Trillions is where you go to get laid. It's not a private club, but you do have to look a certain way to get through the door. Well-groomed, is perhaps the most polite way to phrase it. I flatter myself that I do try and take care of my looks. While photographing models I've picked up a few hints and tips, and I'm not too modest to say that I've been mistaken for one of them on occasion. For your benefit, I'm five-seven tall in bare feet, trim figure, 34C bust, with shortish blonde hair. My eyes are clear blue, and I have very full, soft lips, or so I've been told.
That Saturday night I was lonely, restless. I had the day off and I'd been to the gym that afternoon. I don't know what it is but exercise leaves me really pumped up and horny. I guess it's the adrenaline. Anyway, I was pacing the room and, to be frank, dying for some good sex. This was a dry patch in my social life. The last time I'd been laid was on a beach-shoot in Sardinia. He was tall, handsome, Italian . . . need I say more? That was two months ago, and I had an itch that desperately needed scratching. I mean, don't get me wrong, vibrators are nice, but sometimes I just need to feel a lover's weight on top of me, hands on my body, hair tickling my thighs as he or she lowers their mouth to my wet, willing pussy.
So after dinner I took a shower, moisturised myself from head to toe, and dressed to attract. I chose a little maroon dress that's designed to be dangerous. They haven't invented lingerie tiny enough to wear beneath this dress, so I always go without. I topped off the outfit with a pair of sheer, black hold-ups and my sluttiest Roman heels. Just a little make-up and I was good to go.
The security men on the door of the club both practically devoured me with their eyes as I exited my cab; a good sign, I thought. They lifted the velvet rope and let me in, wishing me a good evening. I felt them eyeing my butt as I mounted the short flight of stairs and moved down the narrow, marble-floored entrance hall into the main reception room. Beneath a high, frescoed ceiling comfortable-looking chairs were dotted around the outskirts of the circular hall, and in the center a large statue of two entwined lovers; think Rodin's 'The Kiss' but with tongue.
Some of the chairs were occupied by couples sitting close, getting to know each other more intimately. Nothing too risquΓ©, however. Trillions is not a swingers club, nor is it anything as ghastly as a singles' bar. It's somewhere in between. It's a place where attractive, free-spirited people come together to flirt and explore possibilities. It's a rendezvous spot, or a place for introductions, nothing more. If people should want to take things further, they're welcome to leave and find somewhere more private. The point is, everyone is there for the same thing.
I could hear music and voices from the main room buzzing through the heavy doors in front of me. Taking a breath I walked forward and pushed my way through. I had been expecting the usual club scene: noise, flashing lights, people gyrating and pounding their feet on the floor. Instead, I found myself relaxing as soon as I walked in. The music was clam and subdued; the dancers were writhing slowly together; the lights were soft and varied, leaving bright areas at the bar and plenty of dark corners elsewhere.
The club was split into two levels, the dancefloor taking up most of the lower level and the top being occupied by chairs and booths. I went up to the top, slowly taking in my surroundings as I ascended the metal stairs. The place was pretty full, but big enough to allow for some space. There were couples and groups, and singles dotted around, standing and watching or prowling like hungry animals. I appraised everyone I saw, wondering if I would get lucky with any of them tonight. I was tingling all over and I hadn't even touched a drink yet. I decided to remedy that, and quick.
I ordered a Martini and sat down at the bar. I was suddenly nervous, yet my heart fluttered with possibilities. It took about two minutes for someone to pluck up the courage to talk to me.
'Good evening.' He was tall, dark hair, winning smile. His shirt collar was hanging open in a way that I liked. 'How are you?'
'I'm fine,' I said, slowly sipping my drink. 'How are you?'
'All the better for seeing you.' A little cheesy, but there was that gorgeous smile again. 'Mind if I join you?'
'That would be nice.'
He sat down and ordered a drink. When he turned back to me his eyes went immediately to my breasts, then very swiftly up to my eyes. 'I don't think I've seen you before,' he said. 'My name's Tom.'
'Pleased to meet you, Tom.' We shook hands. He had a firm grip. 'Actually, this is my first time here. I'm Alice.' It was a fake name, the first that came to mind; Alice disappearing down the rabbit hole and into the unknown.
'Alice,' he said, as if cementing it in his mind. His eyes went back down, this time all the way to my legs. I did some looking of my own, admiring his chest, his muscular arms, the nice shape of his waist, and the satisfying bulge in the front of his tight pants. When our eyes met again he amped that smile up even more. I have to admit, I was feeling a little warmer. I took another drink.
'So, Alice,' he said, leaning toward me a little, 'can I ask you a personal question?'
'Please do.'
He licked his top lip, then said, 'Do you think it's corny to do it in the backseat of a car?'
I played along. 'What kind of car?'
'Well, as I was driving here in my new BMW, I was thinking to myself that I hadn't properly Christened her yet. How'd you like to take a . . . ride with me?'
Oh dear. How disappointing. I said, 'You don't waste much time, do you?'
'That's why you're here, isn't it?' Suddenly his smile was a little too wide. 'Or, doesn't a ride in a hot car turn you on?'
I drained my glass and stood up. 'I'm sorry, Tom. When it comes to cars, I only ride American.'
I walked away from him, resigned to the fact that even Trillions must have its share of dickshifters. All depends what you're into. My guess was that Tom was mostly into himself; every night, in fact.