So he set out to test it. Was something different?
He started small scale—too small, really. Bumping into people on the sidewalk was something most people would overlook anyway. DJ considered telling a racist joke in front of someone it ought to offend, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Finally, he decided he’d try cutting in a busy line—surely someone would confront him for that.
But no one did. Not at the post office, not at the concession line at the theater. Emboldened, DJ even went to the grocery store, walked up to the check-out line and pulled the lead cart out of the way; the mom and her toddler both just stepped back deferentially. He apologized, and she gave him a look as if wondering why. Emboldened, he figured he’d just take a chance on a definitive test. When the cashier opened the register, he just reached over and grabbed a few one dollar bills right in front of her. She looked at him, rolled her eyes, then asked if he still wanted his change.
Something was definitely wrong.
But surely not everyone could be affected as deeply as Missy, Charlie, Ashley and Emily. He couldn’t just go around ogling, groping and screwing whoever he wanted… could he? Stealing petty amounts from a grocery store would at worst get his hand slapped or get him escorted out of the store, maybe get his picture posted as persona non grata. But how could he test for something more substantial without risking getting thrown in jail?
That evening, DJ Swanson strode into Scuttlebutt’s, the strip club a ways south of campus. He’d never been—even if it didn’t go against everything his step-mom had taught him about how women should be treated, he was far too shy for such a thing. But the events of last night had given him some courage though, and he paid the door fee and went on in.
This place had a reputation—allegedly most of the workers were college students working their way through school, and so the girls were younger and hotter than most such places. It was dimly lit, like he’d expected, but even in the reddish lighting it took only a few moments reveal Scuttlebutt’s rep as being mostly hooey. A woman clearly well into her 30’s—to be generous to her—was on stage, pasties swirling on the ends of time-distended breasts, sagging low but not low enough to conceal the stretch marks from a by-gone pregnancy. It was more realistic, certainly, but disappointing after a lifetime of seeing strippers on TV played by surgically enhanced models.
The other girls in the room were a mixed bag, too, but as he scanned the room, he was surprised to see Sydney Kristoff of all people. He’d had a class with her freshman year, and they’d even been assigned as partners on a project. He’d been so intimidated by her good looks and gruff attitude that he’d made no waves when she told him she was busy and needed him to do the whole thing. (And too intimidated to retort when she complained about getting a B, which was the last time the two had spoken.)
She was the sort of girl who just looked like she’d wind up a stripper—purely stereotypically, of course, but if he’d been making a movie and had to cast someone he knew as Stripper Girl, he’d have chosen Sydney. She had a black rose tattooed up her forearm and some kind of thorny vine thingy as a tramp stamp. Here, clad in a bikini top so skimpy it barely covered her nipples and a g-string barely obscured by a translucent sarong, he could see those and others—a tribute to someone named “Mark,” an illegible script on her right inner thigh, two small wings on her shoulder blades.
And of course, she had that body—huge perky tits that seemed not to be subject to the law of gravity, a butt that jiggled even in skinny jeans, thick red lips that instantly made any hetero man cognizant of how they would look wrapped around his dick. It was impossible to look at her and not think of sex.
He knew the moment he saw her who the next target of his experiment would be.
And so he found a table and settled in. Sydney wended through the floor, smiling and flirting with patrons. DJ observed as she gave two patrons lap dances, noted the way the sultry expression on her face faded whenever she had her back to them. Then he caught himself looking too hard and re-directed his attention, alternately taking in the dancer on stage and looking down in discimfort into his cocktail whenever she seemed to look back.
Eventually, three courage-bolstering drinks later, Sydney passed his way. He made eye contact and she flitted over to him, placing a hand flirtatiously on his forearm and broadcasting the same feigned enthusiasm he’d seen on her face earlier. Not that he’d ever expected sincerity, of course. And really, anyone who was authentically enthusiastic about giving strangers lap dances would not have been well-suited to his study.
Still, confronted face to face with a real on-the-clock stripper was a first for him, and he stammered a greeting without making any sense. Sydney giggled. “Hey there, sweetie, I’m Diva. You having a good time tonight?”
“Y-yeah,” he sputtered, and tried to force a smile back. Tried to pry his eyes off her mammoth tits right in his face.
Her expression morphed into curiosity. “Say, do I know you from somewhere?” She tapped a finger to her lips pensively as she studied him.
“You know, I think we had a class together a couple years ago,” he said, not even certain why he was pretending to be unsure.
“Oh, yeah! I thought I recognized you. Well, good to see you again.” Her professional smile returned; he suspected she’d only been responding to the glimmer of recognition on his face, coupled with their similar age, to make the guess in the first place. Presently she was back to business, and smirked at his eyes lingering on her cleavage. “See anything you like?”
At a loss for words, he nodded. It was amazing how even knowing she was only doing this for money it was still so arresting to have this vision of raw sex have her attention focused on him alone.
“Well would you like a closer look?” Another nod. She just stood there expectantly though, and he realized she was waiting for money. The sign by the door had said lap dances were $25. He didn’t have exact change, so he fumbled to get out his wallet and awkwardly handed over two $20’s. He was too embarrassed to ask for change, and she didn’t offer to make any as she slid the money into the front of her g-string.
Sydney caressed his chest and neck as she moved around behind him to help him scoot his seat back from the table, then returned and straddled his lap, wrapping her arms intimately around his neck. Her breasts were just close enough to him that each breath caused them to just barely touch his chest. “This song’s almost over, so I’m going to just sit right here until the next one starts—make sure you get your money’s worth.” She trailed a finger down his chest. “Is that OK that I sit here? Now that I’m all comfy.”
“S-sure.” He was acutely aware of how much he was sweating. Sydney didn’t seem to be. She smelled like too much perfume, but he supposed it was better than smelling like the last dozen men she’d grinded herself on. In spite of the insincerity of it all, DJ was so aroused he was near to hyperventilating.
The stripper—his stripper—seemed to notice. “Relax, sweetie. Deep breaths. I promise this’ll be painless.” She giggled.
“Sorry. Just never done this before.”
The music abruptly came to an end as Sydney grinned at his bashfulness. “First timer, eh? Well let me just give you a few tips.” She ground her hips against his crotch on that last word. “You’re going to want to touch me,” she murmured into his ear in the momentary quiet, “but you just keep those hands right where they are, and let me take good care of you, OK?”
Slippery When Wet began to play and the DJ introduced the dancer on stage. DJ heard none of it. His entire world was Sydney.