the time the contest started at one am on Friday morning the crowd was
down to maybe two hundred. Three-quarters were men, about evenly split
between the State College students, underage military guys from the Air
Force Base and miscellaneous farm workers, truckers, and convenience store
clerks. Since this was San Angelo and not New York or San Francisco, no
one complained that the money dance was restricted to women only. Three
hundred dollars cash to be split between the top three finishers was on
offer and the prizes attracted eight volunteers. The women lined up on
the dance floor between the two elevated cages, and each was introduced
to resounding cheers like the high school basketball team.
Even with the reduced crowd, the air conditioning couldnít keep up with the West Texas heat. For every long neck I drank I peed half and sweated the other half. The cavernous room was sprayed matte black with spots and strobe lights mounted along the ceiling. Tall speakers in the corners belted out recorded Country Rock and made my ears ring. The few places to sit along the sides and at the bar were still jealously guarded, so I pressed as close as I could get to the railed-off dance floor and checked out the honeys. Except for one woman in long sleeved sweats, they were mostly tricked up in short skirts, opaque black underwear and clunky high heels.
My eyes kept coming back to Alma, the tallest. She had long raven colored hair, damp olive skin and beautiful full breasts. Alma was a more than a little plump but looked back at the crowd with lots of attitude. She was the least prepared dress wise in a black ankle length skirt and a black knit tube top. Her body moisture seeped through around her abdomen and flanks making for a slightly darker black pattern on the skirt. I watched the rise and fall of her chest and belly every time she breathed and found myself licking my lips with anticipation as to how she would handle her restrictive clothing challenge, but Iím getting way ahead of the story.
San Angelo Texas sits logically in the middle of nowhere, since itís necessary to have someplace East of Midland, West of Houston, North of Austin and South of Abilene. It all started as Fort Concho and soon a town sprang up to fill the needs of the soldiers, although cage dancing was not introduced until later.
The drive East from Midland takes two hours through a landscape generously described as transitional. The midpoint between eighty degrees and one hundred is ninety. The midpoint between soil and sand is dust, and the midpoint between trees and dunes is scrubby knee high brambles and tumbleweeds.
Family privacy forbids me from telling you what I was doing in Central West Texas in late May, but I did spend three nights in San Angelo and the last at Grahamís Central, a something for everyone club in the outskirts. Normally Iím not much of a clubber, especially by myself and in a strange town, but this night I was overcome by the combination of curiosity, heat, boredom, and the need to find something to do until my plane left at eleven a.m. the next morning.
The acres of parking were nearly full when I rolled up just after ten p.m. and parked my compact rental amidst the tall pickups, SUVs and camper vans. A hot wind swirled any loose gravel dust around the parking lot until it caked up against the rubber seals of every car window.
At the door I stood in the shorter Over Twenty-One line. I waited while the doorman haggled over some questionable ID with two dubious military looking guys ahead of me, but I finally got a wristband documenting my right to drink alcohol. The five buck cover got me my choice of Country, Karaoke, or Seventies, and since everybody else was in the Country room, I headed there too.
I figured to be invisible wearing little makeup, in a long denim skirt, soft tan moccasins, and a modest white cotton blouse. I even bought one of the straw cowboy hats that I saw the men wearing. When I pulled it down low over my eyes no one of my height could approach closer than ten inches.
It was not to be. There is no age discrimination in San Angelo, since I had dance partners twenty and even thirty years my junior. I know this for a fact because the under twenty-one males wore big grease pencil Xs on their right wrists. You could tell the locals from the military men by their bigger bellies and more aggressive style. I applied a sharp elbow to the area between the menís shoulders and pecs to keep good order and discipline while we two-stepped, waltzed and slow danced.
Every conversation started with a variation of, "Where are you from, little lady?" It was clear that I was not from around there, and this piece of information was evidently more important than my name.
Iím a skinny five-ten, so even in my low shoes I looked most of them straight in the eye. "Albuquerque." I told the first questioner, "Butte, Montana", the second, and "Colorado Springs", the third. I planned to work my way through the complete alphabet.
I always turned down second dances with the same man. "Sorry, but I have to dance with everybody once before I can dance with you again", left them mostly shaking their heads, but stuck for a rebuttal. I resolved that if any man gave me a good comeback, I would dance with him the rest of the night, but no one did.
Iíd wormed my way next to the brass dance floor rail by the time the first cage dance contestant was announced. I had made good friends with the two Air Force guys who were ahead of me in the entry line. They forced their way to the rail on my right and left and both handed me a beer. I smiled at them in turn and took a sip out of each. The local custom now probably required me to go home with them, but their disappointment could be postponed for the time being.
For the contest the music was cranked up to maximum volume and shifted from Country to Heavy Metal. The number one girl Bonnie stepped up into the cage on the far side of the floor. The cages were elevated above the dance floor by at least five feet and the girls had to climb a miniature ladder to get inside. The cages themselves were sturdy, industrial strength metal affairs, three feet on a side with thick silvery vertical bars.
Bonnie was small boned and slender and full of energy and gymnastic skill, but her dance generated little interest because she was wearing long sweat pants and tennis shoes. Everybody likes to see some skin especially jiggling tits and a pulsating snatch, but there I go getting carried away again.
After some perfunctory applause for Bonnie, Melissa climbed up into the cage right next to where I was standing. I craned my neck to look up at her. Melissa had removed her stockings if sheíd arrived with any. Her blonde hair was teased and tossed around in big curls. She outlined her mouth with dark red lipstick in contrast to lighter red inside the lines. The music had a great driving beat and Melissa rubbed both hands around on her stomach as she shimmied until she worked her skirt up halfway over her butt. My view took in all the territory from above her black satin panties upwards to the built in bra in the top of her dress. The bulge of her crotch was as big as a manís and made my mouth water. I nervously lowered my gaze and drank a sip of beer. After an eternity of looking away and controlling my breathing, Melissa dismounted to thundering applause and bowed to the crowd.
A girl whose name I didnít catch climbed shakily up into the far cage. She had a sorority girl look with a sheath dress, conservative jewelry and pumps. She did some sort of disjointed go-go dance while her friends hooted from the sidelines. Whatís Her Name was too drunk to remember this tomorrow, so hopefully one of her gal-pals had brought a video camera. I chugged one of my gift beers and looked on with what I figured was amused detachment.
The announcer called Almaís name next and my heart leaped right up into my throat. Alma took the steps confidently and loomed up right over me. I covered my mouth with my hand when I looked up and hoped nothing showed in my eyes. Alma stood at attention facing inwards and waited for the music to start. She absentmindedly smoothed the front of her skirt and tugged her knit top upward without any noticeable affect. When the music began Alma leaned way backwards and grabbed the bars behind her with both hands. She started with her feet together and moved her hips in a broad circle to the beat. "So-o love me!" She sang along with the lyric.
Suddenly she spread her legs. Her head pitched upright and one hand moved to the top of her thigh. Alma possessed amazing muscles under the layers of baby fat. She rotated clockwise to face each part of the room in turn. Her body dampness had turned downright glistening and I made out beads of perspiration on her chin and chest. I forgot about my composure and gaped. She let her two fingers do the walking, gathering the skirt material an inch at a time up against her thigh. In no time at all Alma had her whole skirt in her fist and I saw her cream colored little girl cotton panties covering an immense damp dark patch and edges of wild untrimmed hair that refused to be confined inside. I could hardly imagine letting someone see all that muff without a bikini wax.
Alma had fantastic balance. She held her skirt in one hand and slipped the other inside her underpants next to her butt cheek. She pivoted around presenting herself to imagined fingers and tongues from every corner of the room. Then it happened. The tube top slid down off her breasts and poor Alma didnít have a spare hand to pull it back up. In a few seconds the music stopped and a huge groan and hiss went through the crowd. When the noise died down the announcer said. "Letís all hear it for Alma." She got the loudest applause of the night so far even though she got through less than half her program.
My hands were trembling and I felt some moisture down in my own cotton underwear, so I figured Iíd better get myself to the ladiesí room. There was a line, so when it was my turn I just sat down until I felt closer to normal. When I got back to the dance floor, the music was back to Country Rock, people were milling about and Alma was nowhere to be seen. I caught the eye of one of my new Air Force buddies and he inclined his head to one of the exits.
"Alma took third. She went outside to have a smoke." Mike or Fred, I donít know which winked at me and turned his attention back to Melissa who sat propped up next to him at the bar. I hustled over to the exit and pushed open the heavy fireproof metal door. Alma was sitting alone a few feet away on some green metal electric transformers under some serious neon illumination. She fumbled with her bic trying to light a bent over cigarette.
I pulled a book of paper matches out of my purse and held them up to her. "Need to burn one?"
"I needed the hundred, but I only got the fifty." Alma grimaced and tossed the crumpled cigarette aside.
"You were the best. Why did you stop?" I hurried up alongside her. It was finally cooling down outside but I could still smell her sweat.
Alma arched her thick untrimmed eyebrows. "The club has a rule. You canít Ďexpose yourselfí".
"It was an accident. You were the best." I wanted to put my arm around her or more, but I was careful to keep my distance.
"The goddamn strippers win almost every time anyway."
"The girls who work the strip clubs take a break and come over just for the contest. They really know how to turn the guys on."
"I see. Say, would you like to smoke something stronger?" I thought it discreet to avoid yet another compliment on her dancing, so I dug around the purseís secret compartment for my stash of roll your owns. I like fully packed short cylinders, so I invested in a hand roller during my last trip to Amsterdam. "I have licorice and peppermint." I held several neatly rolled joints out to her in the palm of my hand.
"Iíll try the peppermint. Youíre really into that, arenít you?"
"Iím into marijuana eradication." I deadpanned. "You can help me burn these to a fine ash." I lit us both up a peppermint. I blend leaves and buds with flavored Turkish, and make up maybe twenty stokes a month for myself and a few friends.
Alma took it in like a pro. Her eyes rolled back while she thought of sometime long ago, maybe the last time she scored some especial good shit. Alma chortled. "Eradiation." She mispronounced. "I gotta remember that."
"Youíre hot Alma." I chanced watching her features. "I wish I could dance like that."
Alma took a long hit and grinned. "Thatís what I meant. Youíre really into dancing. You can dance. You know what to watch for, and you do like to watch. Why did you take off before it was over?"
I shrugged without emphasis. "I just went to the ladiesí room."
"And?" Alma arched those dark thick eyebrows again.
"And what?" I took a hit and held it in.
"Did you get off?"
"No!" I blew out coughing. "It was too damn crowded."
Alma moistened her thumb and forefinger and carefully snuffed out the peppermint joint. She slid the remainder in her cigarette pack. "I got my boyfriend Melís camper van in the lot. Letís take a walk."
I snuffed out mine the same way and handed it to her. "Can we stop by my car first? Iíve got a bigger purse."
"You packiní somethiní baby?"
"The guys around here are good for about two minutes each. You have to line up about a-hunderd of Ďem to do you any good."
We both giggled like schoolgirls, having spent the last quarter hour filling the back of Melís camper van with so much sweet smelling smoke that we could barely see each other.
"And whatís the most youíve lined up?" I asked all prim and proper.
"Only eight." Alma waggled her finger at me. "It was the Varsity Basketball team. Me and Gretch promised Ďem we would if they won the city championship."
"A promise is a promise." I waggled back.
"Yup, I got Ďem first, then Gretch got Ďem. We were ready for some bonus shots, but they only wanted to get drunk."
"Men lie like rugs. I bet you those boys couldnít get it up again."
"And slobbery stupid and lazy too." Alma agreed. "When a boy spunks out and leaves you high and dry, youíre síposed to get all sweet and cuddly and tell him how great he was. Youíd think he didnít have any fingers or a tongue."
"I wonít leave you high and dry." My voice sounded real husky. I kneaded Almaís stomach through her dress.
"Iím not much on playing kissy-face. Would you just give it to me now as hard and fast as you can?" Alma lay back on the thin mattress. She reached up under her long skirt and skinned off her cream colored panties. Then she pulled the tube top down around her waist. Alma smelled delicious.
I strapped on the black power-dick as quick as I could and got down on top of her without another word. The act of penetration is so satisfying. I completely understand why men like fucking women. The female is a well designed receptacle, all open and vulnerable as the man probe her insides. I buried my head between Almaís wonderful breasts. She grabbed her ankles and fucked me back. Alma came one-two-three.
"Golly, Iíd say you needed that."
"More." She whispered in a tiny voice. She was all-girl now.
I revved it up to high gear while Alma lay almost motionless under me. I bonked on and on, determined not to quit when I knew how much Alma needed me. I savaged her breasts inside my balled up fist, but heard barely a moan. When I bit down hard on a nipple, she startled.
"Good, oh good." She hissed in my ear.
I got into my masterful role. "Take it all, you little cunt."
Almaís voice turned into a lilting singsong. "Oh thatís good, thatís really good."
"Move your ass!" I ordered.
"Okay." She whimpered.
Alma started grinding against me and suddenly she was there again, puffing and straining like a plow horse. When she came down again, Alma gave me a little hug. "Enough." She said.
I got off her and sat up cross-legged in the low smoky van. I stroked my faux dick like Iíve seen the men do.
"You canít come that way. You need your own turn. Let me see that damn thing."
Alma did me on my side by hand in the sixty-nine position. She reamed me with the power-dick, pushed her middle finger all the way up my ass and slathered my chimes with the flat of her tongue. I got my face all wet in her lathered-up fur and came twice in ten minutes. Afterwards we lit up again with licorice.
Alma let me taste myself on her fingers. She looked down shyly. "Iím glad you like big girls."
"I like hot smokiní big girls like you Alma."
"Girls always know what girls like. Gretch and I were close for awhile. Then she got married and had three kids. Last year at the high school reunion I got her drunk, and it was as good as ever."
"Yeah, like riding a bicycle." I was feeling in an open generous mood. "So whatís all this about a hundred dollars?" I asked when we had the van smoked up again.
"Mel told me not to come home until I had the hundred he sent me out for."
"Melís your husband?"
"Shit NO! Heís just the guy I live with."
"Well then heís lucky to get fifty. Better yet, fuck Mel and keep the fifty."
"I gotta do that too, and heís gonna be home from work in a couplaí minutes. I better go."
"Let me follow you home. Iíll explain to Mel how you missed the hundred. I can fuck him for you too if you want the rest of the night off."
Alma giggled. "I donít know. Mel likes big tits."
"All he can say is ĎNo Thanksí, but you know how men take to strange pussy."
"Yeah, almost as much as I do."
We giggled some more and finished off the joints. Alma aired out the van while I shambled off to look for my car.
I opened my window and let the warm summer air fill the car with its night smells. My wristwatch told me that I had to be on the plane back to LA in just over ten hours. We drove through the silent streets awhile and I saw long streaks of lightning in the distance. I slowed down for a cop snoozing in his cruiser at an intersection. I followed Alma to a mobile home park in a warehouse district. Most of the signs were in Spanish.
"Mel, Iím home!" Alma shouted when she opened the door. I walked in after her.
"You donít have to holler." A fat bald guy in a khaki uniform and a badge stood up from the sagging sofa and looked us over. "Youíre drunk." He noticed. "And who the hell is this?"
"Iím her witness."
Mel stared up at me quizzically. "Fer wat?"
"About how Alma earned a hundred dollars but only got paid fifty."
"Itís none of your goddamn business."
"Sit down and weíll show you." I reached inside Almaís tube top and stroked her nipple erect. "You wonít be sorry, Mel. Trust me."
"Mel, Iím going to sit here very close to you, and Alma is going to show you everything she did to earn your hundred dollars. Isnít that right Alma?"
"Yep, it sure is, but only if you sit nice and quiet next to my friení."
I plopped down next to Mel, and raised my skirt up over my knees. I wanted Mel to see my best feature and hoped he wouldnít notice my lack of tits. Alma found a country station on the boombox and started with her moves. I pulled down Melís zipper and his cock came right out. I struggled for a purchase under Melís big belly. I circled the tip with my thumb and forefinger like men are used to.
"Alma makes you hot, doesnít she Mel?" Mel wasnít talking. His eyes were on Alma slinging her ass around most of the small room. "You shouldnít hold anything back Mel. Just let it all flow out."
By this point, Alma had her skirt up high and was slowly rolling down those cream colored panties from the top. She left them halfway down her ass so we could see the top part of her furry V. In the next second Mel was up and off the sofa. He shoved Alma back into an armchair and went down after her burying his head between her legs. They both landed with a satisfying THUD that shook the flimsy trailer.
Alma smiled up at me sweetly and silently waved me goodbye. I picked up my stuff and stole out without a sound. When I looked back from the drive I thought sure I could see the mobile home rocking slightly on its tiedowns.
My suitcases were already in the trunk. My drive to Midland would be over in two hours taken out of the darkest part of the night. I wondered if there might be another adventure that I could get into in the five additional hours before my flight. There could be no doubt, West Texas does sport the worldís finest cage dancing.
Copyright © 2001
Leslie. All Rights Reserved.
About The Author:
"I wrote the first two books of "My Life as a Girl" as a kind of re-authentication of my growing up experience. I could not always measure up to my main character, who always comes out on top and never submits even when she surrenders. The books stay with a light tone even when the subject matter, like compulsion or abortion, is difficult because I like humor so much especially irony, satire and whimsy. Sex is a central feature of my writing to the point where it is almost the language, container or currency of the stories. I hope this offers the reader a little prurient thrill but also I believe it's the purest distillation of women's social struggle, evolution, and experience.
Shakespeare was nearly obsessed with sex and the battle between the sexes. It is a strong dimension in every play. He loved women characters and their changeable natures. For every Cressida there was a Desdemona, for every Cleopatra a Gertrude, for every Portia a Lady McBeth and for every Mistress Quickly a Mrs. Ford.
Children, artistic fufillment, worthwhile employment, status, friends and long term relationships are some of the good stuff of life. Why do we need a man to get and keep them? Why do men need women? What do women have to uniquely offer each other in relationships? I'm not answering, just exploring.
Bio-wise, I would still like to remain a little mysterious. I'm not out in a conventional political sense, just experientially with my friends. I did grow up in convent schools, got work in product marketing in companies after B-school. I started my own advertising/PR firm after ten years and made enough money to cash out early. I now enjoy writing, traveling, college sports and just hanging out."
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