Cowgirl Nights (Pt. 2)

We would sit, distant from the stages of the small, cramped clubs. Against a back wall. Or off to a side. Just the dying edge of the spill from the stage lights reaching us. Reds. Blues. Primary colors. For secondary purposes.

It was a crowd. In the booths. Some nights. Most, when I think of them now. Or maybe those are the nights that demand more frequent recollection. Those dark upholstered horseshoes. You. Me. And four, five, six, even eight on a few occasions. Us. And new acquaintances. Soon friends. Conspirators. For a part of the night.

You would dress for the destination. Often something of mine. A dress shirt. Or suit vest. Baggy pants. Or tight, short skirt. All with buttons. For undoing. The clothing's and yours. You would leave them open. As far as could be dared. In declaration. And invitation.

I knew what lay beneath. Breasts, small and firm. Invitations. Nipples, small and dark. Easily aroused. Ready. To do so. The curve of your small, round ass. Skin white and smooth. Your pussy, wet and lips swollen. Already aroused. Anticipation.

And the women. Would flock to our booth. You. Me. Them. A constantly morphing team whose members rotated in and out. Not in uniforms. Rather, costumes. In lieu of masks. A different shelter to obscure what really lay beneath. Or try to.

Some wore bikinis. Others, lingerie. Or on some excursions, deliciously silly (and arguably erotic) theme like commandos or schoolgirls, policewomen or prison inmates. Or that Sexy Nun Night worthy of multiple confessions that we swore a pact to never make.

You would chat them up. Me, too. But you were the unicorn. Their treasure. For me, they had a script. Practiced and learned. With you, original material and ad lib. Conversation. I came with expectations. Of clumsy gropes. In ways of plausible deniability. Objectification. For you, discovery. You were a fascination to them. If you were there, then anything could truly happen. Which it would. Which suited everyone involved.

But the costumes. A brilliant notion. For the sense of performance. That nothing happening was real. It was "theatre." Interactive, one-off stories full of character and plot. And climax. Fantasy pursuit as Performance Art. Not so different than everyday life. Everywhere. Brilliant notion.

Some of the actors. In the passion play. Would arrive by invitation. Most though would appear on their own notion. Like apparitions. Of beauty and sex. Desire and satisfaction. Not there because it was expected of them. Though it was. But rather because of you.

Your look. Your energy. Your very nature on those nights that said,

This is a space where it is safe to be dangerous.

Powerful thing, that.

You liked it. Crowded and streaming. Me, too. Like a rising, swelling tide. In and out. Comings and goings. The night becoming an enchanted swirl. Of motion. Sound. Sensations.

Drinks would arrive. Ordered only once. But, until we said, "stop," restocked without command until just before glasses ran dry.

Do Juice, I called it.

Because it moved you, us, anyone, everyone, from thinking. To doing. Released the brake of self-awareness. Unchained the Id. (You often noted the mirrored, but generally unspoken, similarities between, "Id" and "I'd," the contraction for "I would.")

"'I would,' said the Id, and it would. So I did," would be your Seuss-ian chant.

Our booth-mates would chatter and laugh. Their own self-awareness ebbing. With the tides. Of alcohol. And you. Skin would begin to brush skin. Your laugh would grow deeper. Throatier. Your neck and chest would grow pink. Until. You would stroke the heated areas. Lightly, with your nails. And you would look across the table at me. Eyes both smoke and fire.

"Let's get off the leash," you would coax.

Not that a single soul in those booths was in need of a nudge. The other women would look to me, too. As if I was the Starter, charged with releasing horses ready to charge. It was not permission being requested. More accurately, "acceptance." And confirmation. That I would be fine with letting the gallops run where they may. Which I was. Without question.

But I would hold the moment. Pausing. As if I needed the push. And you knew what I was doing. So you played your role. You would motion to one of the women that I fancied most. You always knew which. And that meant I was far more transparent than I wished. Or you more omnipotent that I could challenge. With the slightest of head movements, you would direct her. Or them on a more than a couple of nights.

She would kiss me. Deeply and with passion so practiced it was real. Honed. Like a panther that slipped its tether. Because it knew that was what panthers are meant to do. A hand would move to my cock. Hard. And full. Raging against any dying of the night. Skilled fingers wrapping round me through the material of my pants. Or, on some of the more lust-fueled nights, my zipper pulled and a hungry hand. Or more. Would grasp me. So practiced it was real.

And then you. I would see, through tangles of hair and hands and rising temperatures. You. Consumed. And being taken. A mouth pressed to yours. Or yours to it. Hands, red-nailed and dark, reaching inside. A shirt of mine. Or suit vest. Finding you. By touch. Soon, buttons would be released. Yes, in a dark booth. And spill of light. I have watched. And you have seen me watch. Which only made things more so for you. I have seen your nipples licked and sucked. In ways that, yes, taught me things good to know. I have see you lick and suck. Hungrily. Not because I could not feed you. But because the quality of our meals made you want more of the same. Of different.

I have watched a hand. Or hands. Invade baggy pants. Or short, tight skirt. Teasing you. Stroking you. Pushing into you. I have watched the pleasures play out on your face. Eyelids heavy. Dreamy eyes that embraced the swirl. Entranced. Lips parted to allow quickened breaths. Sighs. Moans. And on a few occasions, when conditions aligned. I have seen you cum. Near staggering shudders at the hands of women. Perhaps while others licked and sucked your nipples. Dark. And small. And aroused. And other strange lips, rendered bright in lipstick the color of rage, kissed you, sharing tongues in ways that screamed of how they would taste you. If you would allow. Or when.

Music would blare. Thump upon thump upon thump. Onstage, the rest of the cast would dance. More like 'shuffle,' actually. Not their fault. Monotony awaits at the back of any job. And they had seen it all before. And would again. In the spills of reds. And blues. On booths that straddled the edges. Between dark and light.

We would stay awhile. Two drinks usually the marker of time to go. Maybe to another club. Maybe back to wherever we had come from. Maybe alone. Maybe with others in tow. Three drinks if we especially were hot. And well-bothered.

Everyone having a good time. It was as simple as that. Really. A good time. Without measure. Or judgment. Where good times were to be found. On this night. Or that.

We would fly close to the sun. Too close? That is a measure. Often a judgment. If our wings melted. On this night or that. We would don new ones tomorrow. That was the beauty of wings. And tomorrows.

To be continued...

Excerpted from our flash fiction / memoir photo book, "streets: bangkok". Available soon.