  Is she the last straw, who will load me down with all kinds of useless extra drama and help to murder any hope this year held out?  Or is she just the right ass-kicking tornado, bad in style but correct in intent, I need to sweep through my life?  That she happened to me at all is miracle enough.  How much more miracle does she really have left in her?

My mind floods with movies.  I think of Kurosawa's "Ikiru," which my mother loves and which I do recommend.  A dying bureaucrat, snickered at as "the mummy," starts dating this vivacious young factory worker.  He marvels at her, but eventually she has to tell him, and I'm paraphrasing very badly here, "You can't absorb my youthful energy just by being with me."  Then she shows him a little mechanical bunny that hops across the table and says "I do my job and I think every **09** in Japan loves me."  (Special edit: that "dirty word" just now?  "Ch1ld."  FUCKING CENSOR!)  So he leaves her, to fight bureaucracy and corruption to build a playground.

So I could leave Elwell, in an Ikiru way.  But then there's also that damn "Accidental Tourist."  Is Elwell Geena Davis?  But then, honestly, does life ever turn out like a movie, let alone a good movie?

There's the old saying about the fiercely religious man who, when his community is hit by a flood, declares "I am so religious that God alone will take care of me."  His neighbors check on him, and then the police check on him, and then as the waters rise a boat comes by to check on him, and then even a helicopter calls down to him as he's up on the roof, and every time his spiel is the same: "I am a religious man and God loves me and will save me."  So he dies, and he meets God, and he asks "I waited for You, why didn't You save me!?" and God basically replies "I DID try to save you, you schmuck!  I sent your neighbors, and I sent the police, and I sent a boat, and I even sent a helicopter!  What are you even DOING here!?"  So perhaps from time to time we get to be each other's angels without even knowing it.  I need an angel, and she certainly seems like one.  What if it can really be that simple?

even later update: it's 3 PM EST and my cell phone has been charging for two hours now.  How long does this take?  I can't help but think of this little red phone as a hotline, in the oldest sense, a secure and secret line between two people.  Wonder how much action this one will see?  

[pedonbio]

.

[DruulEmpire]

I suppose the answer is: It's been great times -- and with any luck, on their own new terms, there may yet be even better times to come, but those will have to involve at least one new woman.

The views-to-posts ratio has hit 266:1, time to knock it back down a little with some non-Elwell news.  I hope to see her, possibly for the last time, around the end of July -- at which point I finally get to quit pumping money into this stupid cell phone.  Barring some miraculous horniness on her part, February 15 was probably our last sex ever -- and that's fine.  I've a new resolution: to see her again in no more than five years, and hopefully with something in my own life worth celebrating.  I have been made to feel too much like an oddity or a charity or a spy or, perhaps most simply of all, a schmuck -- but if I could ever at last see her again on a somewhat more equal footing, that would be vindication, that would be its own kind of thrill.

Oddly enough, I am only now setting down events from sixteen nights ago.  That's what life is like now: as I concentrate more and more on survival and (relatively) serious art, BEA rituals ranging from Addventuring to reporting to this thread lose their urgency.  Still, I had to go back -- Columbia's birthday was coming up, and I figured, better to try to celebrate it early.  Elwell is dancing her ass off all over again down there, so I had to deliberately scoot around her schedule to single out my Red Queen.

Of course, the club does not hold very well with this whole "singling" idea.  I get down there and I like the look of a new girl who calls herself Estee -- and yes, super-sharp readers may recall that there was once a rather shy blonde named Estee, but this brunette has simply taken over her name.  Oddly enough, no sooner do I being to step out of a booth with her than I see a classic California blonde, calling herself Jayne, and so I whisk her directly back.  Turns out Jayne is a Hollywood girl who's only here for a week, so it is very propitious indeed to catch her.

Paige turns up, my once shy and tentative but now highly dynamic "Tara Reid But Sober" girl.  I confess to her that I'm there to see Columbia, and evidently Red has already made it to the bar.  Paige and I have a very nice time and then she leads me directly to Red.

Now, here's what's mind-blowing.  I live in the neighborhood called Squirrel Hill.  Red has moved around a bit.  Where is she living now?  In Greenfield -- which adjoins Squirrel Hill.  Wherever she is now, I could probably walk there in under an hour.  Now, here's what's craziest.  Her favorite pizza is  Aiello's.  That's mine, too.  Conventional wisdom holds that Pittsburghers MUST love Mineo's Pizza -- but it's Aiello's, the "spinoff" from Mineo's which in its way is actually more traditional, which specifically makes what could be called "wine pizza" (that's pizza you can have wine WITH, there's no wine IN it), which won me over decades ago, and evidently Red feels the same.  What are the odds!?  Hot women scattered to the far ends of this metropolis, and the finest of all is practically a neighbor.

Red and I lingered sweetly together, and on my way out I was struck by a British beauty, calling herself Emma -- but she seemed preoccupied, there was no hookup, and so I left.

The club is going strong.  It maintains an excellent eye for hot girls and continues to be global in its outreach.  Which reminds me: I haven't heard from Heidi in some time now.

Playtime is ending.  July may say farewell to Elwell, and maybe I'll try out Project Perversity on a new batch of women round about Christmas or New Year's.  Meanwhile, Columbia lives practically down the street, and I need to jolt my life once more if I'm ever to properly reunite with Elwell.  It's all been fine therapy -- way too expensive, but fine, and now the sessions are winding down.

[DruulEmpire]

We're reaching a views/posts ratio of 297:1, so I'd better knock that back down a bit with tonight's report.

Project Perversity has been forcibly retired by Elwell herself.  Well, maybe.

The club's website now officially sucks.  It didn't always.  It was chintzy, but at least it performed; now it's glitzy, but they can't keep the dancer schedules either up to date -- and I'm not talking up to the day, I mean even up to the week -- or straight.  Honestly, I went back down tonight. Perversity tucked in place, anticipating no Elwell at all.  Frankly, I was ready for the feature, Bridgette B, plus that British beauty I met in passing last time plus maybe even good old Vela.

But Vela wasn't around and she wasn't even posted.  But Elwell was down there, chatting steadily with someone.  It was a little awkward, our hooking up again after a long hiatus -- she always seems so sure that someday I'm not going to like her anymore, and the thing is, c'mon, I can't help but like her -- but I was able to whisk her upstairs.  In the course of that she examined my underwear and wondered why I was wearing two pair, and I explained Project Perversity to her and even showed it to her.  At this point she very thoroughly and repeatedly assured me that every girl knows when a cock's fake (one good point she made was that a real cock is warm to the touch), and I was left no chance to say that I didn't much care if a woman was faking a response, so long as she was doing a good job.

This got put off till the end of my visit, though.  In the meantime, she told me that she wanted me to call her up sometime soon and stop by her apartment again so that she could shave me and bathe me and then be my personal play toy and perhaps wear a Halle Berry Catwoman costume with the vagina cut open so that I could take her doggy style on her bed and fuck her raw for several hours.

You add to all this how insanely pretty she is, and what can a man say but: DANG ... !

There are peculiar outside details to this.  That move to California?  STILL up in the air.  Why?  Because of that clean-cut Duquesne U. kid in her life who has shared her with his family for Thanksgiving and Christmas and basically already done everything with her that I should have done if I had my act together or a life or anything like that.  She's still in love with him and even as she tells me all of the above she's concerned about how jealous he is for her.  Truly, honestly, I wish I could hate this guy, like her earlier boyfriend of the gun threats and the tax fraud, but perhaps he may be the best thing for her.  I don't know -- and when you come down to it, I think I choose not to know.

She and I are in limbo.  California?  Who knows?  Personal 2013 calendar?  Who knows.  This woman with her hand on my cock hath power to make me feel like prince of the universe, but honestly, I look around, at my life-long industrious novelist friend who even now can't break out beyond the micro-presses, and I look at Elwell, always on the sidelines of fame, at one point seeing Bradley Cooper fleeting by while she's involved in some series pilot for the Style network, but nothing seeming to gel for her, I look around and it becomes ever more obvious that I have to be the damn primum mobile.

She wants me to come over to her place next week, but my colonoscopy is scheduled then.  You know what?  You may think it's silly, but I wish I could kiss her.  Maybe she's saving all that for Mr. Duquesne, but while she's beating herself up in this Cosmo girl way, concerned about the latest trick to drive your man (and not even your main man, but your man on the side) wild, I just wish I could kiss the hell out of her.  Maybe that's what it all comes down to: finding a beautiful woman I can kiss for a full minute.  Maybe that one fact is the gold I've mined out of this entire crazy adventure.

[DruulEmpire]

Views-to-posts ratio passing 298?  We can't have that!  Time to take it down another notch ...

By the way, I want to be clear that I haven't gone totally romantic.  The above business, about a good long kiss, is only shorthand for a lot else.  It's not really just the kiss, let alone some Cosmo girl fretting endlessly over the technique of the kiss.  It's about the kiss conveying actually hard-won information which has been earned with sweat and tears and most likely one hell of a lot of sheer tedium.  If you can kiss all hell out of a beautiful woman who will be there for you when you go to the hospital, or when you have to move, or when you're in some private agony all your own, or when you have a great big shitty job you need help with, or when you just have a long empty stretch of time you would just like to waste being a homebody, and your woman is there for you through all of that -- man oh man, that is everything.  Truly, that is just about everything I could ever want or imagine.  And if you can do all that with more that one woman, more power to you -- but to get even one, is a minor miracle.

It is helpful to reflect on this, as Elwell seeks to make me a little bit of a pet project, her being the Pygmalion seeking to transform me into a proper Twenty-first Century Man.  Yet she is still one of my three favorites from the club.  Still I think of Columbia, always smiling, always sensible, and now just one neighborhood away from me -- and still I think of Heidi, whose e-mails from Europe are intermittent but loving and oh so tempting.  I think of all three, and I get this fantasy.

Call it Murdock's Angels.

Could I get even one of Murdock's Angels to become a useful member of my long term life plan?  I still have to try to keep Elwell at a safe distance, as she continues to be this party girl who simply burns money.  It's tempting to try to maneuver Columbia closer, but she might actually be too sensible a person to be lured too quickly or obviously.  And Heidi, to her goes the fantasy of jetting to Europe someday and taking her away from a life of drudgery to become my personal secretary-cook-maid-chauffeur, and possibly nurse, and of course my personal Uschi Digard.  Frankly, at this point in my life I find such fantasy not only refreshing but oddly energizing.

And even if none of them are for "hire," the club continues to revolve its stable, and it might be worth checking out for yet another woman.  How sensible is it, to look to a strip club to provide one's lover, or even one's wife?  I think it's all in how you play it.  Recall that at the beginning of this thread it was a girl I called Kyra, because of her Sedgwickness.  She was sweet, but I'm not sure anything might have come of that.  It takes time and money to feel sure of a woman of some substance, or at least some promise -- you have to be way, way beyond your "purchase buy" mentality.  Dull as it may seem, you have to actually get to know them, and decide if they're worthwhile.  This, incidentally, is why I now have to pity a man who goes to a club smugly certain that each and every woman there can only be trash and can only be regarded as such.  If it's trash that he seeks, he might better consult a mirror.  

[DruulEmpire]

Views-to-posts ratio exceeds 340, what gives ...

If I had any real discipline, I'd probably have gone down tonight to see Columbia and leave an early birthday card for Elwell.  I guess I'll still have to do something like that over the next two weeks.

I don't want to go back in 2013.  At all.  I've already let the cell phone die.  Better to hunker down and prepare for a ninth woman in my life, for real.  But I'll see if I can wrap this up with a flourish.   

[pedonbio]

Well, Druul, if you do "wrap this up" I, for one, will miss it terribly. In part it allows me to relive a period in my life; in part it reminds me of some of the work I did when I was representing clubs and their owners, as well as the women who worked in them. I know that East Coast clubs differ somewhat from West Coast clubs, and I know virtually nothing about th East Coast clubs.

For example, in West Coast clubs the girls pay a certain amount of "rent" on a daily (or nightly) basis to work for tips. And club owners always insist they have a firm no-**31** policy. What that usually means is that they fire any girl who gets charged; it also means some of the most ridiculous abuses of police manpower you can imagine. Last year in Seattle the police department "wrapped up" an investigation that had taken three years and cost more than a million dollars to get five misdemeanor convictions and close one club.

But of course that system pretends to ignore the simple fact that few of us so appreciate gazing on female beauty as to tip them enough to live on just for looking, while many of the girls have "boyfriends" who have specific dollar expectations of them.

Usually when a girl got fired from one club, I was able to find a job for her very quickly in another club, and I found the women who worked the clubs to be very bright and amiable. One of my favorite clients was a woman who, in the early 1990s, worked in a club in Seattle and received an offer from a patron for $15,000 if she would spend the weekend with him, payable by check. He wrote the check, had a weekend of delight, and vanished. My client deposited the check, subject to a 14-day UCC hold because it was drawn on an out-of-state bank. After it cleared she withdrew the funds. Then the bank discovered that not only was the check bad, but it was drawn on a non-existent bank, and they came after my client for the loss. It was such fun raising the dexter digit to the bank.

Ah, memories!

 

[DruulEmpire]

The views-to-posts ratio has passed 345 to one, wow.  Not bad at all for a mostly textual thread in as pictorial a hangout as this one.

Bio, hi.  I don't think I've ever seen this thread as some infinitely prolonged series, like "Gunsmoke."  I think I always knew it would have to wrap up somehow.  For one thing, I only make $11 an hour; having thousands of dollars just lying around really helps an avocation like this.  Even so, I still find it hard to consider as some sort of perpetual lifestyle.

Thursday the 29th was probably my last night there, and it worked out pretty neatly.  The online schedule said Elwell was off, as did the schedule on the club wall, so I showed up with a Christmas card for Columbia and a birthday card with a letter to be passed along to Elwell.  (I figured it would sweeten the card and the letter to include a check for $324, one dollar for every month of Elwell's life.)

So I come in, and am struck by all the relatively new girls.  Most of them look simply okay, but a few have a spark to them.  I sit down, have my beer, and a hand claps my shoulder, so I turn around.  It's Albert, the club owner.  I've been coming here for years, and we've been vaguely aware of each other, but this is the first time he ever warmed to me and talked me up.  Does reality deal in irony or what?  It would have been awfully awkward to say "Hi, Albert, I've loved this place and I'm never coming here again," so I just kept quiet about that.  He talked about the Christmas party, and how Christine Aguchi will be turning up later in the month.  He's looking slimmer these days, not quite so much like how I always think of Ned Beatty.

After that, girls start hitting on me pretty quickly.  Two are nice, but not nice enough to distract me from my mission.  I'm there early for the 6:30 shift, intent on getting to Columbia.  The third girl, however, is a true dazzler, I get to liking her a lot.  Her name is Estee -- but it's a different Estee from the one you might glean from past pages of this thread.  Some names in the club get recycled, and this one has recycled nicely.  She's a fellow Pitt graduate, with experience in nursing and training in dentistry.  "So, you like to take care of people in ... all kinds of ways," I sum up.  She has a good look, dark-haired, sharply defined, very nice.  I arrived prepared to possibly be waylaid into a dance, and now I'm feeling eager to get on with that.

Perversely enough, we're talking about Columbia, and Estee confesses to adoring her -- and just as we're talking about her, she shows up.  Columbia is VERY early, about the only way this could have been more perfect is if I had already been able to get in a dance with Estee by now.  But Estee is very sweet and leaves me to my Red Queen.

It's a peculiar friendship.  Basically I pay her to share cheap champagne and chat.  There's no pretense of dancing: we enter the room, she strips immediately and she snuggles with me.  It's blowing my mind that she's practically a neighbor.  She talks about her favorite restaurant, her favorite places to shop, and I can't help but wonder what that would be like, to bump into her out there in Real Life.

In fact, I up the odds.  I show her the Saturday midnight movies coming to the Manor Theater.  Also, on impulse I picked up $120 worth of gift cards to the Pussycat.  It's peculiar little place in my neighborhood, I think of it as Frederick's of Squirrel Hill, a store for sexy lingerie.  I've passed it many times and wished I could fix a woman up in there.  So I give Columbia the cards, and she's very appreciative, evidently it's tough for her to get around to just plain shop girly-girl style for items less utilitarian than, say, a bucket of paint.

That was it -- and evidently none too soon.  Elwell really does work her fine ass off, because evidently I had just left and minutes later she showed up and got my card from Columbia.

As I think on these women, on Columbia, and especially on Elwell, I think there's a special problem with club girls.  Quite simply, once you've been a customer, it's tough for them to ever think of you as too much more than just a customer.  Some men blast right through that.  I think of that Czech answer to Olivia Newton-John, the one I called Nolin, the one who orgasmed with me, and how a man immediately snatched her up as his wife.  I hope that worked out, because that's what I would love to do, although it might really be more with a woman like Estee.  Elwell is whole light years removed from me, I appreciate that now.  I cringe a little to look back over this thread and wonder if she could be my Geena Davis from "The Accidental Tourist."  Please!  I'm going to have to be my own damn Geena Davis.  And Columbia ... it's hard to say.  We get along, we share a few interests ... she's a good friend.  A swell broad, in every best sense of that dated expression.

I think of the great three: Elwell, Columbia, and my Germano-Circassian Heidi, who I haven't gotten any e-mail from lately as she works hard over in Europe, I hope she's not tired of me just yet.  I think of them, and girls like this new Estee who I could have stood to know better, and I think I may return some year.  But if I do, it's like what I wrote to Elwell.  I have to be a different man.  No more playacting at being someone named Murdock Hay.  I need to become my own man.  I've heard from Elwell, and she's very sweet -- and she doesn't get it.  She still wants me as the same old customer.

I don't.   

 

[DruulEmpire]

Over 100,000 views, over 426 views per post -- I don't get it.  It's flattering, I guess, but I stop by here over one day, and it's up a few views, which makes sense, but then I come back a couple hours later and bang, it's up nearly three hundred views.  I still think it's mainly robots which are somehow latching onto this.

Anyhow, a few interesting postscripts.  Elwell seems to have found a durable sweetheart, just in time for Valentine's Day.  Good solid Polish name with buzz-cut hair and Celtic tattooing over his huge biceps -- how much more Pittsburgh can you get?  She sent a picture via F@ceb00k of this guy **83** on her bed while cuddling her two little dogs, and I thought, Yup, this girl has her life fully accessorized now.  I of course selfishly miss the days five years ago when I was her rebound from some crazy gun-wielder, but I congratulated her and she says this guy is mature.  Mmm, relative to what?  Well, I hope it takes.

I do hope Columbia got use out of those gift cards, because the Pussycat closed just last week.  Ye gawdz, first the Baskin-Robbins -- Baskin-freakin'-Robbins, for crying out loud -- and now the Pussycat almost directly across the street from it, after 45 years.  That stretch of Forbes Avenue is never going to be quite the same.  Also, a Columbia addendum: she is now my sole degree of separation from Nick Nolte.  Nolte was in town shooting some small movie called The Warrior, and he spent some happy time with her.  I find that kind of cool, I've always sort of dug Nolte.  Haven't looked her up outside the club yet, but she's into the horror scene, and as a science fiction man perhaps it's time I branched out.

And Heidi is still out there, across the ocean, working very hard, now mainly as a nurse, looking after her family as well.  It's a silly dream, but I like to imagine becoming rich enough to lure her back and care for me in my decrepitude.  I suppose there are much sillier dreams, somewhere.  Coming up soon on the fifth anniversary of my Murder, so I'll try e-mailing her then.

Really, gang, that's it.  I've got nothing to go back there for anymore.  If anyone out there is finding this thread to be some magnificent honeypot worth buzzing all over, I wouldn't mind someone out of those 100,000+ views explaining how and why that could be. 

[PSY]

Today was insanely expensive but insanely worth it.  Truth to tell, I've never had that great a regard before for the straightforward porn starlets who take a stab at stage performance (as I don't really follow porn anyway), preferring women who really know how to move.  But over time I found Shyla Styles to be a special case.  I would check scenes from her downloadable little movies, and it must be the first time I ever saw a new porn star (as compared to a confirmed star, like Lovette, and Berk had to talk me into seeing Teri Weigel) and on the basis of that work, dance unseen, I figured "GET HER IN THE BOOTH."

First things first.  It was a bright hot humid day, so I appreciated the ritual cold beer more than ever.  It was a good day for house girls because twice they walked right up to me and chatted me up.  I was just going to play it cool, but the first girl in for the afternoon was seated several stools down from me and came right over.  I had only noted her in passing, we had never really met.  Turned out her name was Stelline, and she had dark curls and arresting eyes.  I got her a Red Bull (the girls seem to be into those) and we talked about this and that -- when whoosh, the DJ let her know she was first dancer up (probably because no one else had shown up yet).  This gave me a great chance to watch her do her dance.  Stelline is very solidly built with strong legs and a decent workable rack.  Anyhow, I watched, she sat back down with me, the younger, more coltish brunette barkeeper chatted with us a bit, and then I figured, Let's see her in action.  A very sensual dancer, good eyes, good breathing in your ear, body flowing up and down along you -- not among my first choices, but definitely worth catching again from time to time.

After Stelline, the stage dancers still had not warmed up much -- meanwhile, a lovely short girl with black straight hair and luminous pale skin, wearing a classy red costume dress, headed right for me as soon as I came out of the booths.  She said her name was Fallon, which floored me somewhat -- there used to be some other girl named Fallon, but now this one seems to have taken it the name over.  Anyhow, I liked the idea of back-to-back dancers and hustled Fallon straight back.

Fallon was HOT -- not in the sense of her body, which was skinny but still workable, but in her attitude.  She leapt right into action, clambering all over me, and as the dance progressed it got rather intensely coital, lots of suggestive dry humping.  Before even sitting at the bar I had, of course, shoved Perversity (see above) into place, and I was glad to have it down there so as to keep up with a real fah-reak like Fallon.

Before I knew it, it was Shyla time.  She didn't really have any particular theme to her dance, simply layers of nice trashy lingerie coming off, and it was a real strip, too, because she would allow peeks at her excellent enhanced boobs but took the longest time letting her bra come off.  She showed me a lot of attention -- possibly because I slipped her a fiver and then another, rare that I do that even for a feature -- and we got along well.  I got to squirt water all over her tits and pussy, but she wound up handing her rolled-up posters to two others, ah well.

She had a fair line of fans after her show, and I let a few guys slide ahead of me.  I got a Polaroid off her -- she holds my head to her right boob and signs "Murdock, Cum play inside me!  Shyla."  And in the booth -- wow.  She was this platinum dream come true, as if emerging right out of the computer screen -- and I think she dug perversity, because she got a couple of long intense gallops going.  A booth with Shyla was quite simply dry-hump fantasy screwing at its best -- only way to cap it would be if she had climaxed like Summer Leigh (see far above) but you can't have everything.

So that was Shyla.  Will see in two weeks if I'm up for (Spicy) Exotica ...

What is this-- just kidding. no really just being naughty.

[DruulEmpire]

My apologies for failing to capitalize Perversity in that next to last paragraph quoted above.  Within the context of this thread, Project Perversity takes on a very special meaning.  That's my own being naughty.

[Zorro]

I was born in Pittsburgh in an area called Wilkinsburg (sp) in 1951.

The last time I was in PA was in 1980 when I came home to see my mother before her death in May of that year.

I saw this on FB and it links directly to a video about the movies that were made there or about Pittsburgh itself.http://youtu.be/KdDu4SjpZc0

[Hoogleboogle]

Druul, the Godfather. I'm only a small timer compared to you.  Give me your advice.

About four months ago, for all the reasons you already understand, I decided to try and find a 'favorite stripper' at a local club. I shopped around at different places a bit and soon settled on a beautiful and friendly dancer I'll call 'Y.' For about a month, I stopped by once per week to share a few drinks and conversation and dances with her. Then her schedule got kind of erratic and I didn't see her much. When I saw her again, she gave me her phone number, but getting through to her was hard. Finally, one of the waitresses told me that Y didn't work there anymore.

This was disappointing, but I still saw a lot of beautiful women at the club and decided to just work on one of them instead. It didn't take long before I was a patron of a beautiful and very busty dancer named 'A.' On the same schedule, I've visited A at the club every week and had a nice time. I have her phone number now too and am hoping to soon take her out for a nice dinner date with an overnight hotel stay.

But now, 'Y' has sent me a text message saying she is going to start working at the club again. It's very likely that I will see both Y and A when I visit later this week. What do I do? Can you have more than one favorite? I like them both. Will I have to choose just one? How do I play it out without causing drama?