Chapter 1
Destiny moves her ass round and round in time to the music, the g-string she wears completely exposing the cheeks of her ass to the view of the bar patrons.
She lets the audience lead her, the music making this easy to do, with its slow, heavy forgiving rhythm, as though the band is tired, is dragging its breath, its fingers, its hands and arms through the notes, notes which resist, which must be pushed through the horn and sax, plucked with great reluctance from the bass, punched out of the drums and cymbals, a draggy, whiny presence, the melody, one which would rather be left alone in solitude and hibernation than dragged forth into the light, even the dim, murky, humid light of this sleazy place, the lights kept low so that nobody will see the stucco walls that need repair, the paint job that needs renewal, the floor whose vinyl tiles had long ago developed elaborate cracks which catch and hold the filth and do not respond to the desultory, early morning cleaning by an indifferent and underpaid service.
Destiny is not her real name, of course.
Only a total ass hole would actually expect somebody to actually be named Destiny.
But that is the only name the patrons know her by.
And it fits.
Because she is a young girl, actually, just out of high school.
But that body, those glands and curves are not those of a girl.
Rather, they belong to a grown woman, to one who has reached the peak of her maturity, who stands at absolute ripeness, awaiting the force of gravity which can, momentarily, be expected to begin its work, tugging on those huge, pear-shaped breasts of hers which sport doorbell nipples at their full, wide ends.
But she is well named Destiny.
Because she carries the promise and the threat of the future within herself, radiating both with every move of her large, voluptuous body.
The face of youth, she has, not yet hardened, oxidized by time into rough edges and tough expressions like those of the other dancers.
The face of youth, but a body whose power men behold with a combination of desire and trepidation.
Because, with few exceptions, they cannot compete with her.
And all men carry, within their natures, that part of sexual desire which is competitive, not only with each other, but with the actual object of their attentions, the potential object of their lascivious desire.
Because the image is for two, not one.
So that they must see themselves in action, when the pictures form in their minds.
And to see themselves in action with Destiny is to see themselves outclassed.
What body would they have to assign themselves, what cock, in order to be worthy of Destiny, in order to imagine themselves "holding their own"?
Certainly not this present sweating flab or fat or skin and bones.
Certainly not this aging, out of shape torso which they themselves are at pains to avoid, even when shaving or in the solitude of the shower.
So that, even as they watch her and dream, they temporize.
They have not done too badly, on balance. All things considered, they are okay. They have their health.
Granted, it is not the powerful, robust good health they see up there on the small stage, the fixed spotlight glaring off the voluptuous, undulating curves to the recorded music, but still, with the help of aspirin and Maalox, they are not in need of medical attention, at least.
And, if they could not afford it, they would not be here.
If most of them did not have good jobs, jobs that could even be considered important, they would not be here, here in this sleazy booze boutique where the entertainment begins by taking off its clothes.
Because this is not the heart of town but a piece of frontage road near the airport, this stretch of small, run-down bars.
Between flights, they are, many of them.
So that there is no question of waiting around while the action builds up.
It has to be there, right up front, because there is no time.
Two, three hours between flights.
A night on the town, out of town, before meetings, between meetings.
So that some are here the night before, seeking diversion, voyeuristic acknowldedgement of the amorality of travel.
What happens away from home doesn't count-so long as they just look, right?
And some are here mid-conference, awaiting the dawn and breakfast and the resumption of whatever it is on the agenda for tomorrow, so that this is all right, they can always doze through the morning session if they only get three, four hours' sleep tonight, or rather this morning.
And some are leaving shortly, catching a red-eye to be back at the office in the morning, half a continent away, losers, middle management who travel on their own time, lest they deprive the company of their all too dispensable services.
Mission accomplished, mission failed, they are in transit.
Their bodies are in transit.
Whereas their minds are anchored, heavily laden with the frustrations of their existence and the images which beckon to them from a never-never land, from behind an invisible and impenetrable barrier.
Images like the one before them, the image of Destiny, real and unreal, all in one.
Real, all too real, she is, her flesh revealed in all its splendor, in all its detail.
Not just any curves, but her curves.
Not just any jugs but those heavy melons, high and full, the pectorals beneath them in great shape, the girl herself on a scale just slightly larger than life.
Which adds to her irreality, to the aura of fantasy which surrounds her.
As she lets the music and the feedback of lust from the audience move her, shoving her this way and that, gently, slowly nudging her.
Because Destiny can feel it.
She can feel it in the unabashed, glazed stares of the loners.
She can feel it in the groups, some of them gaping sophomorically, clowning, thereby concealing what they really feel toward her, others taking the opposite tack, playing it cool, their faces expressionless masks as the tingling in their abdomens tells the truth.
She can feel it, the energy, even a little of the heat, coming from the audience.
She can feel it, understand it, feed off it-and not care.
Because there is no way one person can become another.
There is no way they can transform themselves into that which is worthy, in the strictly physical sense, of making love to her, of going to bed with her, of having sex with her.
So that she knows.
She knows that, even in their fantasies, this is not what is happening.
No, in their minds, they are not fucking her, but doing everything else.
They are actually tasting those silver dollar-sized nipples of hers, feeling their irregular tips against the tips of their tongues, their broad aureolae, rougher than the surrounding expanse of smooth, firm, blue-veined flesh, against the flat, drooling surfaces of their tongues.
They are feeling the solid but yielding masses of her mammary glands in their fingering, fondling, kneading, squeezing hands.
They are losing their faces in her cleavage, sandwiching their faces between the twin towers of tit.
They are losing themselves in her warm, voluptuous vastness, helping themselves to mouthfuls of her undulating flesh, tasting her, tasting the reality of her.
They are sliding down, down, down her curvaceous body on their salivating tongues, heads gliding like snails on their extended, slime-oozing foot as they continue their salacious journey in their minds.
And yes, they are tasting her-wait a minute, the g-string interferes.
But now, on the stage, Destiny slides it down, the thin strings gliding over the flared bell of her hips.
Down, down, down it goes, her feet together, hips swaying heavily to the even heavier, relentless rhythm.
She steps out of the g-string.
And quickly, before the audience, the dreamers, the tongue-trippers can get a really good look at her snatch, turns her back to them, bending over, legs spread, to pick up the g-string.
So that there, there! it is.
It.
Her pussy, its large, pink labia exposed between tufts of dark hair, as she recovers the g-string and, straightening up slowly, hips swaying, tosses it almost lazily off stage.
And does not turn around.
Rather, she stands there, hips swaying in time to the music, or rather to the drumbeat and crash of cymbals, the melody receding into the background, into a bare hint of tone.
As she goes lower and lower, bowing away from them.
As, hands on the cheeks of her ass, she spreads them, wider and wider.
As the audience gazes in rapt fantasy.
Because unattainable, untouchable she may be, in reality.
But then, how real is real?
Because here, here! is reality.
Her ass hole, her big bung with its puffy segments, pale mauve even in the glare of the harsh spotlight, is showing them its individuality, its uniqueness and therefore and thereby its intimacy.
And she gives them a long, slowly undulating look, holding it out there to them, letting them absorb it in full detail.
That's right, guys, this is where my shit comes from, she seems to say.
As they gawk-and dream.
Because here is reality and the unreal combined, at its lascivious best.
Here is the best of both worlds.
They can sit here in the audience, safe, civilized, anonymous.
And they can also-eat her shit!
Yes, that's right.
In their mind's eye, they can just see themselves, sealing their lips to the large orifice, its irregular, slightly elongated shape formed by the puffy, protruding segments.
And not her hands but theirs now spreading her cheeks wide, wide, wider.
So that her ass hole is distorted horizontally, the segments gaping slightly open.
As they chew and suck her bung.
As their tongues probe deeply into the heat of her rectum.
As they fuck her in the ass with their tongues, while continuing to suck her bung, while carrying on with their hands, which squeeze her ass cheeks, even as they move them round and round, faces buried in the crack of her ass, tongues probing deeper and deeper.
As they explore her in ultimate intimacy.
As they ream her ass with their tongues.
As they solicit, elicit that which lies deep within, summoning it, harder and harder until, until-yes!
Why not?
This is fantasy combined with reality, after all.
So that there is no smell, no taste.
But there is texture, as convenient, elongated, bite-sized shapes transfer from bung to tongue and are swallowed, again and again.
As their sex-fevered brains exclaim, Yeah, baby, gimme yer fuckin' shit!
And all the while, they can swig from their long-necks, eyes glued to her, the fantasy continuing unabated.
As she turns around.
As she thrusts her hips forward, pulls her body back.
And spreads the lips of her pussy apart. So that yes, they can see it all, they can see the large nub of her clit, right there.
And yes, that's exactly where it is-right there! Meaning right here.
Meaning in their presence, as real, as immmediate as the here and now.
Moist and pink it is, shiny in the spotlight.
As they move closer and closer to it, in their minds.
As their heads crane forward-and keep going. As their necks extend.
As they become Plastic Man in their arousal, their inspiration.
So that here, now, they can, they can-taste her goodies.
They can taste her warmth, her wetness.
They can strum that joy buzzer of hers with their flickering, drooling appendages.
They can hold her thighs aloft-big thighs, hefty thighs, thunder thighs-they can hold them raised and spread as she lies back, sighing in passionate surrender.
And they fuck her with their tongues.
Yes, in and out, in and out they shaft, their tongues swollen in their excitement, engorged to thick massiveness.
And drooling uncontrollably, their secretion matching that of the hot, juicy cunt-that exact one-that they are servicing.
And service it they do now, tongues moving in and out, in and out of her hot, drooling depths, sliding across her now fully engorged nub of a clit both ways.
Delicious, she is, making them salivate all the more.
And yes, yes, maybe not before, but now, right here and now-they can!
Because that is a real boner they have, and this is the real world.
So that there is none of that penis panic, none of that sudden, terrifying shyness as their body, not used to the bodies of strangers, especially strangers with equipment of this magnitude, betrays them, wastes them, wastes the moment.
No, there is none of that.
Not here, not now, not in this man's fucking reality.
None of that namby-pamby, pantywaist sicko bullshit for them!
Because they are man, all fucking hot, potent, virile man!
No question!
True, the world frustrates them, holds them back. But not here, not now! Because their crotches bulge. And not with one of those weak, momentary surges, either.
Because this is the old big baton. Yes, dick's himself again.
As he was meant to be, rock hard and fucking right up there!
Tingling, pulsating with vibrant, virile life, he is, it is.
And he needs no fantasy, no daydreaming right now.
Because, dammit, he could do it!
I mean to say, he could fucking take her, right here, right now, in front of all these fucking losers.
And care less, give a shit less.
Because he is what he always knew he was, for sure, for sure.
Stud of studs, he is.
And an invisible chorus in his head drowns out the stage music in favor of Handel, as the Hallelujah Chorus, appropriately modified for the occasion, bursts into climactic grand finale-
Stud of studs, and co-ock u-huv cocks and he shall reign for ever and e-he-ver!
As, with a discordant crash of cymbals, Destiny finishes her act.
And just in time, the stud tells himself, because we were about to have an accident here.
As his trouser snake goes back off point.
As it calms down to a lazy hard-on.
As it accommodates itself once more to its narrow confines.
But its tingling glow leaves him at once excited, satisfied, becalmed.
So, he thinks, I haven't lost it yet, I've still got it.
Even for something like what he has just seen, gazing now at the empty, dark stage, Destiny's ghost still up there performing, tantalizing.
Except that now, he is no longer unworthy of her. Hell, he could take the big bitch, no fucking sweat.
No question.
No question but that he could have a date with her, could take her to his hotel room, could do the fucking deed.
And if that cannot happen in reality, well, what can he say.
Her loss, right?
Damn staight, her loss.
Although.
She's got a big cunt, a big ass hole, a puffy bung.
So that both orifices have been used, used repeatedly and with great frequency.
He knows; he can tell.
But when, where, and by whom?
And he feels a wave of nausea, a sickening sense of waste.
Somebody is getting into that, getting into it on a regular basis.
Yes, a regular basis!
Meaning, like, tonight, or rather, in the wee hours of the morning. But who?
The greasy-looking mafioso type he sees walking around from time to time, obviously the manager of the place?
The stone-faces that were here when he came in and still are, glasses of water in front of them, not being pressured by the waitresses, being strictly ignored by them and vice versa, the bouncers, obviously?
Or is it some guy, mid-thirties, say, wearing an open-throated sportshirt over his broad, hairy chest, gold chains resting around his sun-bronzed neck as he swings into the parking lot in his Caddy convertible, rugged features partially obscured behind sunglasses, aviator style, even though it is night?
But no, not this last.
Because that is his own alter ego, himself as playboy.
And that is not real.
But his hard-on sure as hell was!
And on that note yes, hell yes, he'll have another beer!
But he wants no company from any of these other dancers, the ones, clad now in their starting costumes, who circulate among the patrons, now become hostesses.
Meaning drinking companions, people to talk to (about anything), people to proposition (fat chance!), people to buy drinks for (the whole idea, and he knows it).
No, he doesn't want any of the lesser talent.
Not now.
He prefers Destiny's memory to their physical presence.
The idea of Destiny is hotter than their company. No comparison, in fact.
And, now that his body has confirmed to him his actual status as stud of studs, his hidden identity, his alter ego, he wants no company but that of his own thoughts.
Unless.
But that's not going to happen, and he knows it.
Just as he knows that Destiny will not appear among the patrons at this time.
No, he can see those curves now, in the shower, can see her hands gliding, with soapy washcloth, over her own contours, can see her idly scrubbing her boobs, rolling them around absent-mindedly, oblivious to her own sexuality as she reflexively washes off the sweat of the spotlight's heat, the grime of the atmosphere, laden with the scent of beer and stale bodies, glands secreting their excitement.
From all those male animals in heat, himself among them.
Among them, but not of them, not lumped in with them, dammit!
And again that nausea.
Because he could have done it!
Does she understand that?
Waddaya, nuts? he asks himself, catching himself becoming over-wrought.
She doesn't know him.
She has never seen him in her life, and she never will.
And the nausea gives another surge. What a fucking waste! He wasted a perfectly good hard-on. Not that he has a problem with his Johnson, mind you.
Hell, if nothing else, he has just proved that, has given himself a prime demonstration to attest to the fact of his potency.
But he can only sigh in regret.
Other times, other lives, right?
Their paths can only cross as they just have.
Which is not a crossing at all.
They are ships that pass in the night, she an ocean liner, he a trawler.
He has seen her, but he doubts that she even knows he exists.
But surely, he tells himself, surely she could feel his excitement, his thought waves, his eyes upon her, communicating with her.
Yeah, right, he tells himself. You and a hundred other fucking jamokes sitting here with their tongues hanging out.
Because she was not like the others; them, he could take in stride.
Better than anything he ever had in person, some of them-face it, most of them-but, in this atmosphere, he can afford to be a sexual gourmet, to reject them out of hand.
Yes, he rejects them before they can ever reject him.
He can afford to play that game with them and be out nothing.
And in fact, it gives him a certain sense of power to wave them off, to cancel their approaches to him.
Even though he is just some stranger they want to buy drinks for them and thereby enhance the house's profits.
Still, there is a certain superiority to shrugging them off, to rejecting their company.
Saying to them, in essence, No, I do not want you for my harem, I require something better, something truly worthy of me, of my manhood, of the stud I know myself to be.
But this is bullshit, he knows.
He could not service a harem.
And doesn't really want to try.
No, he only wants one thing, one woman right now.
Destiny.
But alas (again that surge of nausea, that sense of waste of what he has to offer, of waste of time, waste of his life), that is not to be.
For one thing, she doesn't know he exists.
For another, he knows that he is not physically imposing, is not in any sense her ideal male partner, the man for whom she would experience a surface attraction.
And then too, he has a plane to catch.