BETWEEN THE SHEETS
(A fantasy turns into a dare, & friends become FWBs)
It was the summer of 1995. I was a 23-y/o Illinois farmland transplant, living and partying in Northern California. I shared a three-bedroom house in a suburb of Sacramento with two other males: Mike was the owner of said house; I usually saw him in the mornings then he left around 9am to work two jobs. Jeff was the other roommate -- an introverted workaholic who spent way too much time at his psycho-possessive girlfriend's apartment. That gave me free reign to this tired, 1940's ranch-style house, and I enjoyed having the peace and quiet in the mornings.
One morning, I awoke to abrupt and loud laughter coming from the living room. I leapt out of bed like,
what the fuck?!?
Still tired from last night's shift, I didn't consider putting some clothes on; I just walked out wearing my grey gym shorts and bed-head hair to see what the commotion was all about. Mike was sitting on the worn out, burnt-orange wrap-around sofa which dominated the meager living room. He was preoccupied by drinking coffee and his mouth stuffed with half-chewed glazed donut. Sitting next to him was Kelli.
Kelli was a 5'5, Anglo-Latina with green eyes, a long mane of curly black hair, average build, and sported a tiny zircon nose ring on her left nostril. She was literally a clone of Marina Sirtis (Deanna Troi, on
"Star Trek: Next Generation"
). Kelli wasn't a 10/10 by any means, but she was still a looker -- her friendly, one-of-the-guys demeanor only amplified her attractiveness. She would often show up during the week, donuts and coffee in hand, and bullshit with Mike before he took off to his first job. I didn't think anything of her visiting, probably because I spent my mornings sleeping until noon (
I worked evenings at a hardware store like Lowe's
).
Now, I might've just woken up, but I was still alert enough to recognize that Kelli was giving me an "up-down" at this sudden sight -- a near-naked white male, 5'10, 175 lbs, stocky muscular build, with short brown hair and piercing blue eyes (I've been told that my looks resemble a young Howie Long). Her eyes quickly lit up, and she flashed a white-teethy smile.
"Wellllll... nice to meet you... want some coffee?" She offered eagerly. I sat down and took up the generous offer -- mostly because I didn't want her to notice the growing bulge in my sweat shorts. I would get awoken by her multiple times in the following weeks, in many ways that I'd never expect.
Kelli and I quickly developed a "partners-in-crime" type of friendship -- we both reveled in the Michael Jordan/Bulls dynasty, laughed our asses off at Pulp Fiction, and enjoyed Pearl Jam (
it's the 90s, okay?
). She knew that I often prowled a local nightclub in the next suburb over; it was a complete dive joint, but notorious for easy hookups. She would buy me a beer and cheer me on as I would bump-and-grind with some dirty thing wearing a mini-skirt and thigh-high stockings (
I did say -- it was the 90s
). The morning "convo and coffee" with Mike and Kelli became livelier now that I had joined in the ritual. And yet, once Mike left for work, Kelli would stick around. Our morning topics began to get flirty. Risqué, even. She would ask me how the latest conquest went, saying things like: "Dude, I heard you fucking that slut the other night, it sounded like you were splitting her in half! That is so
hot
!" We were a modern day "Bonnie and Clyde."
That summer, conversation was abuzz: "Have you seen that new movie with Demi Moore in it? She's a stripper and her tits are amazing!" That was an odd year, because it seemed like every week, a new strip club was opening. My male friends were giving dancers their money, and females fancied themselves as potential strippers. In Sacramento, the gender ratio was lopsided; there were five females for every male, so women became extra competitive and sexually charged to land, "their ideal man." Through it all, Kelli remained unfazed. Or did she?
One morning, Mike left early for work, which left me and Kelli in the living room per usual, drinking coffee and eating day-old donuts. Out of nowhere, the conversation shifted to strip clubs. She teased me about throwing money at strippers, then I asked her the question: "Do you think you could be a stripper?" Kelli seemed to stare into space and smiled. Giving me a sideways glance, she said something completely unexpected: "I would never strip... But I wouldn't turn down a lap dance from a stripper."
To say that I was stunned is an understatement. "Wait a sec... I thought you liked guys?!?!"
"Of course, I like guys, silly." She smirked. "But I think it would be sooooo erotic to have another woman grind all over me and seduce me with her body... while you watch."
I took a deep breath and adjusted myself.
Holy shit
, I thought to myself.
I've got a bird in the hand
. We just looked at each other, lustily grinning.
We've now gone beyond flirting, and there's only one direction this is going to go.
"I'm calling your bluff," I challenged. "I'll buy you one -- tonight."
Kelli straightened up, somewhat surprised. "Are you serious?"
"Come back to the house around eight o'clock tonight," I announced. "Dress like you're looking for trouble." She didn't disappoint.
****************
Two minutes shy of eight, Kelli knocked on the door. My heart jumped at the sight of her -- black, knee-high skirt, black sheer hose, 3-inch heels, white blouse with black business blazer. Hair teased and styled. Plum-colored lipstick, black eyeliner, and burgundy eye shadow. She smelled liked jasmine. I stood there, staring at her for at least ten seconds.
"Wow!" I exclaimed. "Whoever you pick out tonight... she is gonna LOVE you!"
She blushed slightly, tilted her head sideways and smiled. "Not if she doesn't jump you first!" We hugged briefly, then walked to her car.
I was wearing my typical-night-out in the 1990s uniform: acid wash boot-cut jeans with a rip at the knee; black hiker boots; black button-down shirt; Eternity cologne. "Dude, your ass always looks good in jeans," she teased. Continuing to flirt with me, she said: "God, you smell so good, I might take you right here on the car hood!"
I stopped at the car door and looked her in the face with a shit-eating grin: "If this is your way of trying to puss out of this, dream on." She nodded, contorting her mouth slightly, as if she were thinking,
Okay motherfucker, we'll see, won't we
? We boarded her silver Toyota Camry and headed to Auburn Boulevard.
In the 80s, Auburn Blvd was nicknamed, "Gasoline Alley," because it was lined with miles and miles of used car dealerships. The Boulevard was also a renowned location for prostitution. When the 90s swung into action, it wasn't a surprise that strip clubs started dotting the landscape. I picked a newly opened joint named, "City Limits." It was a corrugated-steel eyesore painted gray with purple trim, situated on Auburn near Garfield and Manzanita Avenues (
Note: The club was the first strip club on Auburn Blvd, and was open for twenty years; it closed in 2015 due to rezoning
). There were multiple clubs, but City Limits had better-looking dancers. We parked at the side of the locale, away from the road, but near the entrance. We locked the car doors and slammed them shut.
