Costly Seduction


I was briefly world famous at the tail end of the 1980’s and the early ’90’s. My fifteen minutes were magical. I was frequently interviewed on radio and national  television shows. Newspaper reporters from around the globe eagerly scribbled down my pithy quotes. My picture was on the front page of the local paper several times. Why, I was even on Nightline! My peers were jealous, admiring or amused. Only my wife remained unmoved.

 It was all so grand. Wonderfully, gloriously, marvelously  grand!

Perhaps the most delightful perk of my notoriety was a string of free trips to New York to appear on various lowbrow tabloid television shows (Sally Jesse, Maury Povich , etc.) On the last full day of my last paid for visit to the city, in 1992 or so, I left the midtown TV studio just before noon still in my suit and tie, and still in makeup. I managed to catch the right subway and hurtled south to Wall Street to meet for the first time with attorneys in a ardently feminist legal think tank, the Center for Reproductive Law and Policy, who were helping me on my Really Big Case.  I had on more makeup than all of the dozen or so women in the office put together. As a middle aged southern while male I was viewed instantly by most of the staff as a dubious character to be met with caution and disdain. The one exception was Lynn Paltrow, a petite, vivacious young lawyer with frizzy hair and outstanding legal skills who was the lead lawyer on my case; she had charitably decided during our earlier phone contacts that I did have at least a few redeeming characteristics despite my age, gender and geographic origin. She  greeted me graciously and we had a productive meeting. Working with her (although my contribution to the resulting Supreme Court brief ended up being quite modest) was one of the highlights of my temporary minor celebrity.

The weather was nice when I left after my consultation and I decided to wander around the southern tip of  Manhattan in search of a decent place to enjoy a leisurely lunch. Finding nothing in the immediate vicinity, I started ambling north. About ten minutes into my haphazard trek I happened upon an upscale “Gentlemen’s Club”. I couldn’t resist visiting this lair of women so decidedly different than the profoundly unglamorous feminists I had just left. With a wallet brimming with unearned cash, I pushed through the heavy doors.

The interior of the club was surprisingly elegant, well lit and not at all like the dark, dingy titty bars back home. Still, I didn’t intend to stay long. I’d watch for awhile, nurse one overpriced drink, then leave to find a restaurant before catching a cab back to midtown. I revised the length of my visit upward when I discovered every one of the half dozen dancers in the club was tall, drop dead gorgeous and topless. These weren’t the kind of faintly sexy pole huggers we had back home. Two drinks suddenly didn’t seem all that bad. Maybe even three. Lunch could wait. I wasn’t all that hungry.

It was early afternoon on a weekday; the place had just opened and was virtually empty. It didn’t take long for one of the dancers to notice me and walk seductively over in a pair of shiny red, spiked heels that matched her delightfully skimpy thong.  A statuesque blonde with tanned, eye popping tits, she told me her made up name then began dancing suggestively in front of my tiny round table as I nervously gulped down a ten dollar glass of  ice free mediocre scotch. When that glass was empty I quickly ordered another from the fully clothed waitress who hovered nearby. With a mixture of wry amusement and surprising discomfort, I ogled the blonde as she lewdly gyrated her hips just a few feet in front of me. Looking down, she smiled, then locked her provocative, heavily made up eyes with mine. Part of me of still knew she was only acting, that to her I was just the first of the day’s horny, out of town fools she would seduce into making a sizable contribution to her growing bundle of sweaty tens and twenties, and, if the day went well, crisp hundreds.

I soon didn’t care. As the second glass of scotch began to work its magic, I began allowing myself to flirt with believing in her vulgar, painted fantasy. Despite the shrill demands from the puritanical voices in my head that I leave this big city den of iniquity at once, I found myself wanting to believe her exaggerated caricature of voracious female sexuality was real, that those smoldering eyes and pouting red lips promised she wanted more than anything else in the world to fuck my brains out over and over and over again. I wanted to believe, against all odds, she might actually deliver on that promise.

Willing suspension of disbelief , indeed.

About ten minutes or so into her dance something truly awful and wondrous occurred. As I struggled to resist the urge to leap into her arms by conjuring up a constant stream of clever (to me) mental comments mocking her, her store bought, impossibly perky breasts, her mass of tangled, bleached hair (or cheap wig), and her uninspired dancing routine, she suddenly danced closer to me until she was standing between my legs. Her naked thighs now touched mine and her breasts jutted out until her nipples were alluringly close to my parted lips. Her eyes still on mine, she bent down and reached her hands toward me until her fingers cradled my head. She leaned into me, then eased my face gently into her magnificent, perfumed cleavage. With rhythmic slowness she swayed her torso back and forth so that my face slid up and down between her breasts. As she did so she softly stroked my hair

My pretense of intellectual cleverness instantly vanished, snuffed out by a wave of shockingly intense and insistent arousal. My cock was astonishingly hard. The gently curled strands of her long, bottle blonde hair tantalized my flushed cheeks as she hovered over me, so close the faintly sour, moist smell of her sweat filled my nostrils. I closed my eyes and tentatively put my damp hands on the bare, curving flesh along each side of her slim waist.  I lost all ability to think. Ensorcelled by her warm, pillowy breasts, I sank deep into sexual delirium as she continued to move my head slowly up and down her naked chest over and over again, her large breasts sliding deliciously over my cheeks and ears and along both sides of my neck. I was almost unable to breathe; my body shivered under the confinement of my pants, jacket and tie. Inexplicably, I also felt an odd, almost childlike passivity in the wicked warmth of this unknown woman’s mercenary embrace. I pushed my face deeper into her cleavage and sighed.

The rest of that day is best left to your imagination. Let’s just say it involved substantial cash transactions in a dimly lit, second floor private room and consumption of a considerable amount of cheap scotch whiskey.

A fool and his money are soon parted and it was my day to play the fool. At five o’clock, with a depressingly slimmer wallet, more than a little drunk, I staggered out of the club and into the harsh glare of the afternoon sunlight. Squinting against the bright sky, I tried to push aside my sense of shame and foolishness as best I could. I hailed a cab, returned to my uptown three star hotel, stripped off my suit and tie, scraped off my makeup, then climbed into bed. My sleep was hard and dreamless.


Photo by Charles Siritho, remixed by me, both images subject to this creative commons license 

One of Charles Siritho’s Sets

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