I really enjoy writers who take on interesting writing styles–especially in erotica. In “Cowboy” Rita Rollins writes the frentic fantasy thoughts of someone pleasuring herself so well! This is a must read in Violt Blue’ latest Voracious out now from Cleis Press.
I’m in the forest and I’m getting nailed up against a tree—no, I’m at the beach, lying down in the sand. The grains of sand are massaging my back as a man’s rough hand is touching my smooth legs, and … where did his hand go? Maybe it’s a woman. Yeah, a beautiful woman, the woman of my dreams, she is rubbing my leg. She moves her hand up my thigh—oh, no … the beach could be cold or rainy or windy, it’s…impractical. Start over. We’re in a hotel room. Okay, that’s nice. It’s a nice hotel room with clean satin sheets, and we’ve just finished off some champagne. The woman of my dreams starts to lick between my legs. A man comes up to deliver more champagne. He watches her eating me. He drops the champagne. He unzips his pants, and we both want to suck him off at the same time. But we want to tease him first. I take off his tie so I can use it to bind his hands together. I shut the door.
I come, and I’m all alone, the fantasy left unfinished. I want to know who these dream people are, when they will come and release me. But now it’s getting late, and I have to go to work.
I venture out onto the busy Friday-night sidewalk, past the jazz clubs and pizzerias, and I stop at the address, 1313 Rochester. It’s my home away from home. It’s where I go to help other people dream. The red and black lights inside the club create perfect, inexpensive angels. Twenty dollars is all you need to get a private dance. I slide past the dancers and into the dressing room. I drop my light suitcase on the table and prepare to primp. Who will I be tonight?
Sometimes I am dark: dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothing. I am here to punish you. Sometimes I am light: blonde, amused, innocent. I am here to serve you. Sometimes I am here to indulge myself, and I put on fishnets with seams, and clothes that have tassels on them, and I dance to swing and pretend I am from a simpler time. You can watch if you want to, if that’s what does it for you. Sometimes I barely dance: I just roll around the stage, grind myself against the pole; fuck my image in the mirror. My small pale breasts are reflected back at me. I watch my long, toned dancer’s legs move. I see my dark- chocolate hair tangling and tumbling down my shoulders. My gray eyes are always smiling cruelly, as if I’ve got a secret. I cast a brief glance over my shoulder to look at a customer. I smirk and romance my own image again. Some men are most enticed when you ignore them. They can fill in the blanks; fan- tasize about me however they want to. I never involve myself too completely. That’s the first rule of stripping.
I am surrounded by them now, as I dance and they watch. I am surrounded, but I am alone. I am a fish and they are outside the bowl.
I try not to feel so lonely. It’s bad for business. I put on a cute smile and bat my eyelashes like a naive kitten. Here I am: I’m all yours. Dollar bills line the stage, and I think about my next shopping spree. That always cheers me up. A man at the end of the rack is watching me intently under the rim of his cowboy hat. He seems to be signaling me with his inky green eyes. He is as handsome as a real cowboy. I saunter over to him.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Nico,” I purr.
“Your real name,” he says, with mock exasperation. His eyes have a friendly twinkle in them. I giggle.
“Not believable enough?” He shakes his head. My eyes trace his face and land on his square jawline. His face is chiseled, and freckled with stubble along the edges.
“It’s Rose,” I say in all honesty. I don’t know why I’ve surrendered my secret to this man with the wry smile.
“I like it. Rose,” he says, tasting my name like candy. His lips look full and soft. They are a rosy pink and seem at odds with his masculine physique. I am seduced by the way he licks them slightly, bites them. I am all his. “Care to dance?” he asks.
“You want a show?”
“No,” he says, stubbing out his Marlboro in an ashtray. “I want to dance with you.”
“I can’t,” I explain. “It’s against policy.”
“I see.” He looks around at the bodyguards and security cameras. “Well, how about a show, then?”
I lead him to the VIP area and show him to his seat. This room is even darker than the main room. Only our eyes are bright white. “Tell me a story,” he suggests as I stand before him, lifting my skirt.
“I can’t,” I begin.
“Is that against policy, too?” he asks.
“No, it’s just…I’m not very creative,” I say, fingering one of my nipples softly through my shirt.
“Tell me what you would do to me, if, you know, it was allowed,” he instructs.
“Well … I could try, but I’m going to have to charge you extra for that,” I say nicely.
