As we drive along the mighty Columbia past a small pink shack called Hot Cups, she turns to face me with a twinkle in her green eyes. “Have you ever been to one of those bikini barista coffee carts?”
“No, I never have. I love peeking at boobs, but the transactional nature of paying to look makes me feel like a weird pervert.”
“Last year, I applied at one, and they never even got back to me.”
“Now that is their loss,” I laugh, glancing at her full yet firm 32E’s. “How stupid can they get?”
“Well, I was 37 years old,” she smiles. “They probably want only young girls.”
“Believe me, if you leaned out and handed me an eggnog latte, I would not be disappointed.”
—
“So,” I venture after a moment’s silence, “Have you ever done anything similar?”
“Oh, once in Vancouver, I had a gig as a live mannequin in the window of a lingerie shop.”
“Wearing…”
“It was December, so I was dressed like a slutty elf. Stocking cap, pointy ears, a green bra and panties set, some kind of little elf boots.”
“Mmm, with your red hair, that must have been quite a sight. Licking an oversized candy cane, I presume?”
“Something like that,” she laughs. “I was also working at a cafe. One of my co-workers walked by and did a double-take after seeing me in the window. All I could do was smile and wave.”
My cock twitches inside my pants.
—
“So,” I chuckle quietly as I turn off Marine Drive. “Any other costumes you’ve worn?”
“Let’s see…” Her crimson lips twist as she casts her eyes upwards, running through a mental checklist. “I did sexy housecleaning for a while.”
“Yeah?” I needle her. “That doesn’t sound like you—I’ve seen your apartment.”
“Oh, ha ha. You don’t really have to clean, just wash a few dishes, dust some shelves, wiggle your ass.”
“In a French maid’s uniform? I can picture it now.”
“Yeah, you probably think so,” she teases, “but it was actually topless.”
My cock hardens.
—
“Okay, what else have you done?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.
“I’ve told you about the time I did burlesque, haven’t I?”
“Yeah, you mentioned it once, but you didn’t give me the full story.”
“I did a naughty magician routine. Escaped from handcuffs.”
“That must have disappointed the audience.”
“Pulled a rabbit out of my corset, that sort of thing. The fantastic feats of Cherry Houdini.”
“Didn’t you say there was a recording of it somewhere?” I inquire as casually as I can manage.
“Yeah, somebody made a video, but I lost touch with them. I asked around once a few years ago, but nobody could track it down. Lost to history, I guess.”
My cock starts leaking.
—
This time, she picks up the conversation.
“You go to burlesque shows, don’t you?”
“I’ve been to my fair share.”
“Do you ever go to strip clubs? Portland is the capital of strip clubs, after all.”
“You know, I’ve been to a strip club only once in my life.”
“What? Have you been living under a rock?”
“I was living in Seattle at the time, actually. My friend Greg talked me into it. I had something like twenty bucks in my pocket.”
“Well, that isn’t going to get you very far.”
“Yeah, I didn’t realize how the game is played. We sat along the wall and watched drunk meatheads throwing crumpled-up dollar bills, using the girls for target practice. Then the other strippers would drift by and try to talk to us.”
“That’s where they really make their money, doing private dances.”
Something finally tickles my brain.
“Uh,” I begin tentatively, “you seem to know a lot about it.”
Sighing wistfully, she finally confesses. “Yeah, I tried stripping one night when I was living in Calgary. I had a friend who stripped, and she convinced me to try it.”
“That’s… awesome.”
“I called myself Ginger Snap and danced to a New Order song. But I pretty quickly decided it wasn’t for me. Getting up close and trying to hustle more money? No thanks.”
“But you were up on stage, letting all those horny guys see your tits? That’s pretty cool.”
“Well,” she says softly. “In Canada, they don’t keep on the G-string like they do in the U.S.”
My cock lurches in delicious agony.
—
“So, you must be out of stories now,” I suggest as we approach the Fremont Bridge spanning the Willamette.
“It wasn’t really a costume,” she says quietly, looking out the window at the west hills, “But there was this one other time…”
“Uh huh?”
“I was at a sex club in Montreal called The Deep End. There was a guy there who was tying people up…”
“Uh huh?”
“And I let him tie me up, and I realized I kinda like it.”
“And then?”
“And then he untied me, and we had sex in the middle of the room, with people walking by saying how good we looked together.”
I’m speechless, but my throbbing, twitching, dripping erection says it all.
—
Upstairs in her apartment, she reminds me of our boundaries. “Look, I know you loved my stories, but we aren’t hooking up tonight.”
“I know, I know.”
“Want to make us some spiked eggnog? I’ll get changed and then we can watch The Grinch.”
“Sounds good. What should I spike it with?” I ask as I head for the kitchen.
“Oh, anything,” she says breezily. “Surprise me,” she winks, closing the bedroom door.
Finding the cocktail shaker, I pour in two ounces of rum and eight ounces of eggnog before whipping out my raging hard-on and, within less than a minute, adding the full contents of my aching balls to the mix.
A moment later, she emerges from the bedroom wearing a plaid flannel robe and fuzzy slippers.
“Here’s your eggnog, babe. I made it with love.”
“I’ll bet you did,” she smiles as we clink glasses. “Mmm, that’s good!”
