Page 9 of Driving My Obsession

Pictures of children and boyfriends adorn the other mirrors in the room, but her spot is devoid of any personal touches. It doesn’t seem like anyone would even miss this girl.

Which is good.

A black bra hangs over the back of the chair. The sequins stitched into the stiff cups catch the fluorescent lights and shimmer beneath my fingers as they glide over the material. I lift the heels, dangling them in front of me like I’m holding a dead animal. They’re just as disgusting. I hate these excessively tall and needlessly skanky shoes.

After sitting in her chair, I unzip my fly, pull out my cock, and hold it against the soles of her slutty stilts. I look back at the curtain that separates this room from the rest of the building and hope no one comes in as I stroke myself against the same material that’s been against her skin. I don’t know why I’m scared someone might come in. I probably blend in with the creeps that frequent this place. There’s no way I’d be the first masturbating maniac they’ve had to chase from this room. And that’s what I’ll go with if someone catches me.

I’m just a crazy, crazy guy.

I stroke myself faster, trying to think about anything other than her full tits straining against that bra. My mind reaches for anything other than the way the light hugs the curve of her ass when she bends over and rocks her hips.

Fuck it.

Just because she’s killable doesn’t mean she’s not fuckable too. I explode to some convoluted thought of squeezing her throat while the walls of her pussy squeeze my dick. Beads of come shoot into her heels, and I love that she’ll step all over it the next time she slides her feet inside. I hope it’s still wet and sticky. I hope she’s disgusted.

I reach into my pocket and pull out one of the little gifts I’ve collected for her. After I place it on her desk, I zip my fly and make a hasty retreat. I’d give anything to see the look on her face when she discovers what I’ve done, but I can’t risk getting caught. Not when I have so much in store for her.

ChapterSix

Oaklyn

Heads turn toward me when I step onto the bus. Some of the frequent flyers know what I do because they watch me get off at the stop in front of the club several days a week. A few keep their judgments to themselves, but I don’t miss the curled lips and avoidance of the others. The old woman who likes to sit up front does her usual thing. She grips her massive carpet bag of a purse and places it beside her on the seat, silently telling me I can’t sit with her. I wouldn’t want to anyway. Her musty baby-powder perfume assaults me from here, and the tiny whiff makes my head hurt.

I choose an empty seat toward the back and stare through a dirty window. I hate riding the bus, but I wish it ran later at night so I had a reliable way to get home after work. The heavy scent of exhaust creeps into my nose and intensifies my growing headache. My workday is just starting, and I already have visions of crawling into bed and returning to sleep.

The bus pulls to a stop in front of the club, and I make my way down the center aisle without crying. It’s a feat. I’m burned out, defeated, and my ankle aches like an absolute bitch. On top of all that, I have to do a walk of shame just to get on and off a bus so I can earn a few measly dollars while avoiding sexual assault for the rest of the night.

I can’t take much more.

An invisible cloud of smoke drifts from the main room, and I can’t understand why it’s so hard for the other girls to remember to put on the goddamn fan when they come in for the early shift. I don’t care if people smoke, but I don’t want to smell it when I have a jackhammer pounding behind my right eye. It’s also as hot as Satan’s asshole in this room. I go to the window and flick on the shitty box fan.

As I turn toward my station, I pause. Something small and brown sits on my desk, right on the corner. It’s some sort of nut. At least...I think it’s a nut. I pick it up and look at it.

It’s a fucking acorn.

“Ha, ha,” I mutter under my breath. “You girls are so funny. How original to mock my name like this.” They must have rubbed their two collective brain cells together for a week to come up with this shit.

I drop the acorn, and it rolls across the floor until it hits the wall. It can stay there and rot or grow a tree for all I care. I hope one of those bitches steps on it in bare feet. Better yet, I could slide it into one of their shoes to ensure they step on it.

But I don’t. While it would feel good to give those catty bitches what’s coming to them, I’ve never been a mean girl and I don’t intend to start today.

I slip off my sneakers and pick up my heels. Something white and flakey coats the inside, and now I’ve moved from annoyed to pissed. I’m definitely being fucked with. I look around the room, trying to figure out who has whatever goo this is. Hair gel? Fucking glue?

Bitches.

The song before mine ends. I brush off my shoes to remove what I can, but it’s really stuck to the material. Without another option, I slip them onto my feet with a grimace and pull off my jacket and sweatpants. I dressed for work before I left the house because the bus schedule conflicted with my call time.

Psh, call time.You can force the girl out of the theater, but you can’t force the theater out of the girl.

I rush to the curtain just as my song begins. I chose a slower number today. My ankle has been giving me fits since the rain last night, and I don’t want to strain it with a fast song that’s loaded with tricks. I’ll have to rely on the pole a bit more than usual, but my body needs a break.

Using my arms and thighs, I climb the pole, hook my leg around it, and ride down to the stage. I focus on the music instead of the incessant cat calls. I pretend I’m in the ensemble of a production ofChicago, my black silhouette cast upon an opaque wall in front of me as the leads sing about how horrible men are. What a treat for the audience.

I wouldn’t have had to remove my top in a production like that, though. This is where the fantasy ends and it becomes harder to pretend I’m living my dream. This is no one’s dream.

With my breasts fully exposed, I move closer to the edge of the stage and smile. The smile is fake, but even the ensemble needs to have acting skills. Per Konstantin Stanislavski, there are no small roles, only small actors. I wonder if he ever frequented strip clubs.

Probably not.

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