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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/642172-Hot-Girls-Club
by Shaara
Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Erotica · #642172
Who says the career plans for a retired teacher are limited?
Hot Girl's Club



         I’d been a teacher for thirty-three years. I loved children, but my nerves were frazzled. That last year I yelled. A good teacher never raises her voice. I knew it was time to retire.

         But I was still young. My figure was as spry as a twenty-year-old’s. I had great teeth and a youngish face. I wasn’t ready for retirement. I looked around at my options and there frankly weren’t many -- sales clerk at Sears or WalMart, waitress, receptionist in someone’s office. Then I saw the ad: Wild girls needed.

         I cracked a smile and went on perusing the ads, but my eyes kept going back to Wild girls. The local strip joint – I wondered what went on there. Table dancing I knew about. I’d read an article about how terrible it was that young girls would sit on a man’s lap and wiggle him into ecstasy. And I guess the girls took part of their clothes off. Our city ordinance didn’t agree with total nudity. I wondered how much the girls did take off. I was rather curious what happened inside.

         Frank, my husband, used to be quite honest with me about some of the places he’d been before I came along. I knew he’d visited whores in his Navy stint. I laughed remembering how red his face had gotten when I’d probed too hard for details.

         How I missed Frank and my daughter! Seven years now they’d been gone, killed by a drunken driver. So many years without their laughter and the way they’d filled a room with joy. But seven years is a long time to mourn. I was tired of wearing symbolic black.

         Could a woman still be sexy at 56? Would a place like Hot Girls even look at me? Or would they laugh in my face?

         I’ve never been a coward. I stripped down, pulled on my secret red silk underwear, slithered into a slinky black dress – the one with the buttons down the front -- and with shaking hands, dolled up my face. I put on a little extra blush to make up for how pale I’d suddenly become, doubled the layer of mascara, and headed out the door.

         Then I stopped. Something was nibbling at my mind. Halloween – my daughter’s feather Mardi Gras mask. I found it. A couple of the feathers were falling out. I plucked them and preened the plumage. The longest feather I kept in my hand. A smile of delight crossed my face as I thought about what I was attempting to do. I glanced in the mirror over the chest of drawers and turned the smile sexy.

         A five minute drive and the pink building with the Hot Girl’s neon light loomed before me. Did I have the courage? With that thought, a streak of anger rammed me. Me -- lacking courage? Frank would have laughed. He’d always called me his tiger.

         I stretched my long, slender legs out the door and caressed the shiny nylons. My years of tap dancing and ballet had kept my legs looking youthful. They could still compete with a twenty-year-old’s.

         I jammed my chin in the air and marched forward, daring the hot pink door to intimidate me. The door was unlocked; I squeezed the lever and entered. I thought someone might rush forward and prevent my passage, but no one even noticed me. I headed for the bar.

         “I’d like to see the manager,” I said in a voice as clear and crisp as any good classroom teacher’s.

         The young man, good-looking with hair slicked back like a juvenile vampire, shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am. He doesn’t talk with church ladies. Or are you from the paper?”

         “I want to talk to him about a job.”

         The man started to snicker, but curbed it well. Silently, I praised his mother’s tutelage.

         With a yell from the bartender, Boss man strode out of his office and made his way towards us. Getting a look at me, he halted then stopped and stared.

         “What the…”

         I held out my hand. “Hi, I’m interested in applying for a job. I read your ad in the Silverton Daily.

         Boss man wasn’t as polite as the bartender. He guffawed. “You gotta be kiddin’ lady. You know what kinda place this is?”

         “I believe I could do the job as well as anyone, Mr . . ."

         He ignored my request for a name and flung himself down in a chair. No invitation to join him was given, but I sat down across from him anyway.

         “I will be happy to fill out your application. I think you will find my…”

         “Listen lady, this ain't the place for you. It's a strip joint. Ya ever done strip?”

         His face was bulging with aggravation, and he was glowering at me.

         He’s just like an angry parent, I thought to myself. Be calm and persistent in what you want. “No,” I admitted. “But I’m sure I can do whatever the others do. I’m a quick learner.”

         Boss man took out a piece of cinnamon gum, unwrapped it, and stuck it into his mouth. His jaws moved without any rhythm, grinding and mixing the new piece into the big wad he’d already had in his mouth. “Listen," he said. "I hate ta be the one to break this to ya, but you ain’t no spring chicken. No man’s gonna pay to see you bare your all. Know what I mean?”

         I sat up straighter. Had he been Frank he would have seen my chin lock into argument position. “Are you saying you won’t hire me because of my age? I believe there are laws about that.”

         “Oh, God,” the man said. Then he cursed a string of profanity that I won’t repeat. “Spare me,” he said, as he used the back of his hand to wipe his brow.

         The man's nostrils flared as he glared at me. Then he took a moment to survey my body -- like I was a horse he was thinking of buying. I wasn't about to be quelled by anything so simplistic, though. Teachers have seen it all.

         “All right," he said with a huge sigh and a shake of his head. "Get up there and show me what ya got.”

         I’d won, but it was like that first time I’d had to stand before a class of thirty-five sixth graders -- their faces cocked with ready jeers. My knees trembled, my throat felt dry as parched bone. I stood up on limbs that quivered.

         “Can’t I watch someone first?” I asked, amazed that my voice still carried as sure and even as if I were just having a normal day in the classroom.

         Boss man's smile turned evil. I could see he was gloating over my discomfort.

         I reached into my purse, pulled out the feather and my daughter’s mask. Then I walked up onto the stage. I didn’t have any music. The bartender turned on a tape. The song was one I’d heard my daughter play years ago. She and I had danced to it, giggling like two teenagers.

         Several men were sitting at tables, drinking beer. I ignored the surprise on their faces, as I climbed the ramp to the stage. Once there, I tuned out their presence and concentrated on the music. The mask was still in my hand. I slipped it over my face, tied it on, then began to move to the rhythm of the song, letting it control my body. Perhaps I looked like a 56 year-old woman trying to emulate a twenty-year-old, but I didn’t feel like it at that moment. I felt young and limber. I shimmied my red silk slip to reveal my shapely legs and thighs. Sliding my hands up and down the sides of my dress, I petted my body, enjoying the feel, the warmth, the firm muscling of my core.

          No one had yet called out for me to leave. In fact, other than the tune play, I heard no other sounds. All eyes watched. At least, I had their full attention.

         The music was heady. My body felt primed and ready for the rhythm that was already sinking down inside me. I was in the groove of it, as my dance instructor used to put it.

          Even so, I remained conscious of where I was, and that five seated men, one bartender, and a very rude boss man were all looking at me. I liked that, enjoyed the thrill of their attention. But I wanted more. I wanted their eyes to pop out. I wanted them . . . to desire me.

         I slipped out the top button of my slinky black dress, gaped open the neckline. Then, teasingly, I turned my back and wiggled my hips. Still inside the rhythm of the dance, I unfastened my mask, peeked back over my shoulder, winked at them.

          To see the men's eyes, half glazed and fiery with yearning, was a spark that lit my body even further. I belly-danced a shimmy, used my arms to welcome their devotion to the curling, coiling grace of the female body.

          And all the while, I reveled in the sensations flooding me as I smiled at each man, met their gazes, invited that part of them -- the deep masculine center of them -- to share in my joy.

          I dipped the mask invitingly, then used it to cover up the places a man most wanted to see, taunting, teasing, tormenting each of them into yearning groans.

         “Oooh momma,” someone called out.

         I turned and gave the vocalist a look, the same look that had once turned Frank into a raging, sex-starved bull. It worked just as well for the aging suit. He stood up and tossed a twenty in my direction.

         “Is that all you want?” I cooed, and stepped closer. The buttons on my black dress were slowly coming loose beneath my fingers. The man leaned forward, drawn -- as if my fingers were the wand of his capture.

          The distance between us was too great. I picked up the bill, then, without losing a beat, glided over to the ramp that separated us. Two steps down, one step of retreat, I playfully progressed into their midst.

          The song had come to an end. Another one began. I didn't know the new tune, but my body reacted to the change. A new wildness slipped inside me. My body took on its rhythm, melded to it, possessed it.

         Drawing nearer to the men, I continued to undulate in the sensuous bob and weave of the dance. Yet my fingers had not stopped their work with the buttons. I smiled boldly as I noticed that the men couldn’t take their eyes from the red brassiere that peeked through the gap of my dress' neckline. I chuckled deeply, let the sexual nature of my giggle carry me closer, among them.

          The man who'd called out was still standing, fixated, frozen to the spot where he'd tossed the twenty. I stepped toward him, feathered his face. His hands moved out to envelope me, but I stepped away, back towards the others.

         I was swimming with power. The feeling was like a frenzy inside me. I needed the interest of these men, wanted their eyes on my body, their tongues drooling with lust. I continued to dance in and out, among them, beside them, still rocking my body in time with the beat, moving in waves of gyrations as I savored the energy of the moment and the feel and strength of its potency.

         One young man moaned. His pants were filled with the evidence of his desire. I stroked its prominence with my feather.

         “Sit on me,” he begged.

         I laughed gently and moved beyond his outstretched hands. There were others to conquer, other desires to ignite. My body needed no directions. With the men’s eyes on me, I no longer controlled its writhing, caught up in the dance every woman is born to share.

         Another song ended, another began. I didn't care. My skin was moist with perspiration, my limbs were beginning to fatigue, but I felt no urge to stop. I wanted to keep on and on.

          My bra now bulged with twenties,and the aging suit was once again attempting to corral me with his need. I let him pull me into his lap, then rotated gently on his hard one. He kissed my neck, let out a gasp and a huge sigh.

          It was Boss man who stopped the music. He disengaged the man's arms wrapped about me, then walked me into his office for a stern lecture about how to "handle" the patrons.

~~~~

         Boss man hired me, of course. They called me the Dancing Teacher. Quite a name I built for myself, correcting grammar and giving school marm looks whenever the language declined into coarseness.

         Last year I bought the Hot Girl's Club. It's a classier place now with pale blue carpet, and well-framed copies of Renoir on the walls. Our sets on the stage often use classical music, and modern dance numbers rotate with gyrations. The clientelle is stronger than ever, although suits and ties are now required.

         The aging beer guzzler I met that first night became my truest fan. He followed me home one day and moved in by the end of that year. I dance solo for him now with my feather, stroking his chest, his thighs, and the pulsing lance in between. My favorite red silk panties slide across his face -- teasingly suggestive of what it had formerly covered. Like Frank used to be, Charles is a raging bull when he sees that look in my eye, the sight of silk and the luminous green peacock feather. And our nights are everything I dreamed of.

         But still I dance in the Hot Girls Club, and I’ve never once heard of any teacher's retirement being quite as sweet as mine.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Note: Not a true story . . .
© Copyright 2003 Shaara (shaara at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/642172-Hot-Girls-Club