<editorsnote> Nerds, meet my buddy Gabriel. He’s a boxing guru by day and an AH-MAZING erotic storyteller by night. For reals, put down 50 shades and let some of his naughtiness tickle your nerdy noggin. I only have one more thing left to say … HIT IT GABRIEL!! </editorsnote>
Eva wasn’t a dancer so much as an addiction waiting to happen. Jet black hair and tiny uneven pigtails framed Russian, Greek, Irish features and piercing blue eyes that invited you in just close enough to see the devil in them but no further.
Bright and aware she looked around and the look could be anything from dirty to innocent to passive. An angelic demon goddess in torn fishnets and a garter to match slinking across the floor to music I can’t even remember; her tattoos tickling her belly and the area just above her perfect breasts.
Eva wasn’t a dancer so much as every song you’d ever wanted to fuck to. Whether she was slinking at a distance or rolling across my lap, the electricity this vixen generated shot up and down my virginal legs and cock, which begged at the seams of my jeans to be let out.
Eva didn’t dance. She disappeared and re-appeared among the shadows in different tantalizing shapes every few seconds, giving you just the right silhouette. I shook my head quickly not believing what I was seeing as wave after wave of Eva crashed all around me from the stage.
Eva wasn’t a dancer so much as every wet dream you’d ever had; A mid-western knockout seeking out the big city through an acceptable trade-off only the young, hot and smart enough to avoid 9-5 jobs can.
“The job is getting to me,” she admitted as we talked railside between rounds of dances in an empty San Francisco strip club. “Most of these girls don’t even like men anymore. I want out before that happens.”
I’d first seen Eva as I entered her club in the North Beach section of SF. The night had barely begun but the manager needed a hand with his light board so he invited me in with my brother whom I was in town visiting for the night.
She sat poised and ready against the near wall, smiling faraway as I nodded a hello and noted her beauty—too unique for this tiny club and line of work.
I talked with the DJ, a friend of my brother’s and the manager about his ancient and primitive light board, seemingly no help to them except to confirm what they already knew: the thing was useless. The whole system was schoolyard basic. It was like trying to accessorize a Walkman. As I finished up, my brother began to leave and Eva began to move to the stage to begin her spell.
“Hey man,” I told my brother. “There’s no one in here and that girl’s ridiculous. I’ll meet you next door after she’s done.”
It’s a man’s job to observe beauty whenever he can. Admitting that I don’t mind sitting at the rail of a strip club if the girl is right and my wallet is full has taken me years but it’s been worth it. I don’t seek it out like I did in my youth but every once in a while, if circumstance allows and the girl onstage is unique enough to celebrate, you’ll find me there.
At first, I didn’t know what to make of her. She entered the long thrust stage with a paper towel in each hand. As she began a slow sway, she wrapped her paper hands around each of the dual poles and slid down them.
Eva wasn’t a dancer so much as whatever it is that makes a saxophone sound sexy.
For a moment, I thought I’d misjudged her and perhaps she was just a waitress who cleaned on the side while not getting naked at all. I’d never seen anyone incorporate cleaning into their act. I’d also missed the part where this was a juice bar which in California means all nude. In and of itself, being naked is an art form. Not everyone can pull it off up close much less legs spread and moving to the music.
And then she melted slowly across the stage, sliding, gliding about the floor. All alone at the rail, my legs went a little numb, my feet digging slightly into the floor at this dark vision of tattooed white skin and torn fishnets. She was heartbreakingly sexy.
Eva didn’t have breasts so much as she had the most perfect tits anyone can imagine; Round and full, tipped with rose petal nipples, heavy in your hands and much more than a handful.
I laid my money on the rail and waited my turn which was now because I was the only guy in the room. I’d have been embarrassed but I was sure no one blamed me nor was looking in my direction as she slid my way and placed my hand on her left breast briefly. It happened and it was over so fast I missed it.
Eva was a lot of things but gratuitous wasn’t one of them.
The music died and the fantasy was over for the moment.
“Thank you,” she said quickly with a hint of shy as she looked down and gathered the cash I’d dropped. It’s always an odd moment. You’ve shared something so intimate for a few dollars. Yet it’s as honest an exchange as anything I know.
I said goodbye to the DJ, nodded to the old guy manager and met up with my brother next door where he works. My money and body well spent.
Eva wasn’t a dancer so much as everything you had hoped for walking through the door.
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