Peep This

Fair warning: This is true-life, softcore kink rather than hardcore fiction, so if you're looking for that stuff you may not want to invest your time in this story. Aside from the names, it is completely true.

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I've never worked in a peepshow, so who am I to say? But I feel kind of gypped that they've been run out of New York.

There were no peep shows back in D.C. My training wheels were strip clubs like the Royal Palace. I always loved that name. The dancers there ranged from cute Latinas with braces, to purple-haired punks who danced for a week to make their rent, to blondes with budget-plan boobs that looked like giant Snack Packs glued to their chest. I'd slip in every couple of weeks during my lunch break. I always felt so sneaky when I returned to my office, because I'd just had a couple of beers and watched a girl bump and grind.

If you kept your eyes peeled at the Royal Palace, you could catch all the furtive action: A businessman trying to keep cool while a stripper's hand moved frantically under the tablecloth. Dancers emerging in tandem from the dressing room, eyes red and glazed, talking in a drug-induced staccato rhythm. One time I watched a Heath Bar-colored girl who was so excited a creamy trail trickled down her thigh and puddled at her feet while she danced. I said it looked like she was enjoying herself, and she was so turned on she could only manage to nod. A week later I saw her working the counter in a post office. I swear it's true!

But my favorite spots back then were the tawdry clubs up in Baltimore. I went for the first time one night when an Orioles game got rained out. All the clubs there are huddled in a little two or three block stretch on East Baltimore Street. The doormen resembled has-been boxers. Some of the dancers did too. The first girl I encountered, too young-looking for her tattoos to be so faded, strolled up and asked if I'd like to finger her for a buck. I told her I was just getting settled in, then watched her walk around the room lifting her skirt and collecting singles.

I visited friends in Baltimore a few times a year, and usually popped into the clubs afterward. One night I found a spot where the girls all looked like punk rock superheroes: they were gorgeous and built and decorated in tattoos and piercings and crazy haircuts. I nearly fainted at the sight of a red-haired girl whose flesh was draped in exquisitely tattooed carp, geisha, and samurai. Her sex power pummeled the room like a tidal wave breaking against the shore. A sign above the stage advertised table dances for fifty bucks. When she made her rounds I asked what I'd get for my money.

"It's not really a table dance. I take you to a private room downstairs and give you a show."

I forked over the money as fast as I could and we went below. She sat me down in a ratty La-Z-Boy and climbed up onto the armrests. Her little skirt slid up her thighs and she fingered herself, just beyond tongue's reach. I squirmed and told her I'd do anything for a taste. She grabbed my hair, planted her hips, and told me to bite her clit. When I lightly nibbled she sneered "No, bitch! I said to fucking BITE it!"

But these vignettes were just preludes to my one and only peep show experience.

Before moving to the Big Onion I visited as much as I could. I'd sleep on a friend's couch and roam Manhattan for a day or two. I liked to walk aimlessly, watch the people on the street, then buzz into bars at night and bug folks with conversation. Simple pleasures.

Before one visit I told my friend Dallas that I wanted to check out a peep show. She used to live in New York and lamented never going to see one for herself. I guess she thought about them in an ironic sense. She egged me on and asked me to bring her back a token as a souvenir.

On my first night in the City, I hit Times Square around midnight and went in the first place marked "Girls! Girls! Girls!" I bought some tokens, dropped one in the slot, and waited as the partition slowly rose.

It was a disturbing sight. The women were dejected, bored, and broken. I seem to remember two that were playing cards, but I don't know if that's right. Only one woman was doing much of anything. She had a plus-size ass and chunky white thighs, and she stood at a window holding her tits up to a tourist like she was serving him fruit from a platter.

I looked around the room and saw astonished and pathetic faces gawking at the show. They all looked like they were being punished in stocks in a town square. I knew I looked about the same: sweaty, silly, absurd. What a crock! I sure was going to have a lot of souvenir tokens to bring back to Dallas. But just as I pocketed the tokens and the window began to descend, the chunky woman I'd watched collected her tips and returned to the center of the room.

I shoved in another token.

OK, she was hefty, but she was really sexy. Her black hair was as lush as ermine pelt. She wore thigh-high leather boots that laced all the way up, like something Irving Klaw might have designed for Bettie Page. She caught me leering and walked over. She asked if I'd like to tip her. I gave her a five and she stuck a tit through the partition. I flicked my tongue over her nipple. It tasted sweet. I mean, really sweet. I put the nipple back in my mouth and began to suck. I was sure I had never tasted anything so delicious. I asked her what she'd put on them to give them their flavor. She said, "Nothing...I'm lactating. The more you suck, the more I produce."

I wanted more. Every time the partition began to shut, I popped in a token, handed her another five, and sucked. That night I added a new fetish to my already long list.

Her name was Danielle. She seemed nice and had a lovely voice. She explained that she had a daughter at home who was nursing. I told her I thought I was falling in love and asked if she would marry me. She grinned and said, "Well, if we're gonna marry on a whim we have to do it in Vegas." I asked when she wanted to go. She laughed, but I said I meant it. She told me we should talk about it, and gave me her number.

I'm not THAT naive. When I got back to D.C., I figured the number wouldn't be good. But what the hell, I tried it. Danielle answered after one ring. We talked for an hour that afternoon. She was funny and chatty and was still into doing Vegas. We started making plans.

When I gave Dallas her souvenir token, she asked how I liked the peep show. I told her, "It was so good I'm going to fly to Vegas and marry one of the girls!" Dallas' face bunched up with concern. She knew I was just crazy enough to do it. She threatened to kidnap me and hold me hostage until I gave up my ridiculous scheme. But I didn't listen and called Danielle a few days later. She told me all her friends were freaking out because she sounded like she was really about to do it. They said they would do whatever it took to stop her.

We rang each other a lot over the next several weeks. She told me about the music she liked, about the things she used to be addicted to, all sorts of stuff. We laughed a lot. We scaled our plans back and discussed a getaway at one of those honeymoon suites in the Poconos. I felt all funny when I got off the phone and imagined us together in a giant glass slipper, drenched in her breast milk.

Needless to say, our enthusiasm for the scheme gradually waned, and we fell out of touch. When I moved to New York I thought about trying her number but talked myself out of it. Only new experiences really satisfy me, I suppose.

But I did stroll around Times Square one night, and was a little sad to find the peep shows were gone, and my chance for an ill-advised marriage dashed.