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“The Peep Show”

When I feel like treating myself, I go to a peep show.

For twenty bucks I can sit in a chair and watch a gorgeous man move for me without having to call him in the morning.

My stripper today was tall and ripped, with glittering dark eyes and short brown hair. Unlike most strippers, he hadn’t waxed his chest hair and as I watched him arch against the steel pole, I imaged the feel of it on my nipples.

He’s probably gay, I thought, watching him through the glass.

Then his eyes met mine and I wasn’t so sure anymore.

His movements changed.

His G-string disappeared, revealing nine and a half inches of hard, throbbing flesh I ached to taste. My hand slid into my purse, reaching for the dildo I brought with me. As I sucked it deep into my mouth, my stripper’s hips thrust toward me, commanding. I instinctively pushed the dildo deep into my throat as he moved, as though he were the one fucking my mouth.

I moved the dildo down as he writhed against the pole, his eyes locked to mine. As I slid it over my pussy, he licked his lips as though he tasted me. As I thrust the first few inches inside, he pumped his hips, tempting me.

As I fucked myself, his hand slid to that beautiful cock, stroking himself.

I don’t know if it was watching him, or the shame of him watching me, but I came, writhing and moaning.

I calmed watching his come spurt onto the glass.

As the wall slid between us, he slipped a card into the money slot.

On it were the words: “I’m not gay.”

His name and phone number were scrawled beneath it.

I smiled, tucked the card in my bra and left.