Joleen the stripper is swaying back and forth to an old Metallica song, pinching her soft nipples in an effort to get aroused

and lackadaisically swinging around a big shiny brass pole in the center of a half-circle stage when she sees me and a silent gasp sneaks out between her fat, collagen-injected lips.

As she approaches, I try to stay cool, to just stare at those massive silicone tits like everybody else, but I can’t help it. I look her in the face and smile.

Joleen’s eyes roll into the back of her head as her mouth turns into an O and she shows me her throat, the sweat running over erect veins. Her long hair is flying against her back, rushing like a waterfall down it as her small hands reach out and grab the back of my head. She pulls me in close to her tits, until the tip of my nose is in between them, my eyes only a lash away from each of her now-hard nipples.

She’s breathing in convulsions, her flat stomach moving in and out, her perfect fat ass gyrating behind her. I can hear her panting, her desperate gasps. She pulls me away from her breasts just long enough to look me in the eye and show me her ferocious yearning. She’s baring her teeth, almost snarling, and her eyes are locking on mine without the slightest hesitation. Our irises are perfectly aligned, an invisible laser connecting us.

She wants me. I look at those emerald eyes and then past them, through them. I catch the guilty look of lust and passion, of desire and addiction. She wants to be my toy, to be ridden and slapped, slammed and beaten, to resist against my embrace and then submit to it, to be engulfed, the jigsaw piece that fits every curve and contour of my body. To click perfectly into place and remain there, complete and warm, cured and yet persistently sick with sexual need.

This kind of thing happens all too often. I’m blessed with beauty, practiced in seduction. It only takes my raised eyebrow to melt a heart like ice on a grill; my smile is a nuclear weapon. I should turn it off, spare this poor girl, but I can’t deny an attraction. Joleen is beautiful and fierce. I can imagine the two of us together. I can picture kissing beads of sweat off her curvy ass.

She reads my mind and turns around, bending forward and showing me her butt and its cleavage. She wiggles it and it ripples to the beat of the song. Then she leans down further and spreads her legs. I lean in close and feel the heat of her cunt, moist with desire. She’s still looking at me, only now it’s from the space between her legs, and she’s silently mouthing some nasty obscenity about wet hard body parts pounding against each other before exploding in heat and cream. She tips backwards towards me, her pillow ass the fulcrum on the stage as her body splays out and the back of her head lands hard against my right shoulder. Neither of us feels the pain. We expect it to be rough. And as our faces meet only inches from a perfect kiss, I smell her kiwi and strawberry blonde hair. And then she breathes old cigarettes into my face. I inhale deeply.

She can’t take her eyes off me. A tongue sneaks out from between her lips and slowly, deliberately, wriggles at me. I watch her eyes wander across my face and body and I blush a little. She isn’t just undressing me in her mind; she’s already fucking me.

I feel Joleen’s desperation and just for the slightest moment, my sexual feelings turn cold at thoughts of her degrading herself to a club full of dirty losers and smelly freaks and long-haired weirdos. Men without a job, without a family, without a purpose besides some silly fantasy on a Tuesday night. It’s just another random hard-on for them, a brief respite from the ache of living, a distraction from all their failures. She shouldn’t have to deal with this shit.

Jolene’s insistent breathing in my ear rescues me from my disgust. Her eyes are searching mine again, and just for a minute, I think she’s about to lean in even closer for a kiss. I tell myself I couldn’t let her do that, that I’d have to pull away, even though I probably wouldn’t have the strength to resist. But I needn’t worry. She has more self-control than me and catches herself before submitting to her lust. She pulls back slightly and examines my face. I examine hers. I love the shape of her half-moon ears, her perfect straight nose, her parted lips and cat eyes. She’s in love with the tiny craters in my cheeks, the cute little hairs hanging from my nostrils, and the mustard tint of my teeth. She’s biting her lip and I can tell what she’s thinking. Those big puffy bags of flesh underneath my eyes are reminding her of a set of perfectly formed testicles.

She takes a hand as she’s laying there against me and runs her ringed fingers, all pointy and thin and shiny, through the sparse patches of gray hair on the top of my mostly bald head. My breath catches in my throat and I’m so paralyzed that even my foot-and-a-half-long beard goes stiff. My skin is hot now and I’m sweating in all my little pockets of jiggly arm flesh and sagging pouches of stomach meat. And Jolene is rubbing her clit, just looking at me, her imagination consumed with simulations of making love to my hairy, freckled, 340-pound figure, of kissing my moles, sucking on my breasts and bouncing against my four-and-a-quarter inches of rock hard manhood.

We’re both breathing hard, our pulse a deafening beat in each other’s ears. I feel like I could cum into my purple corduroy pants right here, not even caring if the hot semen were to run down my pimpled thighs and infiltrate my dusty sandled toes. I’m sure she feels the same. Her eyes are closed now and her hand is a blur against her clit, her mouth wide open, tiny little sounds of ecstasy emanating from her deep throat. But then we both stop. I stop because I realize I’m breaking her heart. She stops because she understands.

It just wouldn’t work out. She’s a stripper and me… I’m a plumber. We’re just too different, too addicted with one another to make it work. I keep telling myself that the best loves are the unfulfilled ones. It sounds like a lie born of a cowardly fear.

Somehow, she rationalizes it in her head, too, because she gets up reluctantly, her head leaving my shoulder, her beautiful body lazily swaying away from me. She stares back once from over her shoulder, and I see just a glimpse of her pain and inner turmoil.

I want to wrap her in my meaty arms and spirit her away from here. But we both know where that would lead. So I just see her sorrowed look and raise her a broken heart.

She turns away and approaches some other guy, some skinny doofus with eyeglasses and a cheap polo shirt, and gets ready to repeat the dance all over again.

My chest tightens beneath its flabby exterior as I stand up from my seat and dig deeply into my pocket. A five dollar bill comes down hard against the stage.

‘Hell,’ I think as I saunter to the bathroom, ‘She earned it.’

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