Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Adventures Volume 1 (Sample)

I’m an exotic dancer.

Customers call me Victoria. Friends call me Vicky. And if you’re reading this, you must be a friend.

Victoria isn’t my legal name. I lost that long ago in another country, in another life. In my line of work, mystery keeps them coming back, and it’s the key. Show little and tell less. Plus, you have to keep ten feet between your heart and their pricks. Safer that way.

I’m not a call girl. Been there. Done that. Long story. Perhaps I’ll tell you someday.

These days, I work at a club called Private Dancer in Portland, Oregon. Most Americans are unaware that Portland is the nation’s unofficial strip capital. More cooze per mile than any other city. It isn’t all that seedy, and it’s mostly white. It’s not New Orleans or Vegas. There’s something clean in Portland, something pristine. But every illusion remains dirty underneath, and this town’s underbelly needs its ass wiped. 

I glance at my dressing room clock. 10:30. It’s time to go on, but I’m horny. Can’t be horny before class or the students have an advantage over teacher. My left hand creeps down to my pussy as if proceeding by its own volition. I finish applying my make-up with my right hand, as my left fingers run the ridge along my labia. That familiar tingle runs through my body. Obviously, I become wet. My fingers dance along my vagina. The digits trace my pubic triangle, neatly shaven and ready for the show. I watch myself in the dressing room mirror. Seeing my fingers play with my sex turns me on more. I can’t bare the wait any longer. I plunge one into my gash with intensity. A shiver goes up my spine as I find my target. I make eye contact with the mirror as I glide my digits through the wetness. My fingers become arrows hitting the bull’s eye time and time again. Sweet Jesus, that feels incredible. Huge butterflies disco in my stomach from pre-dance jitters and they almost outdo the little ones quivering inside my loins. I hammer away at my sex as I come to a small orgasm. I hold back a bit. I don’t want to go over the line. I have a show to do. 

Even after many years, I get nervous before the dance. Although it’s not half as bad as amateur porn. I did that once, but having five overstuffed meat-men beating me senseless with marble weenies wasn’t my thing. I got out fast, and it was a good idea.

Thinking about that gang-bang makes me horny again, so I resume diddling my love button. In the mirror’s reflection, I study how sopping wet my fingers and sex have become. Watching brings me to another orgasm. This one more powerful than the first. I know. I’m naughty. I can’t help myself. I love sex. I finish my work unceremoniously and slip on my G-string. Time to hit the stage.

One could say I’m an experienced woman with many adventures behind her, but it’s not that romantic. I’d say I’m an unlucky gal with many tough breaks. Doesn’t matter. A girl has to make her way, and dancing is mine. Besides, I like it—the attention I mean. I love when they watch me. Nevertheless, it’s hard under the microscope all day, but worse things exist. Believe me, I’ve seen them.

I take the stage and enter that strange place I fear and respect. That place that gives guys hard-ons and girls Venus envy. That metaphysical space where I lose myself to eroticism.

I take a step forward. Bright lights conceal the men in back. Better that way. Most of them are overweight chimpanzees with too much gold dangling around necks and knuckles dragging the floor. I scan the crowd up front. A little weak on handsome. Too bad. I was in the mood to play.

“Ladies and Studs! Bitches and High Rollerz! Meet the Luscious… Miss… Victoria… Valentine!”

Applause. The Black Eyed Peas destroy the sound system. Fergie can suck it and so can the bass blasting in my ear. I’ll take AC/DC over this proto-pop junk any day.

I smile. It’s ghetto lipstick, fake, not my style, but the jerks like it. These chumps can’t handle my real smile. It’s deadly and far too wise for them. They like entertainment cheap and tasteless like fast food. I raise my hand and give them a wave.

I admit, my customers do vary. Most Neanderthals wear too much gold and tip little to nothing. Some of the misogynistic pigs pay enough. A staggering minority are the sweethearts. I call them Marks—like marks on a target. But I never drain them dry. I always leave Mark a dollar for gas. I don’t want him stuck at the club like a lost puppy. Sometimes, I fall for a Mark. Then I call him a Dave. Daves always end in disaster. I never learn.

I circumvent the pole. I take my time. This is the part they enjoy, the anticipation. I wipe it down with disinfectant. But does it matter? I’ve traveled around the world, done all kinds of distasteful things in dumpster countries. I doubt a few bugs on a pole will hurt. But the American crowd expects it. They like dirt clean. It would ruin the image if they knew the truth about me and my adventures abroad.

Since the misogynists remain our biggest cash bracket, we cater to them. They think we’re dirty enough to nab as a good piece of tail—as arm furniture, one might say—but not too dirty to foul up the production. Hence, the disinfectant and fake smile.

Anyway, time to get on with it. I begin the dance as I sway my hips ever so slowly. The catcalls fade as I enter that forbidden place I call reverie. Yes, I used a big, scary word. I’m college educated and guess how I paid for that?

Other girls dance mechanically. For them, it’s an act. I don’t act when dancing. I’m sensuous. Other girls become bleached under and over. I’m not and I never will. My hair remains as black as my heart and it will stay that way. Other girls have gone under the knife. I haven’t and I won’t. I got tattoos instead. Tattoos mean more and they’re sexier. I make twice as much as my competition because my style remains unique. And guys love unique.

Our difference is for me this isn’t an illusion, this part is ME. I like to dance and I like to turn them on. I’m an exhibitionist at heart and I don’t mind using these twerps to pay the rent and fulfill my idiosyncrasies. 

I close my eyes.

I begin.

I take a single step forward. I pause letting the action resonate.

I eye the audience.

I take a few commanding steps forward and sway my hips slightly with each movement.

Slowly, I stroll around the pole with a lackadaisical flair using my hips as a weapon. I make them wait for it. I turn away.

To Be Continued…

If you want to read the bundled neo-noir erotic collection, please check out Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Adventures: The Bundle or for a print collection see Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Adventures: Volumes 1 – 4 (Collection + Bonus Prequel). Vicky also has a few more free stories HERE.

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