A Live One
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A Live One
by Greta Christina
What an asshole, Sheila thinks as she plays with her pussy. He's been
popping quarters into the booth like they were rock candy. A smile
wouldn't cost anything extra.
She smiles down at the customer through the glass, a sugary, seductive
smile full of bubble and promise. He responds with the same blank stare
he's been giving her for the last five minutes. His face is flat and
listless, a cheap cement statue of a gloomy frog, with a faint trickle of
hostility leaking through the stone set of his mouth.
She sighs and spins around, giving up, turning her face away. She sticks
her butt in the window and runs her hand slowly over her ass. The fucking
brick-wall men, she thinks. I've never understood why they come here. I
mean, I can give them the sight of a dancing naked woman, but I can't
give them the joy of watching a naked woman dance. Don't they get that
they have to bring that themselves?
She licks her forefinger and runs it up and down her pussy as she gyrates
her hips to the thumping music. She catches Tanisha's eye and gives her
the contemptuous look she can't give the customer. Tanisha gives a quick
nod of sympathy and turns back to Danielle. The younger girl is sprawled
over Tanisha's lap; she squirms and rolls her hips dramatically, putting
on an extravagant show for the two drunken sailors in the corner booth.
Tanisha scowls ferociously and slaps Danielle's tight, round rump;
Danielle gives a theatrical squeal and wriggles in delight.
I like a girl who enjoys her work, Sheila smiles to herself. She knows
these two; they'll be doing the real thing later on. They love faking the
guys out, but they never do it for real for money.
She hears the panel slide down behind her, and glances over her shoulder.
Yup, he's gone. What a tragic loss to the human race. She arches her
back, sore from bending over, and looks around dutifully for a new
Sure enough, just as she finishes stretching, the panel in the other
corner booth slides up. She glances at Lorelei, who's busily spreading
her pussy for a middle-aged man with a briefcase in one hand and his dick
in the other. Guess the new one's mine, Sheila concludes. Conscientious
as always, she shimmies over, squats in front of the guy, and smiles.
"Hi," she hollers over the deafening synth-pop din. "I'm Chloe."
In response, he pulls a pad and pen out of his pocket and begins
scribbling. He holds it up to the window and smiles back. Hi Chloe, it
reads. I'm Henry.
Her eyebrows shoot up, surprised and impressed. Smart guy, she thinks.
Inventive. And he actually wants to talk to me. Maybe this will be a live
She tucks her legs under her like a cheesecake model and runs her hand
over her torso. "So, Henry; you come here often?"
He writes furiously and holds the pad up again. Yes, it says. That's why I brought this. I know it's too loud in there for you to hear me...
He flips to another page and scribbles some more. But I want to be able
to talk. This is the best I could come up with.
He reaches into his pocket and drops a handful of quarters into the slot.
She ducks her head and blushes; she knows she should know better, but
she's always a little surprised when guys drop their money just to look
at her. She licks her finger and runs it over her nipple. "So, you like
Yes, he writes. You seem... friendly.
She leans back, spreads her pussy lips open for a teasing moment, then
lets them close again. "I try," she answers. "So what would you like to
You, he writes.
"Sure," she smiles. "What would you like to know?"
He thinks for a moment, then scribbles again. What part of your body do you like best?
Her eyebrows shoot up again. "Interesting question. No one's asked me
"Well, nobody in here," she shrugs. "But to answer your question, I'd
say... my ass. I like my ass a lot. Would you like to see it?"
He scribbles hastily. Sure I'd like to see your ass...
He flips to a new page. But I want to see your face, too.
"You got it, bub," she says cheerfully. She leaps to her feet, spins
around, flops over at the waist and gapes at him between her legs. "How's
this?" she grins.
He laughs and shakes his head. That's really silly, he writes.
"You're right," she answers. "I never understood that one either. Okay...
let's try this."
She gets on her hands and knees, putting her body in profile. She gives
him a smoky look over her shoulder, tousles her hair and growls. Tiger
woman, she thinks. Queen of the jungle. She shifts her leg to show him
her soft, round ass, arches her back and grinds her hips in slow circles.
"How's that?" she asks.
Much better, he writes. So what do you like doing with your ass, Chloe?
She doesn't hesitate. "I like to get it fucked," she replies crudely.
She puts her finger in her mouth and draws it out slowly, getting it nice
and wet. An unexpected shudder goes through her body as she raises her
eyes to meet his. His gaze trails down her back like gentle fingers, and
she squirms and wriggles, pleased and flattered and oddly bashful. She
reaches back with one hand, opens her asscheeks invitingly, and runs her
wet finger up and down the crack. He gazes back at her face, solemn and
anxious; she gives him a small, coy smile and waits.
She grins and licks her lips. She wets her finger again, then slowly
slides it into her asshole.
A sudden rush of pleasure rolls into her head. She moans and closes her
eyes, almost against her will, as she slowly pumps her finger into her
ass. A small, tight spot in her throat begins to dissolve, melts down
into her breasts and stomach; she bucks her hips up hard, bites her lip,
and begins to whimper quietly. Her ass clenches tight around her finger,
pulling it in deeper.
She opens her eyes suddenly, remembering where she is, and gives Henry a wild, intent look. His hands are pressed against the glass, clutching the
notebook; his eyes are open wide, shining with lechery and delight. She
shoves a second finger into her asshole and begins to fuck herself in
earnest, hard and crude and a little rough, just the way she likes it.
She moans louder, throws her head back, and lets out a sharp little cry
She collapses onto the floor, panting dramatically. She rolls onto her
back, pulls out her fingers and surreptitiously wipes them onto the grimy
carpet. "Oh, my god," she whispers.
He takes a deep breath and pulls away from the glass. Jesus, you're
beautiful, he writes. Thank you.
She props herself up on her elbow. "You're welcome," she says.
Was it real? he writes.
"Mmmmmm," she murmurs. "You bet."
She hesitates. "Well... yeah," she says uncomfortably. "More or less. I
mean, it felt good. Felt real good, actually. But no, I didn't come, if
that's what you're asking."
He smiles and nods. Thanks for being honest. I appreciate that.
A softer song comes on the jukebox. So, do you like working here? Henry
The lie springs to Sheila's lips, the automatic lie hammered into her by
months of unspoken training. She gives him a long, serious look, looks
around to make sure nobody is listening, and speaks.
"Well... here's the deal," she murmurs, as softly as she can and still
have him hear her, as loudly as she can without being overheard.
"Yeah, I do like it. The money's good, and the hours are flexible. I
don't have to work forty hours to pay the rent. And the dancing itself is
fun. I like to dance and I like my body... and I like sex, I like being
sexy." He grins and waggles his eyebrows. "And the other women are
amazing. They're smart and funny, and they really take care of each
other. I just love them to pieces."
It all comes out in a rush. "The fucking men," she says bitterly. "They
want it all spoon-fed to them. Pussy and pleasure and all the rest of it.
They think sex should be like TV, but with hotter babes and no
commercials. They just wanna sit back and suck it down like baby birds.
They don't smile, they don't say hi, they don't say 'Thank you' or
'You're pretty' or even 'Nice tits, baby.' They just stare like dead
fish. Not all of them... but a fuck of a lot of them." She takes a deep
breath, startled by her own anger.
He nods. Men are assholes, he scribbles.
She laughs heartily, her bitterness broken for the moment. "Thank you,"
she says. "So... what would you like to see now? Anything special?"
What would you like?
She chuckles. "Why don't you take your clothes off and dance for me," she
jokes. "Just for a change."
He scribbles seriously for a long minute. Okay. But I'd better warn you,
I'm not a very good dancer.
He sets the pad on the bench, runs his hand through his hair, and slowly
begins to undress. She stretches out like a cat and watches in awe,
amazed that he took her seriously.
He unbuttons his shirt, slowly, caressing his chest as he uncovers it bit
by bit. She plays with her own body in response, moving her hand over her
belly as he strips off his shirt and shows her his thin chest.
Hesitantly, he begins to roll his torso in slow, snakelike ripples. She
can smell herself, the sharp, salty smell her pussy gives off when it
wants something really badly. She watches hungrily as he slides his hands
down over his hips. He begins to rub his dick through his jeans, and she
draws a sudden, ragged breath. Her pulse beats hard inside her clit; she
shoves her hand between her thighs and squeezes tight.
Suddenly he stops dancing and snatches up the pad and pen. I feel silly, he writes. I feel like a dork.
She shakes her head, baffled. "You shouldn't," she replies. "You look
great. I'm getting totally wet watching you." She stares meaningfully at
his crotch. "Now show me more."
He drops the pad and pen, slumps against the wall, and gives her a moody, smoldering stare like a model for designer jeans. She laughs and nods approvingly. He begins to move again, squirming against the wall. Slowly, teasingly, he unbuckles his belt, unzips his fly, and tugs his swollen
dick out of his pants and into the open air. He cradles it in his hand
and gives her a wide-open look, proud and fearful and eager for approval.
She ogles his cock and licks her lips, drinking in his eagerness like
water. "Very pretty," she says. "Very nice indeed. But I wanna see more.
Turn around and pull them all the way down. Show me your ass."
He complies immediately; he turns to face the wall, and slowly pulls his
jeans down over his slim hips. She whistles appreciatively as the fabric
drops to his thighs and his bare ass is revealed. He blushes bright red,
presses his hands against the wall, and bends over to give her a better
look. She stares intently at his ass, relishing his exposure, sucking in
the view like a starving woman. Her clit thumps hard, demanding
attention, and she begins to caress it in earnest. I love a boy who does
what I tell him, she thinks.
"Now turn around again," she commands. "Let me see your dick. Let me see you jerk off."
He spins around to face her, jeans around his knees, face flushed, his
dick twitching of its own accord. He jams his back against the wall,
licks his hand like a dog, and begins to slide it up and down the shaft
of his cock.
A sudden flash of longing stabs into her cunt, and she whimpers and
spreads her legs wider. She opens her pussy lips with her fingers and
thrusts her hips towards the glass, frantically and insistently, forcing
her hole into the open, trying to show him as much of herself as she can.
His eyes widen as they take in her sopping wet cunt; he grips his cock
with a trembling hand as she spreads herself apart and furiously rubs her
swollen clit. Their eyes connect; they stare intently, flushed,
shivering, mouths hanging open, eyes wide. His hand moves faster and
faster; a shudder travels through his body, and he bites his lip, throws
his head back, and squirts into his hand. She sees his face contort, and
cries out hard, and comes.
They both take a deep breath and slump backwards. Sheila stretches back
and clamps her thighs around her hand; Henry collapses against the wall,
lost in quiet bliss. At last he pulls his pants up, takes a handkerchief
out of his pocket, and wipes the come off his hand. He picks up the pad
and pen. Thank you thank you thank you, he writes.
"Jesus," she gasps. "You're welcome. Thank you."
That was real... right?
She nods. "Yeah," she answers. "That was real."
The window panel starts to slide down. Henry scrabbles through his
pockets and quickly drops another quarter in the slot. The panel slides
up again; he spreads his hand and shows her the contents with a sad,
wistful smile. One more quarter. He drops it in and shrugs. How much time
do we have?
"About a minute," she answers. "Shit. You'd better get dressed."
He pulls his shirt on and zips his pants. So is your name really Chloe? he writes.
"No," she replies. "Of course not."
What is it really?
She gives him a long, clear look. Maybe I should make up a fake real
name, she thinks. She likes this guy a lot; it'd make him happy to think
she'd confided in him. She thinks carefully for a moment, then shakes her
"I'm not going to tell you that," she says. "I'm sorry."
Quite all right, he scribbles. I understand. Thanks for not lying.
"You're welcome," she replies.
They stare at each other awkwardly, somewhat at a loss for words. "That
was wonderful," she says at last. "Really. You made my day."
He kisses his hand and reaches out to touch the glass. The panel drops
down, sliding over his hand, clicking shut. "Come back sometime," she
calls into the metal plate. She presses her hands against the window,
drained and dazed and a bit forlorn, hoping that he heard her.
She feels a light touch on her shoulder. "Hey, Chloe," Tanisha says.
"It's time for your break." She gives Sheila a light slap on the rump.
"Nice show, girl," she adds. "Hell, you even got me going."
"Thanks," Sheila sighs. "Me, too. Sometimes I really like this job."
"I know what you mean, babe," Tanisha says as Sheila walks off the stage.
"I know what you mean."
Copyright 1997 Greta Christina. Previously published in Penthouse Magazine, February 1997. Reprinted in Penthouse: Between the Sheets, Time/Warner; Best American Erotica 2003, edited by Susie Bright, Simon & Schuster; and Paying For It: A Guide by Sex Workers for Their Clients, Greenery Press.