As I occasionally do, I took my notebook to a strip club, took out my pen, and started writing. After only a few minutes, the hottest dancer in the place pulled my attention away from my writing. We started chatting.
She says she gets Anne Hathaway all the time. I get that. But I see Kate Mara. Each is hotter than the other, but honestly, Anne H looks more like Persephone, while Kate M looks more like Frankie….
Her breasts are bigger than Kate’s. Her ass, fuller. She’s taller, I would guess, by an inch or three.
She has a crazy seductive smile, and she stands out among the horde of dancers by her smell. It’s not cheap stripper perfume. She smells… nice. Clean. Fresh. Not like synthetic petroleum-based lab-manufactured dreck, but instead, like something from nature. Like soap. Like flowers. She mentioned jasmine. Tulips. I don’t know my flowers all that well. But she smells good. It’s not Ivory. But it’s damned close.
She tries, repeatedly, to draw my eyes to her breasts – full F (I thought C, but she set me straight!) cups. To her full ass, which flares out violently, drastically, from her tiny waist. But I’m not biting. My eyes are locked on hers. The club is too dark for me to tell you what color those eyes are, but not too dark for me to know that they’re bright, big, and hungry. I’m not letting go of the eye contact I’m greedily maintaining.
Not. Any. Time. Soon.