Sweet Cheeks Russell was the most popular stripper in town. She
didn't have the blondest hair, the biggest implants or the flashiest
routine, but she did have one legendary talent--the ability to clap
her shapely little buttocks together: Whap, whap, whap.
Guys just went ape over that. Eventually,
the stunt evolved into something truly sophisticated: Sweet Cheeks
would take the twenty-dollar tips out of a patron's hands by first
standing with her back to him, bum outstretched. Then she'd clap
her buttocks the way a sea lion does its flippers: Whap, whap, whap!
After a few "whaps", the guy would
get the hint and slip a twenty or so, conveniently folded lengthwise,
between Sweet Cheeks' sweet cheeks. She'd transfer it into her G-string
for safekeeping, and then move on to the next patron. She would
routinely pull down between $500 and $1000 a night doing this, depending
on how drunk the patrons were--the drunker they were, the more they
Well, one night, as Sweet Cheeks'
routine was at its height of lucrative refinement, a wealthy Texas
oilman who happened to be in town decided to get friendly-like.
As he was slipping her a hundred, he just couldn't resist. He reached
out and pinched her oh-so-tempting little tush-cheeks. Then he gave
'em a shake, sort of like what he sometimes did to his old bloodhound's
"Clangalangalang!" he shouted, giggling.
That proved to be too much for Sweet
Cheeks. She let out a rip-roaring rotten-egg fart that stank up
the bar worse than a whole roomful of smoldering locoweed. Twenties,
fifties and the oil baron's hundred went flying from her G-string
as it snapped. Her cheeks shook themselves loose from the millionaire's
grip in the eruption. They went: WHAP! WHAP!! WHAP!!!
The barroom had to be evacuated for
the night, and the windows remained open for 24 hours while the
stench dissipated. When that failed to do it, a fumigator had to
be called in. The management thought it wise from then on to burn
scented candles in the little ticky-tacky glass thingies on all
the tables. They favored heavy scents--sandalwood, patchouli, and
the king-daddy of them all, cinnamon.
As for Sweet Cheeks, she left town
soon after. Rumor has it she eloped with the Texan, who was so impressed
by her other unique skill that he put her in charge of all
his sour-gas wells.
Garth couldn't take his eyes off the slim brown woman in the spangled
red dress. Her satin stilettos, the same color as her dress, slammed
into the parquet dance floor, propelled by the most muscular legs
this side of Tina Turner. She moved through the jungle of lumbering
bodies like a jaguar in its element. He had to have that woman tonight.
She'd be the perfect one to breathe life back into him now that
his divorce was final.
He grinned at the double entendre.
Oh yes, there would be heavy breathing tonight. But one more beer
first. Just in case she was a ball-cutting bitch, like Emery. He
pried his gaze from the woman's breasts--she wasn't wearing a bra,
and didn't need one--and picked up his empty bottle to wave it at
One beer turned into three, making
six. Garth cursed. The place was packed, the bartender busy; he
couldn't get his beer in time. Some other lucky stiff got the red-spangled
Bastard. Bastard. Bitch!
He put down just enough cash for his
drinks, stiffing the bartender the tip, and walked out. It was a
sultry night, and the waterfront bar was stifling. Some cool air
should do him good.
He headed down the sandshore, idly
contemplating a little skinnydipping; were the cops out? Nah, not
here. This beach wasn't the one where people usually went to swim;
too many rocks and scrub willows littered the sand. In the daytime
it stank of dead fish.
Sand sifted in and out between his
feet and his sandals, but he didn't care. Then something soft and
slightly scratchy caught at his ankle, tripping him. He stumbled,
cursing and grabbing at the
spangled red dress.
A few feet further down the beach,
he found her high heels; they lay far apart and at crazy angles,
like they'd been kicked off in a hurry. Then a black spandex scrap--butt-floss,
the kind of underwear you'd expect of a tart in a candy-apple dress
and no bra--hanging from a clump of silvermound. Ah, shit. He began
to walk away.
Then something moved.
There she was. Several yards away,
her naked body shining with sweat or seawater in the moonlight,
hunched over the prostrate form of a tall man. She humped steadily
for five strokes, hands on his chest, then stopped to touch his
face and kiss him. Then she did it again. And again. And again.
Garth could feel his lips curling.
He kept moving toward them. It was like rubbing his own nose in
it, but he couldn't stop. He had to see. Like a crab he scuttled,
half-ducked, from bush to bush, a few jerky steps at a time.
Garth sure as hell wouldn't just lie
there like that, like wet mud; he'd arch his back, drive her, make
her dance like she did in the club, grinding her ass in the air.
He slipped a hand down the front of his shorts, feeling his cock
swell. Why did she keep stopping?
Another bush, closer. He could almost
see her ribcage heaving, the skin vibrating like a drumhead, and
her small angular breasts jiggling near the man's face. Garth inched
closer. Her cheeks worked in and out as she bent over him, mouth
on mouth. Like she was trying to breathe life back into a corpse,
thought Garth. His erection filled out rapidly, and he worked his
hand faster, getting close and cursing that she wouldn't keep going,
that she wouldn't speed up.
Then the woman pulled away, and Garth
His hand halted in mid-jerk. It fell
out of his pants.
A sob. The woman hung her head, breathing
hard, her black hair dripping ribbons around her face. She thumped
the drowned man once on the chest, then tried giving him mouth-to-mouth
again. She did CPR on him, five chest compressions. The man lay
flaccid, his half-open eyes filmy in the full moonlight, penis hanging
shriveled and sideways across his lower belly. The woman crouched
beside him, unseeing, her breath ragged.
Garth's erection died. All the blood
rushed out of his extremities, his head, his crotch, and slammed
back into his belly. The stink of dead fish and rotted algae hung
all around him. He felt cold.
He needed to puke, and he did, managing
to keep it almost silent.
The woman wiped her face and got up.
She stumbled up the beach, still crying, looking for her clothes.