[DruulEmpire]

Ages ago I dreamed up what I considered an ideal method of flirting -- and I still haven't used it.  I had cards made up simply saying "OFFICIALLY CERTIFIED BEAUTIFUL WOMAN," the idea being that I could slip one to someone I liked.  The card would leave the ball in her court: she could throw it away, or keep it as a curiosity, or possibly even say "Hey, wait, you!"  Their edges have discolored slightly but they are still useful.  Anyhow, some girls did not make the master list for April 7, so earlier I got in some dances with them instead.  The striking but cool Yolanda of Russia  got a card, and I was very happy to reunite at long last with my very sweet Angelena Chicana Sydney and card her as well -- bizarrely enough, it turns out she's moving to South Carolina in about a week, so this was one truly lucky reunion.  It was also great to meet my fellow Pitt alum Ramba, another sweetheart, and wish her well.

These loose ends tied up, I wrote up a mater list for the twelve I wanted that night: Libra, Lockley, Heidi, Duchess, Romance, Linda, Burne, Fortune, Paige, Elwell, Georgia, and Columbia.  Georgia takes some explaining: she's a spunky cheerleader type who's a good friend of Columbia's, and so I figured I'd finish myself off with two friends.  I enlisted   Georgia late, as my next to last was to be Lourdes, Blush's blonde answer to Emmanuelle Beart -- but in spite of a few  of my attempts to confirm her, Lourdes went on down to Myrtle Beach for that crucial night, so Georgia it was.  

Tommie was one I would have so wanted to be part of that night, but she claimed to be out Vegas way this time of year.  I left behind cards for both Georgia and Tommie --  which was when Chuck let me know that he has seen Tommie  out at Club Exotica.  Hmmm!  Well, loyal or not, she was still one of the great dancers, and I wish her and her private Noah's ark of animals well.

So that was the list, but things got touchier as the date approached.  For one thing, it so happened that April 7 was also opening day for the Pittsburgh Pirates, and given the close association of the bar with the sports crowd, that meant it could be one busy night -- and it was, ye gawdz, it was.

There's a saying that God answers your prayers, but not necessarily the way you want.  Looking back, I think my private party wound up being of service to the girls as well as for me, because on a rowdy night my party was an oasis of calm.  So maybe that was how it was supposed to be.

And that was just the beginning of reality diverging from fantasy ...

[DruulEmpire]

Because it was opening day for the Pirates, any prospect of simply having a staked-out room to which girls could get paged -- my "revolving booth" concept that came to me in this thread about a year ago -- was getting iffy.  Basically, I'd have to hunt down each girl on my own after all -- they could try to get as many for my list as they could, but it would still involve a bit of scouting and inviting.  So it was not the original hedonist fantasy at all, of my simply sitting still and having them come in -- but this was cool too, knowing that I would still have a kind of ultimate night.

There were some further cancellations.  Lockley said she was taking a break from the biz for a while, so she was out.  Linda simply never showed up, and neither did Duchess.  Plus, I was looking over my cash stash and wondering: just how important was the number twelve, anyway?

Anyhow, I showed up with cards and a sign.  Also, it was Burne's birthday, so I got her a basic kit in a bag: cake, card, champagne.  (The champagne was no big deal, a small bottle left over months ago from some whole other event.)  Here's how the sign went (I centered it, but I won't here):

MURDOCK'S MURDER
Murdock is leaving Pittsburgh
He must be punished
Can twelve of Blush's loveliest,
lovingest, freakiest dancers
dance him to death?
The lineup:
(the list of twelve)
Useful hints:
1. Don't touch his nipples --
yours are more interesting anyway.
2. Be gentle with his lower body --
just because it's called a bone
doesn't mean it's made of bone.
3. Climb all over his upper body --
he can take it.
You each have twenty minutes
to be way too nice to him.
Good luck -- until his ghost
returns for Christmas ...

During the course of the evening, one guy who was there for opening day festivities looked severely unimpressed by it -- but hey, I didn't make it for him.  What's important is that all the girls, including Missy the waitress, found it cute, and "cute" seems to go a long way with girls.

I also had on hand a small flashlight, one that I could click with my thumb, to pick out girls -- didn't get nearly as much out of it as I hoped, but that was appreciated too.  More to the point, I was able to get the club (i.e., Richie)  to bring up a bottle of Alice White Chardonnay in a bucket of ice, with four glasses to start off with.  Chuck said that I might have to surrender the corner booth, but until such time as that became necessary, I should claim it -- so claim it I did, sign and ice bucket and all.

The stage was set, the birthday bag was in the bar fridge -- all that was left was to get on with the evening ...

[DruulEmpire]

The first girl was Burne, who was celebrating her 21st birthday -- and it was just as well it was her, because in one dance she managed to jettison herself off my list.  She alternated between arguing a bit, over her right to tweak my nipples after all or calling me a liar about my being ticklish (but why should I lie about this, especially on what's supposed to be "my" night?), and outright abuse, like giving me a slap or holding my throat in a choke hold.  She wasn't severe about it, but she refused to acknowledge that this was not my scene.  I've been down this road before, the know-it-all girl trying something irritating and exasperating to at least half my central nervous system and groaning "You're just blocking!"  Anyhow, if a dancer had to go rotten on me, I'm glad it was the first.

It was around 5 PM and pickings were still sparse, so I decided to throw in regular dances with girls unlisted.  The second was Granada.  If you've read around on this thread you've seen her, the one with the blonde streak -- well, at some point she became not only all blonde but very tan and damn cute, dressing brightly in ways that make a man twist in his seat and wonder "Who's that busty honey who went by?"  So Granada was sweet fun for a couple of dances.

As was Yolanda -- she was there, and what can I say, she has  a "still photo" beauty about her, and she dances well, so I got one off her as well.  She may even have been a bit disappointed to not be clued in more on the action and blew me a kiss.  She's not bad at all -- I've called her a Good Enough before -- but what can I say, I give her a lot of credit for being a Russina, but she's not Nolin of the Czech Republic.  (*Sigh*)

After making do with those three, I was happy to get Libra.  Libra is a veteran of my club experience, in all the time she's been there she's been sunny and warm and laughing, and of course beautiful (especially with curls), so my time with here was very therapeutic.  She cackled (nicely) at the sign and gave me time with her and her very full butt.  

And as luck would have it, my next laughing veteran was Heidi ...

[DruulEmpire]

It was an unusually thorough session with Heidi.  As ever, I got to luxuriate face and hands with her amazingly full natural breasts, but I got straightened out on her background along the way.  She gives great dance and will get into the simulated sex but only in fun, so a few times we'd get into a gallop and I'd clench my teeth and grunt as if approaching ecstasy and she get a raucous kick out of that.

Thing about Heidi is, I strongly associate her with Uschi Digart, and this time I cleared that up with her, but I've also assumed that, living near Munich as she does and having a great "chiseled" look, that she was German, but she declared herself "exotic" (ah, it's all relative) by virtue of having been born Turkish.

She pouted very nicely at the prospect of my leaving the club, whereupon I had to give my cover story, and she proceeded to give me her resume!  Well, sort of.  Evidently she is fluent in English (obviously), German (well, that makes sense), and Turkish.  What could I do with such a woman (in a non-dancing capacity)?  I promised her I'd think about it -- and here I am, thinking about it.

Another resume was to come -- but first, Elwell.  The simple fact was that that last encounter of ours was easily the hottest, whereas this was nice but, eh ... awkward.  We were up for screwing, but it got oppressively busy, with bodies milling about just beyond the curtain and the DJ calling to clear out of the booths for the next dances, and I think we were just too spooked and self-conscious.  It was a bit reassuring, though, to know that she IS ultimately a very careful person.  So far as I'm concerned, what's really interesting is the correspondence that came after the dance -- but that can wait.

Fortune was next.  She was the one who convinced me to boost from ten to twelve in the first place.  She's a dark-haired beauty with big crazy eyes and a smile to match, and she danced VERY hotly.  What's wild is that along the way I got HER resume too -- turns out she's a former secretary, though now she would be an "administrative professional."  She set me straight on the use of semicolons; here I thought they were an excuse to jam two complementary sentences together into one (like I'm doing right now), but she says there's a far narrower use for them.  Blown is my mind -- Heidi as interpreter, and Fortune as administrative professional.  The work I could get done -- or NOT get done.

With Heidi, Elwell and Fortune I was able to have a bit of the Alice White, but as I kept **94** to about the bottle's halfway point, I felt my spirit fizzling.  For here I had fantasized of being stimulated to a permanent erection, but between the wine, the nervousness of the setting, and the sheer stretch of time, I realized I'm not a teenager after all, and so it became an effort to summon myself (so to speak) for the dancers to come, and I wondered if I could be "murdered" by getting "danced to death" after all ...

[DruulEmpire]

Sweet Paige (in this thread formerly "Corinne," before an actual Corinne turned up), my "Tara Reid but sober," was an EXCELLENT next to next to last dance -- damn beautiful, intensely sexual.  A joke developed between us, when I could feel my erection resurrecting, making it all the easier for certain mutual galloping to resume, and I would note "I'm back!"  Eh, but I kept fading right back out to -- I must have declared "I'm back!" three times during my time with Paige, but I give her credit, she laughed sweetly each time, and I have to say, she's one of the best "summoners" I know.

At his point Chuck came back, and I had to make a call.  Duchess had simply not shown -- and in my mind I strongly associated Duchess with Romance, as a pair of "bronzed" girls worth having one after another.  Meanwhile, Georgia, Columbia's good friend, appeared at the curtain, with Columbia right behind her playfully cupping and tweaking Georgia's breasts.  (Tempting, to have them together -- but going by the book, that gets WAY expensive.   )  I took stock of myself, and said that I would have to piss off Romance (imagine, pissing off Romance in a club ) and go directly to the Georgia-Columbia one-two punch to finish me off.

I suppose Georgia was a bit concerned for me, but she was pretty and spunky and a lot of fun, mashing her breasts nicely against my face.  (Having Columbia as last is a trade-off -- I'm halfway in love with her, but she has no bust to speak of.  How is that always happening to me?)

By the time Columbia came back for me, the alcohol may have been kicking in, because I began to confess to her how she made everything seem effortless, and how reassuring her presence was.  As the dance wore down we were just sort of hanging on to each other as the madness around us continued to yell and work itself out -- and that was it, that was the marathon.  Ten girls, eight from the list -- seven of the dances I wanted , if I penalize Burne.  I abandoned the remainder of wine, got out my jacket (the temperature had fallen in the meantime), backed up my sign, left some cards, shook a few hands, got a few hugs -- and I was out.

No, it was not exactly the fantasy -- that would have gone to a quieter night, and I had hoped more girls could have kept loyal to the schedule.  But it was a grand farewell.  I though I was trying to create a memory, but as I look over this thread I realize I already have that.  Rather, this was to try to impress a memory of myself upon the club, and I think I succeeded.  I think Columbia will keep an eye out for me, and others, if only because on a night like that I'm  about the only man left who is NOT some howling fool -- girls were complaining how **92** everyone was acting, and I was happy to be a bit different.  We shall see how well I'm remembered come year's end.

As for Elwell, we got to e-correspond at last.  She wished me luck and some "XOXO" and I hoped she wouldn't mind if I checked on the club through her from time to time.

It was not the fantasy I hoped would wrap it all up -- but who knows, I may yet organize that some future day ...

[DruulEmpire]

First, I thank Whoever Is Out There for having given this thread a 76-to-one ratio of views per posts, which is not only cool for a (regrettably) textual thread but is fine by me because I have come to dread the number 77.  (Other such numbers are 239 and, of course, 13.)  I still hope someday -- maybe in the next two years -- to wangle pictures of major players into this, though those would have to be shot outside the club, as I just witnessed them immediately clamping down on someone's phonecam.

Also, I have to admit that, no, it has not been a solid ten month hiatus.  I've been back from time to time.  Thing is, I'm jaded, and so the last few times I didn't feel that I had that much to relate.  But I do now.

Consider the word "date."  It can be a sweet tropical snack.  Or an evening out with a lady.  Yet the evenings out, I assume, owe their names to "date" as in "calendar" or "history," as in "December 7, 1941" or "July 20, 1969." Blush has already given me personally historic dates.  April 2, 2008 was when I was ravished by Elwell, and April 7 was Murdock's Murder, not really that fantastic an event for myself, believe it or not, as something that I think helped cement some sort of personal reputation into the club's folklore, and that's important and useful in its own right -- as you shall see.  To those historic dates, I now add Febrary 14, 2009 -- that's right, this past Valentine's Day.  It's as if years of preparation neatly, sweetly culminated, at last, into how just about any night in a club should go.

But to get to the 14th, I have to give an update on Elwell.  I was in touch with Elwell by way of her site on The Socially Intimate Networking Service We Must Never Mention On This Site -- perhaps I'll refer to it as SINS for short.  Anyway, I was in touch with Elwell's SINS-site since my Murder, and over time I held out great hope for hooking up with her outside the club sometime around Halloween.  The correspondence went fine, but with Elwell never really confirming anything.  It got to the point that there I was, in the hotel room, constantly checking back with her by phone -- and it never happened.

Elwell, you see, has been a hustler, an industry unto herself.  For one thing, she was always a slim wisp, and now she's gotten herself augmented -- nothing major, nothing to make your average BEA member sit right up and salute, but a fair first step, at last giving her slender beauty a touch of curve.  For another thing, she's gotten out into the major media.  She had a line -- three words, edited to a split second, but still a line -- in a major motion picture, and she even turned up as one incidental topless pic in Playboy.

So Elwell's a big deal now -- but she continues to be sweet to me, and I have to admit, her failing to make it over because she's all tied up in a photo shoot involving her getting covered in body paint, that's kind of cool.  Anyhow, I messaged her about my regret but also my understanding, and she wrote back THE sweetest message.  Here's this beauty, she's going places, doing wild projects, I still have no idea why she did me like she did, and she's a sweetheart on top of all that.

But the week leading up till St. Valentine's Saturday, something new came up.  I messaged her three times over the course of two weeks, and wondered what was going on, usually she's very on top of her SINS-site.  Finally, I took stock of myself, of how I felt, and I realized something -- namely, that I was so sick with worry and full of doubt that if we were ever to get together, I would not be able to perform.

What can I say, I'm 48.  When you're one third, or even one half, my age, you're pretty much ready to fuck the universe.  In my old age, though, I need reciprocation.  The greatest joy for me is knowing that the woman is responding, that I'm doing right by her.  I consider masturbation to be perfectly natural and sensible and in a way even noble -- better to masturbate than to pursue a woman only to basically use her as a prop for masturbation and nothing more.

So I send her a new message, basically explaining "Forget it, it's off."  It was really the only message to send -- trying to make a go of the situation would have been a disaster.  So I left her SINS-site alone and concentrated on making the best of St. Valentine's Saturday.

Finally I checked back in, and after having made no replies for over two weeks she at last responded, still quite sweetly, but she said that she had a Mafia boyfriend and that anything outside that would be quite impossible.  I left her a message and a card -- mild stuff, in case it ever got intercepted -- thanking her.

Could this be bullshit?  Oh, sure, certainly.  Of course, Pittsburgh has always had a relatively mild Mafia problem.  Our "family" is Larocca, which is into stuff like the numbers racket -- for years there was a blatantly obvious "numbers house" being run just down the block from my old apartment.  And I can see one of those guys getting together with an up-and-comer like her.  So it, sadly, makes sense.  But you know what, even if it's a lie, I appreciate it.  I mean, who am I?  I'm simply a schlub who stops by the club once every few months, while she's enjoying her own miniature stardom, and so far as I can tell there's nothing dreadfully intimidating or fearsome about me, so if she has to lie that dramatically, that's still a pretty sweet deal.

That pretty well wraps up any rendezvous with Elwell -- I'll still be her happy customer, but it won't be quite the same anymore.  But luckily, St. Valentine's Saturday was to turn out quite well ...

[DruulEmpire]

So I check out the dancer schedule.  Odd thing: I don't care so much about the features anymore.  Ashton Moore was by the week before, but I'd already seen her -- and Shay Lynn was dancing that night, and it might have been cool to introduce her to Perversity (please check past posts for specific meaning of Perversity), but I somehow didn't have the ambition for that either.  What can I say, unless it's Shyla Stylez I just don't have that old feature-grabbing enthusiasm.  So I see that Fortune and Linda are due to be up, followed in the next shift by Columbia (my redheaded fave, sort of a slimmed-down and not-so-bossy variation of Christina Hendricks' Joan Halloway) and Nolin (the sweet Czech).  It looks like a good gamble, so I go.

I enter the club, and take the seat in the middle of the back of the great rectangle that is the bar, that way I can just look straight forward (obstructions permitting) at the stage.  Now if you've been following this thread you know there are two veteran bartenders, the rather jaded blonde and the short coltish brunette, each with highly respectable shelves.  That evening it's Karen, the blonde -- and she greets me as warmly as ever in all these years, it's actually quite a shock.  My plan (to the extent that I ever really HAD a plan) has worked fine: to stop in only occasionally but still generate good recognition.  So I chat with Karen a bit before getting a beer.  It's a relatively quiet night -- but it is V Day, maybe people are properly paired off out there in the world, like they should be.

Sitting next to me is an older -- all right , slightly older -- man.  His name is Sean, so I take him as authentic Pittsburgh-area Scots-Irish.  Anyway, the dancer Harriet comes over to the two of us -- she's the sweetie with the slightly round, soft, sad face and the long blonde hair, she reminds me of Nicole Sullivan of "MadTV" and now "Rita Rocks" on Lifetime -- and Sean sort of takes over, with me smiling or making an occasional tiny interjection just to assure them that, yeah, I'm sort of following the conversation.  This simple act causes Sean to warm to me, and he buys me a second beer.  First time THAT ever happened.

At last, the club starts looking interesting.  Karen is kidding around with a customer and suddenly yanks down her shirt and exposes her braless breasts.  Dear God, I've wanted to see Karen's naked breasts from the moment I saw her, so long ago -- would that I had known it could be this easy.  They're high and proud, on the scale of big apples -- they look augmented, but humbly, not crazily.  That right there earns my notice.

Then Fortune comes over to me, and she seems pleased that I recall her name -- it certainly blows my mind that she recognizes me so readily as Murdock.  She even says that so many men have come and gone, but somehow I stick in her mind (sounds fine to me).  Fortune has always intrigued me, having a pretty and yet sort of crazy face, a bit crazy in the wide eyes and the sheer enthusiasm, and somehow I keep thinking of her as a New Yorker but she's not, she's a transplanted farm girl.  Anyhow, I get a good zesty dance off her.

Meanwhile, there's a rather mysterious figure skulking about the club in long black hair and a long satiny robe.  It takes me a while to recognize her, but it's Linda, just about the only girl there even crazier and zestier than Fortune.  She tells me her tale of woe, that her purse disappeared with so much of her wardrobe in it, and so she has just withjin that hour purchased this robe, which somehow reminds me of a championship boxer.  "Floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee," she describes herself, and I agree with the butterfly part.  Fortune has always had nice full hangers, and the satiny robe with its navel-deep cleavage compliments them SO nicely.  I get a dance off her as well.

Incidentally, if it seems to the reader that I'm jadedly flitting over these dances, well, I am, but I hope you will soon understand why.

So anyhow, the earlier shift is wrapping up, and I stand apart from the bar, where Missy the waitress, referred to much earlier in this thread as Ms. Zaftig Zoomers, notices me and actually grins and hugs.  This is even more (nicely) shocking than Karen the bartender, and I wind up a bit tongue-tied, but we do the small talk, yeah, we've both been okay, and she'll look after me.  Actually, I've rarely dared a second beer before, but I don't tell her that.

Now I find a seat on the bar's far end, useful for noticing the new girls as they begin to file into the club.  It takes a good twenty minutes, but my Red Queen, Columbia, comes in and smiles and sits right by me.  She's wearing a red dress that's all velvety and invites me to check out the texture.

It gets awkward after that, in spite of my buying her some wine, because somehow the dependable old conversation just isn't gelling with her that night.  Topics crop up from religion to psychology (she's taking a course) to television but nothing is really grabbing hold.  I even catch her stifling a yawn (though politely angling it away from me) and begin to get anxious, when suddenly --

[DruulEmpire]

-- I am inundated, yes, inundated, by babes.  First Heidi comes over (yes, veteran readers -- Turkish-born, German-raised, resemblance to Uschi Digart, quite possibly the largest, fullest, softest natural breasts in the whole club) which is quite the bonus, because I wasn't expecting her on the schedule.  She brazenly (brazenly -- yes, yes!) comes right over to me -- also a nice shock, because I usually see these girls deferring to each other's hookups.  This also perks up the conversation, because she and Columbia immediately start chatting happily.

Yet no sooner has Heidi come over than Nolin, the darling Czech, also come right over as well and before I know it I'm throwing my arms around all three of them at once while they stand and talk at the bar.  Rarely have I felt as much The Man as at that moment -- my arms around the three hottest women in the club and they're all cool with it.  I even lean back for comic effect, sort of wishing they would crowd in in front of me.

This gets me to wondering about sequence.  I've always had the oddest vibe off Nolin, and I get the feeling that it would be worth the gamble to have her last, so I'm figuring Columbia, Heidi, Nolin -- but then Heidi starts nodding at me, as if subtly urging me away, so I excuse myself saying "She wants me" while making my appointments.

Ahh, Heidi.  Beauty, breasts, fun -- and such breasts too.  She's long since become cool with me and actually guides my hands onto them -- hell, I feel myself stirring just remembering this.  This session was slightly "off" though, I seem to recall our last session getting in a nice enthusiatic dry hump but this time she just sort of smiles at me curiously and never quite gets into that.  But we've reconnected, and that's fine.

Funny about Columbia -- first I see the dance on stage, then in the side cage, before getting her in private, and truth to tell she really excels more on stage, with all her athletics and contortionism.  But in private, I can always simply savor just how fucking glamorous she is.  Honestly, she ought to wear elbow length gloves.  I should buy those for her sometime.  We get caught up a little while she strips, and she finds it nice that I'm still grinding ahead with the novel collaboration with my old friend.  With more fans like her, a writer could get industrious.

So I go back up, and Nolin looks locked in conversation with a man at the bar, and she plays it SO cool that she barely acknowledges me.  So I wonder: is this it?  Pretty much the entire club has warmed to me as never before, and that is an event in its own right.  So I stand around, and wonder if I should push off -- when suddenly Nolin is standing before me, eager to get on with it.

When I go back with her I ask for twenty minutes.  That's $125 plus tip -- but the vibe is strong in this one.

I forget what all I've said about Nolin before.  It's hard to pin her down (so to speak).  A young Czech Olivia Newton-John?  A beauty out of anime?  She reminds me most of Elizabeth (a common name, so I figure no harm done), THE girl I had a crush on in high school, though Elizabeth's nose was turned-up while Nolin's is straight but petite.  Believe me, the fantasy of "At last, the high school beauty who got away!" can be very inspiring.

Nolin would be fine as a visual treat alone, but what's great about her is that she strips so well druing the private dance (while not taking too long about it).  She steps and twirls and wiggles, then pulls her top off to reveal her nice full soft hangers (as much as I applaud augmentation, large naturals like Nolin and Heidi are so wonderful to meet in the flesh, so to speak).  I'm rarely an ass man, but Nolin waggles it at me in such cute V-day-themed red panties with heart patterns that it's all I can do not to just peel them right off her.

The dance proceeds, and we get to the dry hump -- and there's this weird connection going on in our eyes (hers sparkle so much more nicely, by the way).  She has this wry little smile, as if ready for just about anything, almost daring me to try something.  The dry hump keeps getting steamier and more intense, and about halfway through our ten minutes we're pretty much all but Getting It On.  My erection -- quite ordinary, sad to say, but reliably hard -- is the straining lump in my slacks against which Nolin begins to grind in interesting ways.  Things just go on getting steamier, to the point where we're planting little kisses on each other's cheeks and neck and shoulders, and all along I gently urge her "Use me" or "Go for it."

Finally she lays herself down on me at a crazy angle and pistons her pelvis against me with an urgency which seems devoid of any art whatsoever, and the feelings against my lump are downright gynelogical.  She is plainly and simply fucking herself against my luck, thrusting and thrusting until at last she tenses up and then relazes with a sigh -- and at that moment a voice comes from outside the curtain saying that the twenty minutes are up.

The gamble has been perfect.  The timing has been perfect.  Nolin even jokes "I should pay YOU" before saying "Thanks for the satisfaction."  It is no lie -- her satisfaction is very much my satisfaction.  Her satisfaction will inspire my own satisfaction many times to come.

I pledge to see her agin when I can -- and what's wild is that as we were grinding, I noticed on the screen they play in there shoing the stage that Elwell has arrived, against the schedule I read and expected.  But it would be so stilted, to try tro deal with her immediately after such a great moment, so I duck right out of the club and into the night.  And Murdock has struck again.

But I will return.  Count on it.

[DruulEmpire]

SPECIAL NEW POST

From the beginning of this thread, I've slowly and cautiously nurtured its views-to-posts ratio.  Well, no more.  I now heartily encourage anyone out there reading this to feel free to post some reaction or insight.  Why?  Because this thread is acting really weird.  Please understand, I appreciate the attention, and I ask this with all grinning appreciation, but still I ask --

WHAT?  THE FUCK?  IS GOING?  ON?

Here's the deal.  When I finished making the last three posts a few days ago, I noted that I was up to 11883 views.  Then I stopped back in on Sunday, and it was up to 13816.  I was warmed.  It was eminently cool.

But then a funny thing happened.  In the course of my hanging around here on Sunday, I saw the views total rise to 14067 -- and actually stay there a while.  This did not seem too weird to me, because hopefully these last posts are encouraging readers to check the earlier fifteen pages, and that kind of clicking tends to show up as more than just one view.

But as I kept checking back the total kept leaping hundreds at a time.  I watched in a kind of **101** astonishment.  Finally, when the number hit skyrocketed to exactly 17000 circa 2:50 PM EST Sunday, I took that as my cue to bug the hell out.

I thought I was being a bit paranoid, imagining that some "Heisenberg principle" was at play, that in the very process of my checking this, someone -- or something, some sort of automatic function -- was leaving behind a record of hundreds of new views in mere minutes.  But now, as I dare to peek back, I note that it was at 21006 when I arrived, and the escalation is at this very moment kicking in again.

If anyone has any idea what could be going on, I'd like to know.  It's one thing if this thread is indeed naturally attracting such interest -- but if anything unnnatural, anything artificial, is being applied here, it's all very cute and complimentary in its way, but I could really do without it.  I would much rather have passers-by curiously perusing this in their own good time.

If this is some vote of confidence, the vote has been heard, and if this is in any way an encouragement to continue, all I can say is, I'd be lucky to get back down there by April, or maybe even May or June.  If I were to be encouraged, I'd have to get paid -- but not on this Archive.

I do hope that next year, or perhaps even late in this one, I could finally have something visual to accompany this, and maybe then I'll be more likely to believe such escalation.  For now, though, it's just weird.

I write, after all, to be read, and hopefully not merely scanned.

EDITORIAL ADDENDUM: and now I come back the following day and I've just hit 27001.  Aren't these neat increments awfully suspicious?  Honestly, I just wish I could know if any of these new views could possibly be real.

[DruulEmpire]

Years back, I got several autographed pictures of Chelsea, and I think those gave me a clue to her generosity of spirit, becuase I'd asked for signatures suggesting an involved and outrageous fantasy and she obliged with enthusiasm.  So I got her some small items, like one of those "so I missed your birthday" cards -- hers was earlier in the month -- and a custom T-shirt saying "greetings from Titsburgh."  I got a large shirt, but now I think I should have gone for extra large -- more on that later.

On the week of her arrival, I began to make it down to the club.  I was mainly out to get back with my Red Queen, Columbia, and to get her handprint (hopefully more on that in posts to come).  As luck would have it, though, I would also collide once more with Elwell.

Elwell is messing with my head once more.  I sat down at the bar and she pretty much attached herself to me, mildly grousing about how in my last SINS-site messages to her (see above to try to understand the euphemism "SINS-site") were angry.  Actually they weren't angry, more resigned -- to her being evidently off limits.  But I assured her that I could never stay angry with her (true in spirit, though I hope that never has to be tested).  WIld but true, there continues to be something both magnetic and combustible between us.

Of course I got a dance with her, and that was when she let me know that as of last November the club had remodeled the upstairs rooms.  This was to be my first time in my few years there that I would see the rooms.  They're perfectly modest but not bad, though the one we used had red lighting (the age-old symbolism of that cuts closer than I want to think about) and a space heater.  So for half an hour she had me on a couch.  April 2, 2008 was a historic day in my sex life -- March 24, 2009 became another.  She was a bit skittish and worried, constantly concerned with someone checking back on us, but for all that she took me in once more, first as I grasped her buttocks and drove my thumbs together into her, and then as she straddled and rode me.  As seems standard of how I'm wired, I reached no climax, although before I left I hasd to duck into the washroom to take care of silvery streaks of vaginal fluid on my black slacks.

I continue to puzzle over this little relationship.  As I write, she's going back out to the Playboy Mansion a second time, and after having appeared for one split second in a major motion picture, she tells me of two more she's up for -- one of which would probably blow your mind if I told you.  Why is this starlet (indeed, she's practically a dictionary definition of that word) so nice with me?  I can't figure it.  So I don't.

So I get in that one session with Elwell before she heads back out to Playboyland, and I get more personal time with Columbia -- nothing much more to report thee, we're a boringly comfortable pair -- and I keep an eye out that night, and all week in fact, for Heidi (Turkish-born, German-raised, the bustiest around) and Nolin (the Czech mentioned above), but in spite of the schedule they never do show up ...

[DruulEmpire]

Looking back on all this, I begin to see a lesson in greed, and in two kinds of greed at that.

As Chelsea's appearance draws near, I'm not sure what to believe.  The poster near the **103**, the little cards left on the club's tables, and the ad run in the independent paper all simply mention a "Special Appearance" -- but there are quick cheap late night TV ads as well, and at the end they claim she'll do early Thursday and Friday evening shows, as well as the Friday matinee.  These all turn out to be lies.

So I'm there on Thursday, ultimately to no avail, and there continues to be no Heidi or Nolin (I'll have to ask them where they got to, hopefully in June), and then I notice this tall lanky brunette who's new to the place and the word that springs to mind when I look at her is glamor.  Let's call her Madrid.  I'm sufficiently intrigued by her mix of classiness and eagerness that I get a dance with her, and before I know it we're upstairs, and we're grooving to each other very well -- nowhere near the intimate heat of the Mafia-guarded Elwell, but we're interested in going further.  I blurt out the idea of how she would be in bed, and then we're imagining what it would be like to get a proper room, and we even discuss restaurants to hit beforehand.

Aside from bumping into Martha(see far above) once more, that's about it -- though my getting back together with Linda is oddly indicative of what's to come.  Linda is a zesty and fun as ever, but when I mention I'm on hand to give an account of Chelsea her usual boundless enthusiasm falters.  She wonders about Chelsea's back, and otherwise seems unimpressed by her largesse.  Then again, she seems more cynical than usual, talking about her studying to get a "real job," and the fact that she also restores stained glass windows.  Stained glass window restorer and zesty stripper: quite a combo!  On the other hand, her wanting to get into belly dancing makes particular sense.

Come Friday, I'm not as rested from the day as I'd prefer, but I get there at 6 PM, though I could have saved myself the trouble because, despite the TV ad, there's no early show.  No matter: plan on a 9:45 as usual, I figure.

What happens then is rather surreal.  For some reason the crowd thins by around 7, and there's a wide empty section at the back of the bar, which faces the stage.  So I sit in the middle of it, nurse my Sam Adams, and I basically try to marshal back my strength by sitting tight, watching the dancers come and go.  I begin to think of myself as an experiment in stop-motion photography.  Two hours go by and I'm able to reassure the bartender -- one I've never seen before -- with a smile and a word when she finally checks in on me, but otherwise I'm just letting time glide on by like a creek.  Though the night shift technically starts at 7 (and my Columbia, not there that night, tends to be on time or even early, perhaps the only gal who does that), the new faces don't really start appearing till 8, and by 9 the place is full of life and of women -- and finally, by around 9:30, I feel inspired to come sit at the stage.

It's a good enough lineup of dancers, but it becomes an awkward piling up of past acquaintances as the time creeps on past 10.  First there's Lockley, from a year or so ago, and she wants a dance from me; then that new girl Madrid, who likewise wants a dance from me.  Trouble is, there's nothing I can tell them, because I'm intent on sitting tight and watching Chelsea.  So I'm probably pissing them off -- but that's what they get, for trying to proposition the customer.  I feel a bit bad for Madrid later on, as she talked up another man at the stage and spilled his beer on him and he got all flustered (Heidi did that once to me and just took it, if only because she's worth it) -- but sex, or even good old making out, can't be based on mercy.  Anyjow, I was wondering if our DJ that night was for real, because he had NO imagination, and was giving out data like some European time service -- "The time is now ten o'clock and one minute and ten seconds ... the time is now ten o'clock and one minute and twenty seconds," about that bad, and he started assuring us that Chelsea was on her way out, but with always yet another interventing dance.

This was getting on my nerves, because I don't drive, and as much as I admire certain aspects of the Burgh, its dowtown district late at night isn't one of them.  Quite simply, I was running out of buses to catch.  But at last, come 11 (and remember, I'd been hoping for 6:30), it was time for Chelsea's show.  I'd caught her a bit earlier moving quickly around the club, wearing a bulky sequined black robe like a prize fighter, checking out what was what, and now at last she was going to perform ...

[DruulEmpire]

They play Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" and Chelsea comes bounding out in a pink polka dot dress.  Columbia had cynically speculated that Chelsea would just march back and forth a little, but I give her credit, there's a spring in her step, and that spring is giving her body a sort of "galloping" motion I've never seen before, because her breasts are damn near galloping off ahead -- and somewhat downwards -- from her leaping body.  I find it difficult to bleive my eyes.  I also begin to appreciate that my "greetings from Titsburgh" T-shirt may amount to little more than, say, a souvenir pennant, because she's really thick all around -- not fat (her bod has its cushioning, but she's not what I'd call fat, but with a very solid build and that bosom establishes a lot of width.  She dances and writhes and it seems remarkable that they don't come flinging right off her.

She looks up and down the stage -- you might expect it to be packed, but no, there are only a few of us brave souls there.  She does some strutting and spinning and her top comes off, showing her giant white bra, and then later she gets that off and we see her naked.  (Later she romes her skirt and panties, but somehow that's not the same effect.)  She looks a lot in person as she does in the pictures we've seen -- remarkable vein on the right, a slightly boxy overall shape to the left.  As she responds to dollars getting placed on the sill, she gets men to stand up, and then she wallops them.  I watch the back of one man's head and there is an actual blur of his head snapping back and then forward again with each wallop -- it's damn impressive, though it does get to reminding me a little of Natasha Richardson.  But I'm game anyway, and she does me three times -- and each time I feel determined to withstand the walloping and simply sink deeper into her cleavage.  The feel of it is not so much sexy as challenging -- I've been given this "mamma-slamma" treatment before over the years, and it is rather like getting volleyballs bounced off your face, and with Chelsea you feel a bit like you're in a Rocky movie, but I stand my ground and she smiles and moves along.

A little later she does boobieball -- essentially cooterball, but our wadded up singles have to go in a penile receptacle stuffed between her breasts.  But I'm never any good at that.

The show is over before I know it, but it's not long before she comes out to the corner to sell some wares.  I'm getting nervous about time, but I'm still determined.  One thing that kicks me is that fans REFUSE TO STEP RIGHT UP AND GET IN LINE.  She keeps seeing fans -- but they just sort of keep wandering timidly over in their own good time, and here I am staring down the barrel at midnight.  I go right to her and get my Polaroid -- my expression is, if I do say so myself, kind of weird, my face looks narrowed somehow (optical illusion?), but the main thing is that may head is resting in her cleavage.  Chelsea is relentlessly and determinedly cheerful with me and everyone, and I noticed that she must be the FASTEST SIGNER I've ever seen, she takes a pen and in two seconds she has wished "Breast wishes!" or some such.

I'm determined to get my dance with her, and so she takes me back, and that's when I feel that my offerings -- the late birthday card, the inadequate T-shirt -- are perhaps rather pathetic after all, but I can't be concerned with that.  I show her my pics from her and attest that they have helped me over the years, and she laughs.

It's wild to see her in person.  She is simply so comfortable in her skin (all of it), accepting it as a kind of uniform in its own right.  She's pretty and forthright, and yet to look at her I am reminded a little of the simplicity of the artwork of Paul Forrest of our Union Graphics.

Anyhow, it's dance time, and she smiles with her eyes shut and knows well enough to try to gently rake her naked bosom up and down against me.  What's weird is that they are quite hard, so while I've had nice soft "rakings" before this is odd, like I'm feeling boulders scrape over me, and at last I can begin to appreciate women, perhaps jealously but still justifiably, worrying over the logistics of this.  They're heavy and solid, and as she lies back against me I heft one and then the other, back and forth, and comment "This could be great exercise" and she smiles -- but I have to wonder if it WOULD be good exercise.  Only then is it dawning on me that the woman is a kind of athlete in her own right, and yet she's trying to be as gentle and womanly about her gifts as she can manage.

We're done, and she happily asks if I'd like another -- and in my fantasies I'd have snapped that up, and I have the money for it ($100 per dance), but it occurs to me that I have all the data I need, and that repeating it won't necessarily make it any more compelling, so I say I feel pretty well **91** for one night, and I she takes my gifts and gets a hug from me and I thank her for making it to Pittsburgh -- and then I'm outta there, and I'm able to walk briskly several blocks just in time to catch a bus home before the stroke of midnight.

And I'm glad I did it -- but it seems an outermost extreme of my desires.  Blake once wrote "Enough! or Too much," and Chelsea lies somewhere in between.  Sexiness really does need to feel more playful than industrial.  But Chelsea is an athlete and a pioneer, and perhaps in the future women will be able to do what she does with even greater grace.

But it does get me to thinking of other things, like reuiniting with Elwell, and wanting to get back with Nolin, and Madrid happening to me -- and I realize, all I really want anymore is a shot at sweet Nolin.  You can go crazy trying to always pile up the quantity.  You yourself matter too: what you want custom made for you, tailored to your specific ideal.

I have explored the limits of one dimension, and now perhaps it's time for other, subtler dimensions.  Perhaps in June.

[DruulEmpire]

Before anything else, I have to say thanks to any and all who had any part in legitimately boosting my views this high.  As of this writing the views-to-posts ratio got up to 254:1, but I rather suspect there was some hacking involved there.  To all genuine human eyeballs out there, my gratitude.

What does a man do after he's been murdered?  After the "Murdock's Murder" of April 7, 2008, I feel like a bit of a ghost showing up again, because it's tough to have anything that big ever happen again, and I'm not sure what I am within the club's mythos without SOME kind of gimmickry.  "Perversity" is retired, I'm allegedly an Ohioan now, and Chelsea Charms was a memorable but sobering realization -- now what?  I get to feeling a bit like a one-hit-wonder band who keeps staging reunions to smaller crowds -- not that the "audiences" are worse, but I get to thinking, eh, it's the cash after all.

But Elwell and Nolin have messed with my head enough to wonder at whole other adventures, and the birthday of my Red Queen Columbia is coming up.  So as of Friday, May 29 I get back down there.

The plan is to catch Nolin, and that I do automatically, because she's on stage and doing her second song when I come in.  She gives a lot of that sweet Olivia Newton-John concentration as I sit down, and as soon as our dance is done we get to talking.  I so want to take her out of there when she gets off, but it sounds like she has plans.  So we go upstairs ...

[DruulEmpire]

I bring my signature scarf -- sure, it's May, but the scarf can provide useful leverage to the dance.  I've smuggled up a bottle of burgundy in my briefcase and between the complimentary glasses of champagne and some swigs of that we are all the friendlier.  We get to talking, of all things, about ballet and opera, and how Nolin is into The Nutcracker and Swan Lake -- and, damn it, Phantom of the Opera.  Vixen Lamoore, and now Nolin -- are ALL women suckers for that thing?

Once more, Nolin takes her time with me.  She is an excellent mix of athleticism and voluptuousness, because she writhes and wriggles so beautifully, drawing out each phase of the strip -- negligee, panties, bra -- and yet she is no waif, she is generously fleshy when she's naked.

But gone this time around is our anxiousness to get her off.  This time around she seems to settle for a good rough gallop, and her face contorts with yearning and concentration, but I have less of a sense of "it" than I did last time.  Last time I sensed her pleasure -- this time, I'm not so sure.  It's still worth the sweet reunion, but I feel like I've missed something somehow ...

[DruulEmpire]

So Nolin and I say a sweet farewell as her shift gets off, and I figure, that's pretty much the evening -- ahh, but the club will sometimes mess with your anticipation, the girls they claim on their website schedule may have nothing to do with reality, and little do I know that I'm in for a LONG night, because one of the first women to step in for the evening is Lourdes, who I was not expecting.  Lourdes is the beauty with the sad "young Susan Dey" quality to her face, skinny over all but still worth a close look.  So I immediately seize upon her for some dances, this time just down in the booth.

I have left a "mark," serious or shallow, on some of the gals, but Lourdes may remain an eternal mystery to me.  She's nice enough, but I have no idea if I'm truly hooking her attention in any way.  Somehow I find myself reciting powers of two, an old elementary school trick of mine, which gets a "Holy shit!" from her at first, but round about two to the twentieth I give up.  She's a will-o'-the-wisp, beautiful, sweet, polite -- and I may never register on her.

Yet no sooner have I danced with Lourdes than the "sober Tara Reid" (except better looking than Tara) turns up: Paige, who when I first met her had a furtive, skittish, tentative kind of nervous smile.  As we get out booth dance on, however, I quickly realize that something has happened to her, that's GOOD ...