Once my belt is free from the loops, I toss it down, pop the button on my jeans and lower my zipper.
“I could go to the bank and get cash from an ATM, if you prefer…”
I don’t get a chance to answer her before the rest of the women return with wads of money in their hands. They circle me like vultures, so I do what I guess any stripper would do in this situation — I toe off my boots and take off my pants.
Charlotte
Holy…wow. Never in my life have I ever seen a body so hot as the one before me now. And never before has my body had such an automatic reaction to the male form. It’s possible that the alcohol in my system is magnifying the fact that the stripper is over six feet of amazing. He’s not the best dancer, only occasionally moving his hips as the other girls take turns tucking dollar bills into his very tight and tiny boxer briefs, but my girls don’t seem to mind. I envy them; how carefree they are with the man in front of them. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be doing the same thing. Tessa doesn’t seem to feel any guilt at all about touching another man’s body so intimately when she’s about to marry Paul. Meanwhile, I haven’t been on even a single date since I lost Adam. I haven’t touched a man or looked at a man the same way since. It’s not that I would feel guilty about it. It’s just I don’t think I’m ready to move on. Dating nowadays seems so superficial. I want to be with someone I can talk to, who knows me like Adam did. He was my soulmate; and while I know he wasn’t perfect, I don’t think I could ever find someone like him a second time.
Which is why I haven’t tried. Instead, I’ve kept myself busy with work for the past five years, helping plan other people’s financial futures since I can no longer imagine retiring with Adam in forty years…
“Here, girl, you look like you could use another drink,” Bev says when she thrusts a strawberry daiquiri with a penis straw in my face.
“Thanks,” I tell her as I take the drink and sip it.
“You need to get over there and feel that man’s abs,” she whispers. “If I hadn’t touched them with my own fingers, I would’ve sworn they were painted on.”
“No, thanks. I’m good here, watching you four make fools of yourself.”
“Suit yourself. More hot man for us,” she laughs as she strolls back over to the fray. The guy now has Tessa sitting in one of the dining room chairs so he can shake his ass for her. I catch a brief glimpse of his ass crack when she peels the waistband back to stuff more bills into it. When he turns around, she yanks on the front waistband and then looks down into his shorts.
“Yowzah!” she exclaims when she lets go and looks up at us wide-eyed. “He’s a big one.”
“Tessa!” I exclaim. “He’s not a piece of meat! How would you feel if he tugged your shirt down to look at your boobs without asking?”
“Do you wanna look at my boobs?” she questions the man, who grins devilishly.
“I’m good, but thanks,” he tells her.
“Charlotte needs to get laid,” Tessa announces. “How much would that sort of thing cost?”
“He’s not a whore!” I remind her. She’s so drunk she’s mixing up strippers with prostitutes. “And I’m not going to pay a man to sleep with me!”
“Suit yourself,” she replies.
For the last few months, ever since Tessa got engaged, she’s been trying to set me up with anyone and everyone – waiters, the personal trainer at our gym, a guy who was at the park walking his dog. I get it, she doesn’t want me to be lonely now that she’s found the love of her life. But I’m doing just fine on my own.
I watch intently as Sydney runs her tongue over the stripper’s nipple, and I feel a sting of…jealousy. I wish I could let go of emotion and finally just sleep with another man. Adam was my first, though, so getting naked with anyone else just seems strange. Awkward. I’m not ready to put myself out there like that, even though I occasionally find myself hornier than hell. Like right now.
Chapter Three
Roman
After I’ve been groped and licked by multiple women while mostly naked for what felt like hours, when in reality it was probably only about thirty minutes, I turn the music off for Ernie’s benefit next door and tell the women, “It’s been a pleasure. Take care, ladies, and congrats again on the wedding.”
“Thank you!” they all call out.
I search for Charlotte, the gorgeous blonde, as I pull my jeans back on to get one last look at her up close before I leave, but she’s not in the living room or holding up the wall near the door.
After slipping on my shoes, I grab my t-shirt from the floor and my cut from the back of the chair to head into the kitchen to see if she’s there.
I find her standing in front of the sink, splashing water on her face.
“I’m all finished,” I say, startling her based on the way her shoulders tense.
“Oh. Okay,” she replies when she grabs for a paper towel from the roll to blot her face dry before turning to face me. “Th-thanks for coming, even though you got the days mixed up.”
“My bad,” I tell her as I waste time to drink her in. From head to toe, the woman is a flawless work of art, otherworldly in her beauty, like the rare Helen of Troy, launching a thousand ships kind. With her ivory face rosy and flushed from alcohol
