Long Shot (7 page)

Being tangled up with Meredith is like the Royals winning the World Series. Nothing can beat it.

Her breath quickens and I can feel her pussy tightening around my tongue. I gently bite down on her clit and then flip her over as she gasps, so she’s facing me, absolute ecstasy etched into her beautiful face.

“Are you going to tease me again?” she cries. “I can’t guarantee I won’t kill you.”

That’s my girl.

My voice is thick as I look at her, drink her in. My thumb moves in slow circles across her clit. “I want you to feel as amazing as you deserve to. And holding back to make it perfect and mind-blowing…you’ll forgive me.”

I settle on my knees in front of her and pull her legs up across my shoulders. Thumb still on that hot button, I align her hips towards me and slowly press myself into her. Her eyes close and she bites her lip and my dick throbs at the sight. I thrust in time to the movements of my thumb, rolling my hips between each fluid motion. I lift her up and down, move fast and slow, but never take my thumb off her clit.

But my girl is hungry for me, hungry for my cock, and she pushes herself against me, hard. It momentarily steals my breath. I love it when a girl tries to dominate. I love it when she demands more. I don’t want a wilting flower, and that’s why I crave Meredith so much. She’s a fighter with a magic pussy.

“What do you want?” I tease by slowing down, not letting her thrust as hard as she wants. “What do you want me to do?”

“Harder,” she begs. “Faster. More.”

“Are you sure?” I slam my cock into her and she cries out. I back up and do it again. This time, she clenches against me, opens her eyes, and stares at me with a ferocity.

“I’m going to come all over your cock. Fuck me hard.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I can barely keep my legs steady, because that was hot.

But I obey my lady. I grab her hips with both hands and ram myself into her as hard as I can. She rubs her own clit and I nearly lose it. I can’t come until she does, though. Those are the rules.

I don’t have to wait long. Moments later, her whole body clenches and I let myself go with her. This whole huge empty house soon fills with our screams.

Best. Day. Ever.

P
ulling
up to the strip club doesn’t get any easier. Funny how it was so easy weeks ago when there was no stripper boyfriend to make my legs quiver, and no fledgling penis photography business, and everything was just fun and dicks and lots of Jameson. Oh, how the mighty fall.

And by mighty, I mean the unemployed and homeless. My life is a never-ending carousel of horrors right now. At least Rob is pretty great. Sex with Rob is even better.

Not that I’d ever tell him. I’m not even really sure how I got swept up in this. This doesn’t happen to normal, nice girls. They don’t go on accidental dates with a stripper and then accidentally start dating. Normal, nice girls don’t take photos of a wannabe pornstar’s dick. Normal, nice girls don’t pull up to the same strip club like they’ve got a Frequent Membership card.

Nice girls knit scarfs and hats and sweaters for their boyfriend’s neck and head and chest.

Don’t even get me started on the shit Jane has said over the last few weeks. She’s almost
gleeful
this happened. The dick jokes she and Bobby come up with are bountiful and horrible and—okay—really funny, but I can’t ever tell them that because this is my life they are joking about. Jane isn’t married to a stripper. Bobby is an investment banker or some other boring job that brings in a lot of money and keeps him at the office all day.

He and Jane have office sex. That’s classy. That’s adult-like. Instead, I’m just banging a stripper like a heathen. A stripper that’s woefully good in bed.

I grab the manila folder from my passenger seat and take a deep breath before going in. I wanted to meet at that café he took me to with the amazing croissants, but he had work and I didn’t want to wait to show them to him.

Mostly because—and this is embarrassing—I’m totally proud of how these turned out. Okay, yes, they are shots of a dick dressed up in a knitted sweater and scarf, but I made it look so
classy
. Like, this is a testament to my skills. If I didn’t want my career to be dictated (see what I did there) by penises, I’d submit these to all the major social media news sites. My name would spread like wildfire.

Also, my name would be attached to penis photography. I don’t think Annie Leibovitz would approve. Or my mom.

I sneak in behind a group of girls dressed for a night out. It’s just after dinner, which means the club is going to be full of people, or more so than when I dropped off Peter’s pictures. It’s less sad going at night than during the day, so, I’ve got that going for me.

The bouncer, whose name I don’t know, gives me a warm smile and waives my entry fee. “He’s waiting for you backstage. Know how to get back there?”

I freeze for a moment. “Who is?”

“Rob. Know how to get backstage?”

Oh dear god. This bouncer knows me. This man, employed by the strip club, whom I don’t know, knows who I am. Well. That’s…horrible.

“I imagine it’s near the back?” I don’t mean to sound like a smartass, but this huge dude I don’t know has totally thrown me off my game. I clutch the folder a little tighter and glance over my shoulder, hoping there’s no one around to witness this supreme humiliation. Nice, normal girls don’t get recognized by strip club bouncers.

To Big Guy’s credit, he doesn’t take offense. He just smiles big and looks like he wants to give me a hug. “Go all the way to the back. Stage door is behind the bar.”

“Thanks.” I smile awkwardly, because what else can one do, and I slip inside.

I haven’t missed this place. Lights strobe, some shitty pop song plays, and some dude gyrates on stage with what must certainly be a sock stuffed in his g-string. I squint, wondering if it’s Peter, but at that exact moment he dives down to the floor and buries his head in a girl’s tits. Everyone screams and claps and I’m taken back to that night with my sister when we threw bills all over the place and bought lap dances and ranked all the guys based on dick length and girth.

Back when things were less complicated, more fun. Ah, those blessed Jameson colored glasses.

It
is
Peter. No sock, then. He pops up, winks at the crowd surrounding his part of the stage, and goes back to dancing. I accidentally watch his entire set, smiling the whole time, even cheering. What is this life? Who the hell am I?

I’m just a girl, standing in front of a handbasket, waiting for my ride to hell.

At least it wasn’t Rob. I don’t think I could stomach watching him be a stripper right now. I can pretend he’s just a late-blooming journalism student who bartends. I’ve met some sexy bartenders in my day, and he
did
make me several drinks.

Peter finishes his set by doing a backflip, very impressive, and winks again at the crowd before disappearing backstage. Up next is some guy named Bam Bam, so I take that as my cue to get the hell out of here before I accidentally enjoying watching another set.

The backstage entrance is inconspicuous, a simple black door with an Employees Only sign, but stepping through it is like stepping into a totally different world, one that smells vaguely of gym socks. Strippers or no, dudes are still perpetually gross, I guess. Mirrors line the entire room and sparse clothing racks full of g-strings and sparkly vests and a variety of hats litter the floor. In the middle of the room sits a couch, a loveseat, and a coffee table packed with old Playboys, presumably from when they still did nudes. Half-naked guys—and, surprisingly, a few girls—are scattered around the wall of mirrors, the couches, and in corners, posing.

It is a total den of filth up in here. A sparkly den of filth.

“Hey!” Rob jogs across the room and scoops me up to kiss me. I let him, because I have a problem, and because I want to, and because I’m a hot mess. “Here to watch me do my thang?”

I ignore the fact that my boyfriend uses the word “thang”.

“The bouncer knows who I am?”

“Oh!” Rob is practically beaming at me. “That’s Bruce. I was telling him all about you today on break. You’d like him a lot, good guy.”

“Oh.” It’s now that I realize he’s practically naked. He sets me down and I size up his getup. Assless chaps, a leather vest, and a heart-printed g-string. I stifle a laugh. “Do you know you look like an asshole?”

“Yep.” Rob shakes his hips at me. “I hope you’ll stay for the show. I’m going to dedicate it to you.”

“Legions of girls out there were be cataclysmically disappointed.”

“Nah. They’ll think it’s sweet.” Rob kisses my nose. “To what do I owe the honor of your presence in our den of iniquity?”

Sounds about right. I hold up the manila folder. “Pictures are ready.”

A guy on the couch, whose girlfriend was all but giving him a blowjob, perks up. “Did you say pictures? Like the ones for Peter? Wait, is this your photographer girlfriend, Rob?”

Rob throws an arm around me protectively and squeezes, but his voice is proud and light. “It is! Everyone, this is Meredith. Mere, this is everyone.”

“Um, hi, everyone.” I wave, again, awkwardly.

“Photographer girlfriend!” the girl closest to me squeals and jumps up. “That’s so exciting! We all loved Peter’s shots!”

I haven’t photographed any of the guys in the room. “You’ve all looked at those?”

“We pinned a couple on the board,” Rob helpfully informs me. I glance around the room. Yep, right over there by the door. A corkboard with business cards, flyers, calendars…and Peter Rodman’s peen. Strippers are filthy animals.

Embarrassment colors my cheeks. What I was so proud of now feels lame. It’s just a dick dressed in a sweater. No matter the composition of the photo, it’s something ridiculous and probably private and I shouldn’t have brought it here. I feel like a trespasser as it is.

“Oh, these aren’t anything special…”

“Guys, it was so cool.” Rob talks over me, squeezing me tighter and plucking the folder from my hands. “She made my dick an outfit. A wangdrobe! It looked like a sea captain and it was fucking amazing.”

“Share!” Someone calls out. “I cannot die without seeing a dressy dick!”

“No—” I try to stop them, but Rob has already unsheathed the photos and all I can do is hide behind my hands and brace myself for the inevitable laughter that will follow. I hold my breath and wait. And wait. And wait.

“Oh my god, that’s amazing,” the girl gasps. “Look at your…your member!”

“Right?!” Rob is practically beaming, I can hear it in his voice. “Look how goddamn sexy I look in this one.”

“God, your abs are amazing.” This from a guy. “Can your girl make me look like that?”

The room erupts into weird compliments and squeals and high-fives as they flip through the photos, while I watch still behind my fingers.

They don’t hate them. Better yet, they love them. All these gushing, crazy compliments about my work…and my work is a freaking penis wrapped in yarn. Maybe there is something to this whole dick photography business.

I mean, okay, the
strippers
like it. But they pay well. Like, really well.

“Could you do one of these for my boyfriend?” The girl holds up my favorite shot of the whole bunch. Rob’s torso has a soft focus and his wrapped sea captain is at center stage, looking like he’s about to jump aboard a ship and take off. “Dress him up and all that? Do you sell the rights? This would be a huge hit on my Instagram account!”

“I would frame one of these on my wall.” Another stripper holds up another picture, where Rob posed like Captain Morgan. “Like, seriously.”

“Did you make this?” Stripper Number Two asks. “The outfit—“

“Weendrobe.” Rob corrects him. SNT laughs.

“Yeah, okay. Did you make the cockfit?”

I blush and feel hot. “Um, yeah.”

“You’re
amazing
,” he gushes. “How much to make an outfit for me? Can you make a pirate?”

“Fuck pirates.” Another man stands tall and looks exceptionally regal. “Can you make my dick look like King Henry the Eighth?”

Someone else scoffs. “I wanna look like Prince.”

“Oh dear god, could we have a set of Dick-tators?” Girlfriend Number One looks wide-eyed and thrilled. “Saddam, Osama, Fidel, Hitler?”

“A calendar!” Ricky calls from the couch. I’ve either just made a million dollars, or ruined my life..

Rob laughs quietly in my ear. “Get it, girl.”

“Of-of course.” Am I still blushing? I probably haven’t stopped since I walked in here. “Anyway. I’m not much of a costume designer, but I’m sure I can put something together if you
really
want…”

“Are you kidding?” Girlfriend laughs. “These are the greatest things I’ve ever seen.”

Oh no, I’m a stripper’s girlfriend too. Dear god. I’m part of their fucked up and weirdly exclusive club. I can never make eye contact with my mother again. “Uh, yeah…I guess.”

Maybe I should pretend to her that I’m doing private photography for a rich family, who made me sign a non-disclosure agreement. Maybe I should make the strippers sign one. Maybe I can make some money and no one will ever know where it came from. Maybe I can fake that lottery win?

“No, check it out,” Peter’s backstage now. “We can do themed shoots and make a full calender. Sell those bitches in the gift shop.”

I stare at Rob. “There’s a gift shop?”

He shrugs. “Kinda? It’s a corner of the bar. Hey, that’s not a bad idea, though. What do you think, Mere?”

“I mean.” I flush again. I want to say no, but my eyeballs have basically just turned into cartoon dollar signs, and let’s face it, my morals have always been a little shaky. “I’ll do just about anything if the price is right.”

“Oh hell yeah.” Rob high-fives me. “You’re gonna be the official Meow Club Peen Queen.”

“I wish you were dead.”

This makes everyone laugh, weirdly.

Rob scoops me in for another big hug and I try to pretend he doesn’t smell like Axe and body glitter. “You’re the absolute best, babe. These look amazing. Absolutely amazing. I don’t know what I did to get so lucky to have such a talented girl as you, but I’m glad I did it.”

“Even if I’m a dick photographer?”

“Especially because you’re a dick photographer.” He kisses me and gives me a sultry look. “I’m up next. Wanna help fluff me?”

Surprisingly, I consider it. “Nah. That glitter might get in my contact.”

“Fair enough,” Rob says. “Come over tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t think I can.” I gather up the photos and tuck them back into the manila folder. “I need to get back to photo editing.”

“Come over tonight?” he asks again.

“No…no.” I’m trying to be strong but he’s so cute and that big grin is eating at me and maybe he’s eat at something else later.

“Coming over tonight?” Third time’s the charm, what can I say.

“Okay.” I can’t help but grin. He knows me.

I slip out of the club as Rob gets announced. I briefly consider watching, but I just don’t think I can—he’s an unbelievably sweet boyfriend and so encouraging about my burgeoning business. He’s amazing in bed, looks so good in a suit, and knows how to make me feel good. But he’s a stripper. Is it possible to disassociate the two?

At home, Bobby eats ice cream out of the carton while Jane and David watch cartoons in the living room. I grab a spoon from the drawer and join him. “Not in the mood for cartoons?”

“I don’t want David to know I’m eating this. Shh.” Bobby winks at me. “So. There’s been a lot of guys parading through here lately, eh?”

Kill me. Kill me kill me kill me.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say a lot. Just, you know, the usual clientele. I’m a photographer, Bobby. That’s all.”

“I’ve heard. Just remember your nephew lives here, too.” He gives me a knowing look, puts the ice cream back, and disappears into the living room.

What does he know?

What does everyone know?

What has Rob told them?

I think my time is running out.

I disappear into my room to finish editing the latest set of photos from one of the guys at the club. Work runs late. I’m finally about to crash when my phone goes off. I want to ignore it, but I do also have my resume floating around…and it might be Rob. I did basically agree to come over.

An email, with the subject DICK PICS OF AWESOME, is in my inbox. This…does not look promising. Or does?