‘My heart pounded’: A sexy slice of ‘Lap Dance Lust’
This is an exclusive excerpt of “Standing Room Only,” from Lap Dance Lust: A Collection of Erotic Stories by Rachel Kramer Bussel.
For the first time since George’s death, I felt a pure spark of longing, one that pierced through my entire body, pooling deep within me and making my sex physically ache in a way it hadn’t since longer than I could remember. Suddenly I was ravenous for what Eric was offering, for the chance to shed being half of GeorgeandSally and discover who I was separate from the pair I’d imagined growing old together.
“Okay. I’ll be there on Saturday.”
“We could go together. If you want,” he said in a rush. I looked at Eric with his thick black stubble, long, floppy hair, deep tan, and kind eyes. “No pressure. Just so you have someone familiar. But if you want to be totally free and unencum-bered, that’s fine too.”
“Can I think about that offer?”
“Sure. Call me tomorrow,” he said, and took my phone and put his number in. I hadn’t had any interest in connecting with support group members outside of our meetings. At first it was too raw, and by the time I got somewhat of a handle on my grief, I was trying to keep a lid on it, to not let it overtake all hours of the day. I know that’s not really how emotions work, but that’s how I had to do it, to set it aside so I could work and see friends and enjoy myself without feeling like I was betraying his memory with every laugh or smile. I wanted to compartmentalize the group, not have my phone blow up with people just as needy and lost as I was.
We said goodbye, and I drove home in a daze. I looked up the site for SRO again, zooming in on some of the people, picturing myself among them, slithering along as sleek, sweaty bodies pressed themselves against me, as I got lost in the crush. I put my phone down, closed my eyes, and took out my Magic Wand massager. I’d gone through many over the years, but it had been my go-to sex toy since before I’d met George. He’d teased me about it at first, asking if I needed something that “big and loud,” but the first time I let him watch me use it, he understood, and had used it on me plenty of times, sometimes in front of our swinger friends.
Now, though, it was just me and my favorite toy, the power of it vibrating against my clit and along my wetness, opening my mind as well as activating a yearning I hadn’t known I wanted. Just as George had introduced me to swinging, I’d assumed that if we were ever going to try something else new and different, he would initiate it. I’m not a timid person by any means, but I preferred those roles, preferred him to take the lead because he’d never steered me wrong.
He did the same for planning our vacations and selecting restaurants. He just had a knack for reading me like one of his beloved mysteries that I always found scattered around the house wherever he’d put them down. He had an intuitive sense about what I’d like and what I wouldn’t. I didn’t think SRO would’ve been his type of scene—he didn’t love big crowds or super loud music—but I knew he would’ve encouraged me to go if he’d known I was interested. He would’ve waited for me in the car, eager to hear all about it.
I didn’t want to think about the old me; I wanted to focus on the new me. I decided to use a different name when I was there, a name I’d never been associated with before, one that would help me arm myself emotionally if I slipped too far back into Sally.
But I didn’t want to think about the old me; I wanted to focus on the new me. I decided to use a different name when I was there, a name I’d never been associated with before, one that would help me arm myself emotionally if I slipped too far back into Sally. I chose Esme; there’d been a student in one of my college classes named Esme who was so glamorous, whether she was wearing makeup or not, with her blonde hair teased up high, eyeliner perfectly done, lips a bold, don’t-mess-with-me-unless- you-can-take-it red. She’d told me her name meant “Loved” and she wanted to get married as soon as possible. She was a glorious mix of contradictions, tough but sweet, ballsy yet romantic.
We’d lost touch after the class ended, but I’d never forgotten the way all eyes would turn to her when she walked into a room. I didn’t want that much attention on me then, but I liked the idea of it. Once I met George, it was his attention I wanted most, his eyes gazing up from my feet on
up over a tight red dress that clung to me from my ankles to my neck as he did the first night we met at a fundraising dinner.
“Esme,” I said aloud as I stared at myself in the mirror; my short brown hair had grown enough that the curls were visible, the same curls George used to—no, I wasn’t going there. I shook my head and told myself, “George didn’t know Esme. You don’t know her either, but it’s time to get to know her.”
I went through everything in my closet, down to the last blouse and ancient jeans, to find the perfect outfit in case I wanted to keep my clothes on. A clingy black skirt made of a shimmery fabric I’ve always considered one of my sexiest. It makes my ass look amazing but doesn’t feel tight, like it could be perfect for the beach or a fancy dinner. I added a black lace push-up bra and my favorite black tank top, figuring in that environment, less would be more.
I put on the outfit and fiddled around with my makeup, trying to channel the real Esme, but also be myself. With my tousled brown curls, I thought a maroon lipstick and complementing eyeshadow would look best. I wear so little makeup on a regular basis I had to go on YouTube, painstakingly practicing with my rarely used eyeshadow palette and liquid eyeliner. George had liked me bare-faced, and over the years, I’d started to believe that’s what I liked too.
But the new me—Esme—staring back at me when I was done was the kind of woman even I, who consider myself about seventy-five percent straight, would look at. I wasn’t trying to hide my age, but I still wanted to put my best foot forward, even though in the dark, I wasn’t sure who’d actually notice the details of my makeup.
But this new look wasn’t just for them—whoever they were, and it wasn’t for Eric, though the way he’d reached out to me and his big, muscular arms did get me a little hot. Being Esme was for me, a gift to myself after two-thirds of a year of emotional darkness. I was ready to emerge and see what I was capable of as a sexual woman without a partner.
I texted Eric to ask if he could pick me up. I’d be happy to. Can’t wait to see you in a new setting.
Same, I replied.
On Saturday, I took extra time getting ready, recreating my earlier look, but skipping panties, and checking in with myself. I knew I could back out if it got to be too much, too heavy, too real. But all I felt was eagerness; the idea of slithering between all those bodies, without the need for polite conversation or getting to know anything about them beyond how their body felt against mine was intoxicating. I’d never done that before, not even before George. I’d always dated, going through the courtship rituals I thought were proper. Now, I was ready to say, fuck “proper.” I wanted to abandon myself and give my body over to something bigger and grander than what I was used to. I slipped my bare feet into black shoes I’d dug out of the back of my closet, grateful for the extra height.
Eric arrived right on time, a total gentleman. Usually, he wore a T-shirt and jeans to our meetings, but tonight he was dressed in black shorts and a black shirt that made me want to touch it. “Hello, Sally,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, like he were picking me up for a regular date.
A tingle I hadn’t felt in longer than I could recall started at the top of my head, warming my face and working its way down my body, making my heart pound.
A tingle I hadn’t felt in longer than I could recall started at the top of my head, warming my face and working its way down my body, making my heart pound. His lips looked different tonight, even though I’d seen them so often over the past eight months. I’d never given them another thought, but now I wanted to know what they’d feel like against my lips. I could have found out easily enough—he wore his longing in the depths of his eyes—but I didn’t want that, not yet. Tonight, I wanted anonymity, escape, ecstasy.
“Actually . . . could you call me Esme? I’m trying that name on for tonight, to help me get in the spirit.”
This is just an excerpt of the story. Read more of this story and more erotica in Lap Dance Lust: A Collection of Erotic Stories by Rachel Kramer Bussel.
