It starts with a few choice downloads. Whatever she is feeling on that particular night. Prince. Chevelle. Lady Gaga. Buckcherry. B52’s. You just never know what she’s going to come up with. And that’s half the fun.

Wait…did I say half? Scratch that. It’s only about a quarter of the fun. The real fun comes next.

Once the music kicks in she becomes possessed. She’s no longer Alyssa, the drop dead gorgeous, sweetheart girl next door that I’ve fallen so passionately in love with. She’s Alyssa, the **** ‘sultry is my superpower’ stripper. At least that’s how she likes to think of herself. To me she’s always the same woman.    

And the way she moves her body is so fantastic. It’s not perfect. Hell, at times it can even be slightly awkward. She isn’t a pro. But it is so her. So sexy. So fun. Every twist and bend. Every spin and shake. The grind of her hips. Everything she does she accomplishes only as herself. She’s not copying anyone. She doesn’t want to be anyone. She is so absolutely perfect in her imperfections that she totally redefines what perfect even means. At least to me. To me, every one else is less than perfect because they are not Alyssa. 

   Flexing her womanhood she jumps around the small area in my bedroom that services as her stage. Her legs are toned and tanned. She lifts them one at a time and points her bare feet toward me. She knows me so well. I point back. Not with my feet.

She decides mid-song that she’s had enough of Nine Inch Nails and wants to hear some Madonna. The change is made.

She barely misses a beat submerging herself immediately back into her own little world. The shirt is lifted up, just below the succulent mounds of her heaving chest flesh. Sometimes she’s aggressive. Sometimes she’s shy. Tonight, she’s in a teasing mood.

And Me?

I just make sure to have on some loose fitting shorts. Cut-off sweats if they happen to be clean. In a pinch, my underwear will do. Anything but tough, thick fabric. I want as little as possible between my manhood and her gyrating **** cheeks. 

I sit in my computer chair, facing away from the computer, and I stare at her. Slack-jawed. Lustful. Smiling like an imbecile. Just like any doofus you might see in any strip club. Ogling the goods. Wishing. Praying. Willing the object of his desire to really mean it when she says, ‘Hey baby, you’re the cutest guy I’ve seen in here tonight. I would love to give you a special dance.’

Difference is, Alyssa is real. She is here in my room and she is dancing. Just. For. Me. She is real aright.  

Those other women are not. Fake lips. Fake hair. Fake ****. Made up names and borrowed clothes. **** stories about their **** lives. False sense of entitlement to your hard earned money.  

They are nothing more than advertisements. Sex spam email. The convincing sexy looks they shoot you. The subliminal messages they whisper in your ear provocatively. They are single serving fantasies. Propaganda marketing for the porn peddling industry.   

   Have you ever run into a stripper you’ve frequented before, but in the real world? Like at the mall or the grocery? Or maybe you’re out to dinner with your wife and her parents.

It’s **** surreal. Like seeing a wild animal out of its cage. An African Lion sauntering casually down Main street as if it belongs there. Dressed in normal people clothes instead of its native stage garb. And it isn’t roaring. It’s not panting and clawing and tearing pedestrians to shreds.

You wonder, ‘Is it really just a harmless cat after all?’

You consider that maybe it’s the zoo and the cage and the tour guides and the lion tamers and the hordes of people demanding to be entertained that somehow transformed that timid little kitty into something dirty. Into something dangerous.

Even so, just to be safe, you totally avoid eye contact.

Alyssa isn’t dangerous. I know this. When she lies back on my bed and spreads her legs, she isn’t hurting anyone. When she finally pulls that shirt off and rubs her sweet smelling breasts and thick chewable nipples in my face, the only discomfort anywhere in the world is the constriction of my mounting pleasure against whatever confinement is acting as an obstacle between it and the soft, tender flesh of her inner thighs.

Underwear still on, she mounts me. She rides me. She smacks my hand away as I reach for flesh. And she means it. It’s part of our agreement.

That and the fact that we never, ever discuss these dances when we are sober. When we are sober, we are nothing more than just neighbors. Casual friends.

Instant intimacy. Just add alcohol.

She wraps her leg around to the back of my head and uses her calf muscle to pull my face to within inches of her thin crotched underwear. I can see the outline of her most precious lips. Are they quivering? Are they wanton? She rocks her pelvic area and I feel the moist fabric swipe my nose. I don’t know how the **** I do this without absolutely exploding like a stick of dynamite.

I am moments away from breaking the rules and burying my face, tongue leading the way, as far into her pussy as I can get them. Panties be damned. I positively have to taste her. I don’t think I can hold…

She senses my urgency and releases me with a dismissive, yet playful, shove of her hand.

Time for a song change. She goes with a favorite. “Sex is on Fire.’  

She strolls back past me giving me a sideways glance that reminds me she knows how close I was to just breaking.

I attempt to look innocent. Right. Try that sometime when the most insanely sexy woman in the world is standing before you nearly naked.

She knows me too well.

On her back, at my feet, she raises her legs in the air and positions her feet on my thighs. She then arches her back and raises her hips into the air, moving her sex from side to side. My eyes sting because I am afraid to close them. I don’t want to miss even a fraction of a second. She lowers her **** back to the floor and starts to dance her feet across my body. My chest. My chin. My cheeks. Her toes pressing into the skin of my lips. I want so badly to open up and let them in. But I know it’s a deal breaker.

Then back down to my tent.  

I have no rule against her touching my junk. Believe me my friends. No such **** rule exists.

And the junk is touched. Massaged by smooth arches. Rolled by round soles. Pinched and flicked by skilful toes.

And ultimately, in a fit of unabashed pleasure, I do explode.

I’m not sure which of us is more satisfied.

I have never had a problem with self restraint at any strip club. I’ve never felt an overwhelming urge to touch any private dancer I’ve ever had. And maybe it’s just the private setting. For sure my own bedroom is more comfortable than the back room at the Ironhorse.

But I like to believe it is more than that. Alyssa doesn’t think so. She thinks I’m just another man. Animal instincts and insatiable sexual appetite. Just another lusting penis wanting to make its way into her and contribute to her unhappiness.

I don’t know. Maybe she’s **** right.  

But I can tell you this dear friends, and I can tell you it quite proudly, (and with a hint of sadness for I know this will never end well for yours truly):  I haven’t so much as looked at another woman since the day I first met Alyssa. Not in a sexual way. I can’t masturbate without thinking only of her. I don’t watch porn. I no longer day dream about scenarios in which I am giving Kelly Cuoco a tongue bath or providing the Deschanel sisters with a full body happy ending massage.  

All I think about is Alyssa. Belching after a beer. Showing up at my door with a Tupperware bowl full of homemade Chicken Soup. Gloating after kicking my **** in rummy. Pouting after I kick hers. Curled up on my couch watching a scary movie. Sitting on my toilet taking a piss. Standing on my balcony having a cigarette. Making a goofy face for a picture.

All the moments of the day that I used to take for granted, with Alyssa around, suddenly have meaning.

Yes, the late night lap dances are mind bending, jizz inducing events that deserve their own chapter. But all the moments I spend in her presence that lead up to the dance, and all the moments I spend in her presence that follow the dance, are equally as meaningful.

At least to me.