A Match Made in Vegas Read Online Crystal Kaswell

Categories Genre: Alpha Male Tags Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement1

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The dancer sharing the stage is her opposite. A slim woman with small breasts in all black. A leather bodysuit, thigh-high fishnets, stiletto boots. A cropped bob, black lipstick, thick eye makeup. The picture of a Domme. She even has a whip in her hand.

On the other stage, a woman in all red and a woman in blue harem pants dance their respective poles. The first is a short, athletic Black woman. The other is a curvy Asian woman. They seem to move together, doing matching inversions.

"Fuck. That's amazing." Daphne's jaw drops as the woman in red cops an upside-down pose, back arched, legs spread, tight curls falling toward the plastic. "How does she do that?"

"Practice," I say. That's the way anyone does anything.

The place is more crowded than clubs are on cop shows, but it's not rowdy. The guys sitting upfront toss bills onto the stage with little passion. The men in back share the same mellow vibe.

There are a few female customers, all half a couple, with a boyfriend probably.

That's how people see us. An open-minded woman with her lucky boyfriend.

A cocktail waitress in bridal lingerie stops in front of us. "We match." She smiles at Daphne.

Daphne struggles not to stare at her huge fake breasts. They're barely hidden by her white and blue baby doll.

"Sit wherever you like," the waitress says.

"My friend wants a lap dance." Daphne's eyes stay on the woman's breasts.

"Your friend, huh?" The waitress smiles. "Just your friend or the two of you?" Her voice drops to an even flirtier tone. A put-on, of course, but who can fault her in this particular venue?

"The two of us," I say.

"What a fun bachelor-bachelorette." She smiles. "Do you have a dancer in mind?"

"You're not…" Daphne stares at her.

"Sorry, honey, no, not tonight. Long story." She shrugs, apologetic. "Take a look. Find someone you like. The stage changes every three songs." She puts a hand over her mouth and stage whispers, "Mercy is my personal favorite. But I do love Aphrodite too."

Mercy must be the woman in bondage. But which dancer is claiming the name of the Greek goddess of love?

The waitress doesn't point it out. She jumps straight to her job. "A drink while you wait?"

Daphne nods. "A Moscow mule, please."

That sounds reasonable. "Two."

The waitress struts to the bar.

"How does her top stay on?" Daphne looks around the room with wide-eyed wonder. "There's so much here… why do men come here as a social bond? The appeal of a naked woman is obvious. The appeal of a naked woman in your lap too. But the rest… you're a man."

It's not a good idea to continue this line of conversation, but I say, "I am," anyway.

She laughs at her own questions. "Sorry. I know you're a man. It's not up for debate. I just…"

She's fascinated.

She can't help it.

That's Daphne. She wants to know everything about everything, especially about sex.

We're here as friends to have a good time together. And I'm still on a mission to get her laid.

I need to help her relax. No, she is relaxed. I need to help her with something else, with teasing out her questions and finding her own answers.

What does she like? How? Who? Where? When?

I want to know, yes, but she needs to know.

"Is this your first time at a"—I struggle for a euphemism— "erotic show?"

"An erotic show? No. I've been to burlesque before. But this is my first strip club." Of course, she calls it what it is.

And I think of myself as direct and open.

Daphne pulls her eyes from the stage to look at me. She studies my expression with the same level of interest and curiosity. "You've done this before?"

"A few times," I tell her the truth. I try to stay as open as she is, but it's hard. She's more open than most people. At least she is with me.

Curiosity fills her eyes. "By choice?"

That depends on how you define choice. Most people have a flexible definition. They see intent in others' actions but not their own.

I didn't suggest the strip club. I didn't want to visit the strip club. The first time, I had enough curiosity, that I didn't resist the idea. I thought why not and why are we going to watch naked women together to celebrate someone's birthday?

The other times, I didn't want to go, but I did anyway. I still chose to attend. I could have opted out. It's not as if I would have ruined my reputation as a party animal.

Why did I go though?

I wasn't trying to prove anything. I wasn't excited about the idea. I wasn't horrified by it either.

I was doing what I always do at work. Trying to make the smartest move, to do what others expected of me.

"It wasn't my preference," I say. "But I could have left." I didn't. I choose to stay. But then, who am I arguing with?


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