John Saves the Stripper

The Holy Seraph--Mary

Chapter 7 from the psychological murder thriller, Blowgun...

by William JH Anderson | Atlanta, Georgia

wjha@premier-magazines.com | 678-451-quadruple nines.

Get the entire novel at: http://premier-magazines.com/novel.htm

Click to hear Mary's three songs...

The brand new, enhanced Counter Earth John rolled on, hiding in his moving car from the reporters that constantly pursued him. It beat the fuck out of them gathering at his house or office. He headed down Cheshire Bridge Road, this one road alone swarming with at least twenty strip clubs. Atlanta was world famous for them and had at least two hundred.put up at Up at

His brain, now with no Earthly limits, thought back to glorious days of old when he did some P.R. work for one of the most disgraceful but premium strip clubs if there was such a thing called Bottoms Up.

One girl had no business being there. For the rest of his old and life, he would never stop reflecting on the blameless, immaculate statuesque woman there, in this den of depravity, too pretty, blond, wholesome; she should have been on the cover of a cake-mix box, the new Betty Crocker of all that was good at the grocery store, everlastingly John‘s type of lady. One look at this stacked, startling American honey bun’s cheerless face told him she was humiliated with her nasty job. Soon he would find out just why so much.At twenty three, she was a brilliant girl putting herself through college. When John found out she was doing this horrible job just so she could go to some school his heart yearned for her soul even more just thinking of the extreme dichotomy.

But John never did find out what school or he probably would’ve cried. The girl-next-door had guts.

She needed money and lots of it to attend the prestigious Georgia Institute of Technology, second only to MIT in Massachusetts in engineering. Tuition alone was $9,653 per semester. Her meals were $1405 and her traditional four person dorm room cost $963. In each case she had opted for the most modest choice and it still totaled $12,001 ($36,000 per year) not counting books and supplies. At least she paid no activity fees. She had none.

Incredibly, she had chosen to major in civil engineering so she could build bridges. Having known that, it would have pushed John over the edge--in tears.

Her Spartan life consisting of class, studying, riding buses and undressing absolutely nude like a disgraceful dumb-blond in front of strangers. Mercifully her lurid way of earning money was about to change forever.

Her ludicrous stage name was Dixie. Lovely from within, she was only just barely able to put on a credible, cynical slut-face, a necessity in these legal, all see, but no touch whore-houses putting her at the bottom of the tip totem pole.

Earlier the owner, quite likely the most repulsive man John had ever met, pointed her out.

”See that holier-than-thou whore-bitch over there? The real tall one? The brainy bitch thinks she’s some fucking blond Nordic ice princess. If the fucking hick was really smart, she’d get her fucking face out of those fucking books and be a ball—licking, stupid bubblehead like my other fucking whores and make some real money, but no, she’s to fucking prissy to pry open her pristine pussy for my guys.”

Years later John would add this repulsive carnival barker man to the top of his assassination index and kill him in an especially imaginative way—a living death so to speak.

Studying her desultory attempts at working the room to perform humiliating $20 table-dances, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Somebody help her! Yes, you asshole, you will…

In the next few minutes, John helped her with a few words of advice. His secret was pure man sex science—the theory of contrast. A spot on analogy would be a porn movie starring Doris Day or Mary Poppins.

Dixie despondently worked the room between her three-song sets having little luck against her more wily, wicked, man-hating coworkers. John cast his bait, and he’d need a lot of it for this pretty, vastly virginal looking Mary Poppins.

Cheating a little with some one dollar bills at the bottom, he made a tall, neat stack of $100 bills hoping she wasn’t too far gone, forever holding all men in contempt. John surveyed the room. The in here were truly the porcine party of human evolution.

He politely waved at Mary with none of the normal asshole finger-snapping. The pretty, poverty-stricken young lady rolled her eyes cringing at the thought of grinding her immaculate rear-end and natural vagina in yet another pig’s face for $20.

She composed herself and put on her best, callous call-girl look and resolutely marched to the $100 lures.

John fucked up right off the bat and out it came.

”So, tell me, what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

What? John himself couldn’t believe that lame sentence came from his mouth, a mouth that was paid to communicate—but he couldn’t help it. For once the stupid line was true.

Dixie eyed the money. Overacting, trying to act like a skuzzy skank, said something equally as stupid as the what’s a girl like you line.

I see what you can do for me, hun. And you? I bet you want a little table dance now, don‘t you, sweet thang!” John was no normal pig-person and felt the seething sarcasm reeking in her voice.

“No. I want you.”

John imagined that Mary was the one of nicest women ever made, but her eyes widened in sheer hatred. John looked and was, and he would never fail to remember the moment and knew there was only one word to describe the visceral feeling of terror in his gut—he was traumatized! Had it been any woman but Mary, his manhood would have been destroyed forever.

The final straw had been placed upon this poor, tormented creature’s soul, her strong, almost broken female animal back was finally cracking, her face fuming, flowing with a pure feminine force that was worse than any violence John had witnessed from a man, she hissed, her eyes maniacally crossing inwards.

“Me? How dare you!”

Mary whipped her long, strong arm back, rapier-like, ready to butch-slap a man.

John was a big, strong guy but the look on her resolute face was fearsome.

Look at her. She could beat the hell out of half the men in here!

For the first time ever in his life, and he didn’t even care, John held his arms up to protect himself from a mere woman. There was no shame in it. This was no mere woman.

Practically, cowering, “No! Don’t! Not you, you. Please. I’m just bored. Call it a talking table dance. Please! Please have a seat.”

She looked at John, down to the chair he had graciously pulled out for her, looking for the sharp tack that must be there somewhere, even the virtual one, brushed the chair off before slowly settling her great butt down. Yes, her perfectly proportional butt for a 6' 1" [1.87m] woman. Only one with the intellect of Mary’s could have calmed herself so quickly.

It took five minutes of sincerity, much cajoling, and finally resorting to telling her he was the hired advertising man of the club, Bottoms Up, to take him seriously. He saw her eyes flit at the hundreds. His turn. He leaned back and said, “So, what’s your real name, Dixie?”

Mockingly she folded her arms around her perfectly big bust.

“My name is Dixie. I do so hope you like it sir.”

My God! Pitiful! Will I ever get to her core? It must be so compelling...

John got right to it in a tone of voice that was incontestable.

"OK. Hi. I’ll call you Mary Poppins? Great name. Yes, the Virgin Mary. First of all, when I said nice girl, place like this, I meant it. Sorry, but that word nice is the essence of my personal P.R. plan for you. Want to double your money working here? Now. Right now? Guaranteed?” He slid a hundred over. “Money back guaranteed?”

Her skeptical whore facade, as thin as gold leaf, said, “No problem—yet. How?”

“OK. Flat out. No offense, Mary, but you and all theses “dancers” wear these ridiculous, frilly stage-whore costumes that no man has seen in the real world. Believe me; what you need to do is wear a regular nice-girl dress exactly like men see in the real world. He wagged his finger derisively at her costume.

“Dump those frilly, pink satin “tear-away” slut panties and your glow-in-the-dark whore-bra and instead, wear a sweet little, say, pink or white street dress-skirt, whatever you ladies call them, and underneath, wear perfectly regular, girl next door, normal, white-cotton, department store underwear, and I mean regular—like department store regular.”

Mary thought he was making fun of her, just more abuse from another male pig customer. She got up, standing tall.

“Stop a sec! Let’s make it $200 that I am right.” He slid over another hundred.

She looked between her thighs again looking for the trick tack that surely must be there waiting to stick her in her lovely butt but couldn’t find it. She bit John’s hook with her pretty mouth, full of perfect big white teeth. Now she would actually listen and then she got right to it.

“So what are you saying for me to do now?”

John, excited to hear the real Mary, leaned closer.

”OK, smart Mary, quick summary: mom-or-girl-next-door whatever, say, in pink or white dress, no stiletto pumps, real shoes, white regular real woman bra and white underwear like what you really wear in real life.”

She smiled because that was exactly what she did wear. Her whore facade was melting and a knowing, wry smile appeared and she let her wit show for once instead of just her stage vulva, which both reeked in pure femininity.

“So, you’re looking up my skirt at the department store because, get this, I really do shop at Wal Mart. Do you think that is funny?”

“This is how funny I think it is.” John slid another $100 and said, “One three-song set, but exactly my way. Look there’s $300 and you’ll do it my way because I‘m paying for it.”

The deal was on. Mary, the math genius, repeated the summary perfectly, white panties and all and said, “So I do this girl-next-door thing and I get $300?” John nodded—so severely, with such heartfelt passion there was no question. Then her body slumped disconsolately when she remembered.

No. The deal was off!

Mary stared back with her real face. She looked at the $300 longingly and started to sob. She sniffed and wiped her entire long arm across her nose.

She put her face into to her pretty, long hands just waving it back and forth pitifully and said in a loud, dejected whisper.

“SHhhhh... well, there is good news and bad news! Coming to work today, I wore exactly the clothes you described, but I can’t because...” She raked her arm across her now warmhearted womanly face again like scratching off a losing lottery ticket.

Seeing her do this made his heart ache for her. “What? Why not? There it is. Take it!” Her temples flushed pink. “Please, don’t even ask. I can’t.”

John had to know the Virgin Mary’s secret. He slid another $100 over. Exasperated, he said, “Please tell just me. We’ll make it $400.”

Mary, surely as she knew...

e = 2.71828..., the Base of Natural Logarithm

could do simple arithmetic. Showing how far she was “sold,” she slid the money one-third of the way towards her side of the table.”

Okay. Ready? Really ready for some female reality?”

“Yes! Hear it all! Job, school, exams—I haven’t changed my funky, dirty-ass clothes, much less my skid-marked panties in five--no, six days! Hell, want to smell my blouse’s armpits from riding all those hot buses? Would you like that? See why I can’t?”

John’s adrenaline surged, knowing this would only make his contrast formula work even better. “You think that bothers me?”

Then, waving roundly at all the losers, “And them? Trust me. It’ll make it all the better. Your set is coming up. Go tell the DJ to make it three slow songs--oldies--these songs. He handed her a cocktail napkin praying the DJ would have them. Now, run and change. When you come out, act like—I don’t know—a school teacher, a grad assistant, but above all, act real shy with no whorish pole twirling stuff. Just kinda waltz around.

Mary was getting it. Waltz? Just you wait...

Having paid $400, he looked at her firmly. “But do it just like I said, OK?” Mary nodded, took the money, told the DJ about the songs and scooted off to the whore’s locker room.

John had no doubt. Most of these horrible whores—yes, but no evil lurked in the heart of this woman. She’s going to do it. Yes, better than Christmas for a five year old. Any other whore here would rip me...

Mary’s song began. Oh my God. He has them! Perfect. The DJ was playing Girl! by the early Beatles.

~Is there anybody gone to listen to my story all about the girl who came to stay? Oh, girl… oh girl ~

Amazing. The freaking national anthem for John’s plan! A slow tune, about aching for the girl, the one next door, your friend, the one who let you see her fascinatingly different “thing” that flat crotch in the sandbox at age six because she knew you were starved to see it for the first time, helping a friend, the one on the cake box, the dear, decent, dreamy darling, a friend, the type of girl a guy wanted to carry over the threshold to meet his mother!

The song alone had him pining away. Oh my lord, will you look at that. He was the first to see her barely open the royal blue velvet curtain shyly peering through as if she was scared to come out.

It was other-worldly. Out came a real girl, the one in the sandbox, the one on the cake box.

~ She’s the kind of girl you want so much
It makes you sorry, oh girl! ~

She was breathtakingly pure, in a pink, preppy college-skirt. Will you look at that! The hell with sweet little Olivia Newton John from that Grease movie. Mary was ten times better and as a woman of her word, she was playing the part perfectly. Then it happened. A-ten-hut!

All the men quit talking and all heads snapped as one. The men were present in this descending numeric hierarchy: Whites, Arabs, Japanese, Blacks, and Latinos. All stared in fascination, as if it were a mistake.

God! Did it ever look like one! She wasn’t even attempting to “dance.” Told you...

The only rhythmic movement she presented was the one God forced upon women via his necessary feminine design for breeding. Just walking made Mary’s heavenly hips undulate, arcing pendulum-like, now the mesmerizing metronome the sweet high school band girl once used to keep time while playing her clarinet.

Hands on hips, she paced down the catwalk slowly, deliberately, and upon reaching the end, twirled expertly, just quickly enough to give the men a small glimpse of her womanly, white underwear. They were stunned. A terrible mistake. They were not made of pink plastic, no frills or garish zipper even.

Almost every man nodded and elbowed one another other baffled, most not even recognizing her with out her whore-suit. Yes. It was just some weird, fascinating mistake.

~ When you say she’s looking good

She acts as if it’s understood

She’s cool, cool, cool, cool, ah Girl! Girl! ~

Still pacing, hands haughtily on hips, she twirled faster on each precise about-face on the sole of her cheap, girlie white and pink saddle shoes, intentionally revealing, inch by teasing inch more of her almost matronly, soccer-mom panties.

John looked on in amazement. Look at her. No, look at the audience. As the song ended, Mary actually curtsied and at the last second, flung the back of her pink skirt up, flashing her huggable butt a final time with a don’t you wish you could have this feminine wiggle.

But she had left her white blouse and pink skirt on. What? She had broken all the rules!

Song one: outfit off. Song two: bra off. Song three: panties off. But the men loved Mary’s new rules.

They elbowed each other, not so much rudely, but respectfully pointing, collectively saying, did you see that? Song two started. The joint hysteria thought, how will she do it?

It can’t be the norm. To get down to just her panties, her shirt, skirt and bra would have to come off. Again, the normal stage-whore thing for song two was garish plastic, sequined top off, down to butt-floss whore panties with lots of tit wiggling, and ass-teasing. Again the crowd was thinking as one. How? What order? Yes! That white shirt-blouse off, then her ladylike pink skirt had to come off somehow, and then what? Was she braless under there?

John hated all DJs vehemently, except for one now—this one at the Bottoms Up. The guy was a genius. Another Beatle song. Too perfect.

Yesterday! Sung by McCartney. Out came Miss Innocent America. She winked at John, in that instant saying, you were right, thank you, thank you! Mary had to hurry. She had to peel away three things in this one song or would she...

~ Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play ~

Talk about contrast. No pacing now. She stood motionless in the middle of the catwalk, heaved a breast-expanding sigh, looked down at her bust with an “oh well” look and then like the best looking teacher in high school being forced to do it right in front of the whole class she bashfully, methodically, unbuttoned her blouse, starting with the bottom button.

John walked quickly over to the brilliant DJ and hissed, “That’s my friend up there. Turn off the strobes! No disco lights. Just shine that one spotlight on her—full blast! And loop the songs—five times if it takes it—this will be so good, it’ll take her some time.”

The DJ knew. He did it instantly. After doing this shitty job for nine years, he had thought he had seen it all. No. He hadn’t.

~ Why... she... had to go!

I don’t know, she wouldn’t say ~

Her honest to goodness, cheap department store bra, startlingly white in the limelight was at last revealed. Mary was a natural-born entertainer. She did not undo the top button. She popped her blouse open just an inch or two, sending the button flying. The men were drooling.

Look. The teacher. She did it. Motherly Mary now understood contrast perfectly. Standing statuesque still, her girlie, cheap saddle shoes together, she inhaled deeply, puckered her lips, and let her panting breath open her blouse. With two last heaving lung fulls of air, she peeled the white cotton fabric almost off her shoulders. It was hard, but no-hands, she forcefully waggled her upper body, and as her shirt started to fall, she deftly caught it with her right hand.
John noticed this expert move. All the other men just looked at her 38-D bra covered breasts flailing back and forth—just the right modest amount—well for a school teacher.

But all John could do was murmur aloud, “Oh my God, no, yes!”
So deliciously deviant! So decadent! Just right. Perfect.

That was nothing...

It was in need of a shave, but Mary, the enigmatic nun-nympho wantonly wiped her sultry, hairy armpit with her blouse seductively rubbing it up and down over and over. This brainy blond could turn one act into a full play!

She held the admittedly, four-day old, reeking material to her nose, took a good long whiff of her feminine funk, shrugged with a who frigging cares look and tossed it into the crowd! Her busty blouse, fuming with her sweet scented bitch-sweat, was ripped into fecund shreds of femininity by the female-crazed men in seconds.

There was no slutty garter belt under Mary Poppins’ pink poodle skirt. It could not have held all the money anyway. Men heaped money on the stage—not just ones-tens, twenties, hundreds…

~ There’s a shadow hanging over me.
Oh, yesterday came suddenly. ~

John knew this awe-inspiring angel was smart. But this? There was no end to her cunning inventiveness.

She started “adjusting” her bra on purpose, sliding it back and forth as if trying to get sand out of it. Gently, she probed her left bra cup with her long, white pretty hand and stroked her breast.
John looked on, having never felt so heartsick for a woman. Was it an act? Mary genuinely looked as if she was having an orgasm.

The men went nuts for the this breast-rubbing thing so Mary strung it out, pulling her bra down, showing off her perfect nipples.

As with her blouse, she turned this bra show into an epic. She tugged her nipple so painfully far out her entire tit turned into an obscene vanilla flesh cone, tweaking it, a transfixing taffy pull.
The DJ was a mind reader. He focused the spotlight into a laser beam homing in on her bountiful breast and engorged nipple. John was astounded—it was better than anything he could have staged himself. She reached back like a real girl would and fumbled for a long time with the clasp in back and off came her cheap department store bra—complete with four- day old underarm sweat marks.

No one had ever seen this. Mary looked down between her bitch-sweat covered breasts and did the shrug thing again.

Oh no... No way!

She slowly pulled her pink skirt up and opened the front of her panties like a purse, looked at the audience -- dare me? -- threatening to cram her bra down into her splooched-out crotch front, but she teased it perfectly, shook her head—uh uh—and let her skirt drop and tucked her bra into the waist of her skirt, letting the 38D garment just hang there. The place cheered even louder.

So there she was now, in a regular pink, floating, pleated pink skirt—topless, barely wiggling her perfect breasts at first, her bra swinging as if on a clothesline, still standing dead still, playing it to the hilt.

Then she went at it—at it hard. She hugged her own tits, going orgasmic again. It was indescribable. As close as John’s man-mind could come to an explanation, was she looked as if were jerking them off—like a man with two johnsons just wailing away. That’s it he thought. She had both cupped from below just double masturbating herself if such a thing was possible with breasts. She let go. Her ripe tits florid color now matched her pink dress.

Then she abruptly changed pace, doing something akin to a perverted Baby-Boop walk, letting her hips sway oh so naturally, wide and wicked, doing a little cheerleader stutter-step every third stride.

Then she did it again. Mary had it! She knew the best way to dance was not to dance. She had somehow managed to invent a new art form—the art of standing so exaggeratedly motionlessness it was hypnotic.

John studied this intently, analyzing, observing. It was the most sensuous thing John had ever seen in his life. He thought, how can a woman standing still be the sexiest thing he had ever seen? How?

Four thoughts came to him and the first one really bothered him. It disturbed him immensely, alarmingly so. John was a writer. His huge vocabulary contained the word necrophilia. Terror gripped his soul for a second. No it... No! He just knew the word but...

One. She was so still, she looked dead in the pale limelight.

Two. Her unblinking stare was canted up at exactly ten degrees gazing up and over the horizon of men’s porcine faces, scanning her new life above them all, her new view raising her to a new tier of feminine superiority, a new heaven only she knew about.

Three. Like a powerful feminine superhero, she was frozen like this, absolutely rigid, her long legs spread very wide under that girlie skirt—the perfect amount—because one more inch would have ruined the enchanting effect.

Four. This one was easy but hard. She had her hands haughtily on her hips—contrast—in the most angelically aggressive manner possible. John got it too and it shocked even him. The look of this avenging angel, lording it over the men, on their turf, screamed any one want a disgusting table dance now? And the men loved it. Mary had done the impossible—she had made being pussy-whipped by a woman in a men’s sex club a sexual fuck-you turn-on. What a genius.
Yesterday was on it’s third loop.

~ Now I need a place to hide away ~

Part four-five? John had lost count. Fuck, how could it get any better anyway? What have I wrought?Mary moved for the first time during the whole song, doing another perfect about-face, and headed for the curtain. Again, as she just plain old walked, not even trying, her perfect buttocks naturally swayed, undulating under her skirt.

She stopped and turned slowly, facing the audience seething with flawless, friendly femininity going dead still again. A friendly woman in here? More contrast.

She looked down at her perfect body and... wham... as if relieving herself of some unwanted trash, she casually slung her bus-bitch-sweated bra away, across the large room. It too was torn to shreds by the men in seconds.

She put the best who, little old me? look on her darling face, and reached back and pulled the front of her dress up again—in the craziest way possible. Yes, she pulled the front up all right, but through her thighs backwards between her thighs, and strained, stretching it, pulling it as hard as she could under and around her sweaty crotch and embedded it between the crack of her buttocks. The hell with the other men. John himself almost fainted.

No one could see but she must have clamped those butt cheeks together like a vise holding it because as she brought her hands to the front it was tight as ever in front. John understood the perfection of it.

Mary had invented yet another first, what one might call the veiled-vulva effect, hidden but seeable. Opaque yet clear. There and not there. Her dress was so tight in front, her virginal pudendum was clearly visible. A perfect, barely distended trophy twat, a bisected heart-shaped triangle, her cooter’s crevice, impossibly deep, showing through faultlessly. John thought, this is better than nude. Ten times better.

She canted her hip to the side and put one hand on it. She needed the other.

~Oh, I believe in yesterday.
Mm mm mm mm mm. ~

Again she instinctively knew the man-secret of contrast. Standing perfectly still, using just her index finger, she entered her cloth covered female chasm, rhythmically going up and down, slowly, deeply, over and over and over, it was so awe-inspiring the DJ flawlessly looped McCartney’s song making it even longer and ending it perfectly as she seemingly had another on-stage orgasm and finally slithered her hand out of her vagina’s volupuous valley.

Everyone’s mouth hung open.

Will you look at that? No way. From fifty feet away one could see it was perfectly vertical, alarmingly cavernous, long, stunningly straight, just steaming. There was a vast sopping wet, stripe darkly soaking her pink skirt splitting her crotch in two. An Indian man did faint, his friends trying to hold him up.

~ Oh I believe in Yesterday ~

Yesterday faded away, wondrously, at the perfect point. She turned facing away from the audience and un-scrunched her butt cheeks letting her skirt fall free.

Money was flying. The stage was covered in cash. She bowed, just to flash her underwear again. John alone was probably the only one to notice, but the rear-end of her panties were whorishly streaky. John’s own crotch was stirring.

His plan was good, too good.

Song three. The DJ changed course perfectly. From Englishman to English lady. Contrast yet again at work. The song was To Sir With Love sung by Lulu in the movie of the same title starring Sidney Poitier, a mournful song with reference to school days gone by and about growing up. This double theme was ideal.

John imagined To Sir With Love had never played in a strip club in the history of the world but on it came. Lulu started…

~ Those schoolgirl days Of telling tales
And biting nails are gone ~

Out she came. This time she more than walked—she sauntered in perfect step with the tune trying to look like a half nude, poor English schoolgirl. She pulled it off perfectly.

After about thirty seconds of this forlorn, swaying stroll she again came to a halt, her head slumped mournfully down, her voluptuous rear-end facing the audience. She visibly sighed her breath away, silently hiccupped hard, and gulped as she reached back, slowly unzipping her pink skirt as slow as molasses as if being forced at gunpoint.

~ But in my mind I know they will
Still live on and on
But how do you thank
Someone who has taken
You from crayons to perfume? ~

John saw her shoulders rhythmically shuddering and a real fear gripped him that maybe his plan had gone to far. Either she was really sobbing or she had stepped into a third stage persona. One thing for sure, Never in his life had he seen such a stunning, well-designed, winsome woman, so perfectly proportioned and pretty at six feet tall.

John thought, damn right. Pretty was far beyond beautiful. A man might say, “Look at that beautiful whore.” A man would never say, “Look at that pretty whore.”

Standing absolutely still, the statuesque virgin had to push the incredibly contrasting slim waist of her pink girlie skirt over her curvy hips. John wished he had a tape measure. Her measurements must have been about , her hips almost 1.7 times as large as her waist whereas with the classic the hips were a mere 1.5 times as large.

She let the unzipped waist get caught on her hips for a few seconds.

Her medium cut panties were almost up to her navel. Only Mary could have gotten away with this 1950s Doris Day lingerie. She let her girlie skirt slither off her hourglass figure, sliding down her porcelain-white thighs to the ground, revealing her truly girl-next-door white underwear. Mary had the race horse legs of a beautiful thoroughbred.

The silence was broken as the exclusively male crowd quietly whistled, not the classic wolf-whistle, more like phew, will you look at that…

John elbowed his way to within ten feet of the stage to see if she really was crying and then he saw...

Forget crying...

He looked very close. She was right. They were!

Damn if the white cotton covering her beautiful butt wasn’t skid-marked half way up the crack of her breathtakingly beautiful breeder butt and equally shocking was how conservative and high-waisted they were, accentuating her hourglass figure all the more. How regular. How normal.

~ If you wanted the sky
I would write
Across the sky in letters
That would soar
A thousand feet high
To Sir, With Love ~

She did it perfectly. Shyly covering her bulging crotch area, she turned her butt to the audience, and started her slow undulation, wiggling her dirty, but darling and decent panties down--just to the top of her rearend’s crevicein back and her pubic hair in front. Then, Mary, spinning on one heel, turnred towards the audience and then they saw it...

Her protrudung puss with its flowing, feminine fissure was conspicuously heaving, it pulsated, slurping itself in ad out, beating, seething in her syrupy sweat. John then saw she was a genius. She left her underwear around her knees! John took in the picture in its entirety.

A woman going “knock-kneed” including “toes-in” posture was hard to explain but John knew men found this look strangely alluring. It was the concept of contrast at work again, as in seeing something unthinkable, opposite: hot-cold, clean-dirty, wholesome-whore etc.

Seeing a professional stripper doing her job was mundane but seeing the best looking, super-feminine teacher in high school undressing in front of the class was eternally unforgettable and John knew why—the same reason why it is men and not women who become attached to unusual sex objects such as high-heeled shoes, lingerie etc. because males needed to develop targets for arousal, particularly in the form of visual configurations. It was connected with the well-known arousability of males and the fetishistic content of man’s fantasies.

There she was, a smart, tall, pretty blond lady now, completely nude, wearing only school girl pink and white saddle shoes, white socks and with her fabulously skid-marked white underwear around her knees, with a perfectly normal—no shaving here—just a regular, perfect blond, triangle-shaped vagina and that lovely birth mother butt of hers.

~ If you wanted the moon
I would try to make a start
But I would rather’
You let me give my heart
To Sir, With Love ~

The place went berserk! Men were rushing the stage, throwing piles of money. The bouncers jumped to protect her but there was no need because every man there didn’t want to rape her—they wanted to tenderly embrace her, save her and carry her away home to meet momma!
John noticed Mary had to kick money out of the way with her girlish shoes as she wiggled her perfect, milky white ass and her equally white tits just the right, modest amount. Then the song was near the end.

As she exited the stage, she made one final gesture to the crowd that was beyond brilliant. With her panties still forcing her to walk knock-kneed, she bent over like the most depraved but wholesome whore of all time, but she didn’t spread her butt cheeks inhumanly wide as the others would have, she just pulled her underwear slowly up. Then she did her shrug thing again, seductively slid her hand deeply into the crotch-perfumed crevice of her hourglass butt and started rubbing and scratching it as if some feminine itch was driving her butthole nuts. Now the cheering and applause was deafening.

Gone now, behind the curtain, people for the first time ever started yelling “Encore! Encore! Bravo!” Then Mary showed she was an actress. She came back out.

She stood deathly still, not even breathing, utterly motionless, looked heavenward and raised one arm straight up, her slender finger pointing at heaven itself as if commanding lightening to strike.

And it did, in a huge way. Bang!

John didn’t know it then, but in that split second, Mary was liberated from this horrible world, if only for exactly one day. If the spotlight hadn’t been so strong, everybody would have seen it. Mary was happy. Her face--even her body were glowing. An unearthly aura surrounded her, a sprite from heaven itself, she looked up again, as if asking for forgiveness, and reversed the process, pulling her panties down and went knock-kneed--again.

She went for it. All will be well...

She bent over in the most unfeminine way possible, at least for her, and only now spread her butt agonizingly, unspeakably wide... giving the crowd the best back beaver-shot they had ever seen! Sssss...... forgive me...

She slowly revolved and maneuvered her legs and got her panties around her ankles, let her butt snap shut and stood up. She pulled one leg up and out of her panties and kicked—no, flung—her panties right at John and he caught them in midair. John was dumfounded. A shot in a million. And with her foot?

My God... No way...

The bouncers had to drag the Virgin Mary off stage while the place kept clapping for at least two minutes.

John just moaned and looked on as the pandemonium he had created suddenly ceased. The room remained filled with Mary’s air as a serene silence overcame the men. They were bewitched by the beguiling beauty they had just beheld.

John swallowed hard. He sat down, clutching her darling, dirty, damp underwear as if it were the shroud itself.

He couldn’t resist. He looked around guiltily... what the hell...

He drew Mary’s shapely, sweat-soaked white cotton panties to his nose and got ready. The crotch area itself was sopping wet. He inhaled and then he started panting involuntarily. Oh my god! He couldn’t believe it.

Mary’s fertile feminine flow filled him with a purity he had never known, a primal prettiness that was incomprehensibly fragrant, fuming with femininity, astonishingly aromatic and alluring, a Goddess’s perfect panty perfume, so succulently sweet-scented, so pure and clean that only a human as pure as an Angel could have produced it. John clamped his eyes shut, hypnotically entranced as the healthy-smelling, absolutely adorable aroma caressed his very soul, Heaven’s own Channel No. 5 itself, the very perfume the Angel’s wore in the presence of God himself.
Then John looked. He was catatonic, about to collapse as Mary, glowing, appeared to him.
As she neared, John shut his eyes for a full second and then reopened them.
Her act was great. But look...

Now, he rubbed his eyes--hard.

My God. She’s glowing! The satin?

Out Mary came, girlishly skipping, not in her stage-whore outfit. She wore only a white satin bathrobe, joyously doing that cheerleader stutter-step to John’s table.

She nodded towards stage three, unused, barely visible in the shadows and drew him by the hand hither. He floated there, drawn by her unassailable urging.

In the mirthful murk, she hugged him and gave him a real kiss--real because it was upon his cheek, but even more enthralling was that she hugged him so terribly tight, trembling, motionlessly slow dancing with him. Her amazing strength squeezed into him so sincerely it was overwhelming.

Then he felt it--some undreamed of power was pouring part of her infinite soul into his very being, flooding him with a joy that was otherworldly. He felt a crystal-clear, pristine waterfall cascading into him--reverberating into his chest. It didn’t hurt or anything. It’s just that his heart really did skip a beat.

She slithered her slender, pretty hand down the back of John’s pants...oh yes... oh no... the girl-next-door doesn’t do that...

No, the sweetheart, Mary, was covertly trying to slide the $400 back to him.

John whispered in her ear, “No way, you wonderful LADY--no, you once-in-a-lifetime person. No. It’s yours. You keep it. I’m so serious, the world, I wish, was yours.”

John stretched his arms out behind Mary for a second. Either he was losing his eyesight or his arms, yes, they were strangely lit up. He started to tear up and asked--and he couldn’t believe his logical mind was doing such a thing, but after what he felt, he really meant it. To get ready, he embraced her with all his might.

Only half kidding he solemnly whispered into her ear, “You’re not from here are you?”

He shook his head, chinning her neck.

“Are you from heaven? Like an Angel or something?”

Mary gazed radiantly into John’s eyes, her face surrounded by a luminous aura and with a compelling, crystalline clarity of conscious that she herself did not understand, in that instant she courageously decided to break the prime rule just for John. Solemnly standing eye to eye with John she winked so slowly, so powerfully and so sincerely with her left eye there was no doubt.
Her soul had compelled her to do it, beyond her will.

You’ll be okay...

As if he needed more, she went wide-eyed with a polite warning, imperceptibly wagging her head--only her sanguine soul spoke through her eyes--never, never tell anyone my answer! Please...

As if sealing the pact, she raised her eyebrows, barely nodded her head and silently whispered a thought into the core of John’s spirit... understand? No. Really, really... understand?

She, most of all, knew right from wrong now. It was the right thing to do even though not telling was the number one rule for Angels.

Shhhhh... but you’re a Seraph...

John blankly stared at her achingly pretty, supernaturally, serene face, speecheless. She is. My God! She is.

John breathed in, in shudders, deeper than he ever had in his life. Such wondrous thoughts had never come to his mind before. It wasn’t like him, but he solemnly nodded imperceptibly agreeing, silently, unconsciously pledging his own soul as collateral at the Bank of Heaven--to the head teller no less.

Mary pressed her face into the nape of John’s neck and almost moaning, she said, “You’re a good man. I trust you with my life just as you have me with yours.”

John held her head gently from both sides and looked into her eyes. His eyes alone asked the question. “What?”

Softly, she said, “You just ‘pledged your soul as collateral at the Bank of Heaven for me. With the head teller no less.’”

He froze.

This must be a dream. She can’t be. But she is!

John clung tighter to Mary in both fear and awe. He kept repeating it to himself over and over.
The head teller? The head teller. She said it! I said it! No! I thought it! Oh my God, it’s true. Not just any teller. The head teller... my God my mind, I’m worried it’s...

Don’t be worried, John. Yes, I thougth it. And yes. It’s true.

John hesitated and screamed in his mind. She heard everything! I just heard her think for me not to worry! My Lord. I’m hooked up to a supernatural, telepathic truth...

John’s skin crawled, but in a good way. This is real!

John whispered into her soft, sweaty, porcelain-painted ear, bear-hugging her soul through her body,

“I should tell you. After you flung your panties offstage with your foot, I caught them.”

“SShhh. I know.”

“It’s not that. I... I’ll tell you. I inhaled them. I became them. I literally buried my face in...”

Mary didn’t flinch a bit. Not a blink.

She whispered compassionately, her feminine panting warming John’s ear, “SShhh. It’s all right. I knew. I know. Now don’t be silly. God understands. He knows you’re a man. SSshhh. All will be well. Don’t worry, it’s a good thing. We liked it.”

We? What she said next almost made his heart explode when the sandbox Angel showed her human earthiness. She pulled back a little and gazed upon John, her eyes twinkling, mischievously wide...

She knows everything. Everything. Her unbelievable underwear...in a safe, her sweaty underwear...

“That good, huh?”

John’s face went pale with longing. Mary sublimed into his body again, squeezing and holding him with her incredible saintlike strength, a true seraph, an Angel of the nineth rank, the highest among the nine thought to exist.

“They were perfect, the most beautiful, the best...”

“SShhh. I knew. I know. Channel No. 5...”

John looked into her soul questioningly.

“SShhh, now. I know. Kind of like this...

Again with the hot whisper. John thought he was losing his mind. Do angels do this?
Yessss..... she thought to him. John held onto her for dear life.

My God. I can hear her thoughts!

I know you can.

Now she used her melodious mouth, hotly, murmuring softly...

“You moaned and looked at the pandemonium you had created. You clutched my darling, dirty, damp underwear as if my panties were the shroud itself.”

“Yesss.. yes... I did. I loved it.”

John wanted to crawl into her body and embrace her soul. He couldn’t believe it. My God. She said that. Not me!

“Luscious weren’t they? Now of course you couldn’t resist. We know. You drew my, as you thought, my shapely, sweat-soaked white cotton panties to your nose and got ‘ready.’ My crotch area was sopping wet, wasn’t it? You inhaled and started hyperventilating.”

Oh my God!

Yes, sweet. Believe it and me. I know. I shss.... know.

John said to himself, this is inconceivable. You can bug someone’s home, car or even a restaurant table but you can’t bug someone’s mind.

John’s mind was racing.

This divine deity standing tall before me is quoting my thoughts verbatim! Oh my...

Don’t worry. Its okay. It’s not “inconceivable.” And don’t worry, I’m not bugging you. I’m one with you....

Mary saw the look of astonishment on his mortal face and coyly asked, now aloud, almost hissing, her breasts heaving, “Does any of this sound familiar? Now don’t be embarrassed and don’t worry. I find it all very, very flattering.”

This can’t get any better. This Angel. She is...

Yes, it can. Yes. Let me show off a bit. How’s this?

Aloud she said, “Let’s see. Hmmmm... something like my, fertile feminine crotch sweat flowed, filling you with a purity you had never known, my primal prettiness was unimaginably fragrant wasn’t it? Yes, fuming with femininely, astonishingly aromatic and alluring... A Goddess’s perfect panty perfume I recall you thinking, so succulently sweet-scented, so pure and clean that only a real Angel could have produced it. Then you clamped your eyes shut in a hypnotic trance at my smooth-smelling, absolutely adorable aroma and it wafted and caressed your very soul. And you’re right. I am “in the pink” aren’t I?

Mary giggled.

It did smell just like Heaven’s own Channel No. 5 perfume, didn’t it? Smell me, John. Now. All you want. NOW...

John’s very soul was chattering inside his body. He wanted to pull back, but instead, hugged this feminine phantom even tighter, holding, holding just holding.

Talk about contrast. Mary whispered hoarsely like a whore. John was actually trembling.

“Now remember, I’m not an angel right? After all, would an Angel speak like this? But you are right. My womanly crotch sweat is the very perfume Angel’s wear in the presence of The Big Guy himself. Thank Him. Heaven’s own Channel No. Infinity.”

John’s blood ran... cold. Hot? Emotions and thoughts ran through him like lightning bolts. Thinking, thinking, he thought to himself,

Am I afraid? Yes, dammit! I’m afraid--or my mind sure is. But my soul, if I have one, is at absolute peace. Afraid and at peace. Man! Can this lovely lady play the game of contrast or what? I’m holding heaven here and at the same time I outright fear annihilation, because I know. I feel guilty because I do not want to know--and it is the most beautiful thing on heaven or earth. This is appalling. I shouldn’t be filled with anxiety and apprehension. But I am...

John snapped out of his un-private thoughts for a moment.

“Now John, don’t have all those bad feelings such as being angst-ridden and afraid. You’ll be okay. Why don’t we do exactly what you want to do?

“What?” Oh my god. She knows. Yes? Angst ridden? She knows everything!

He had never felt the creeps--especially good ones like this--so “badly” in his life.

Again. The hot whisper. She was driving John mad.

“SShsss. I know. Right now, you want to go to the hotel across the street and just hug and hold me all night long, from behind of course, with my, as you put it, my soft but perfectly big, proportional marshmallow butt pressed into your crotch, gyrating no less. But no sex because you love me on a plane much higher than that. And don’t you worry. I think the word marshmallow is cute but... “

Each syllable took five seconds for him to utter.

“Oh my god...”

Mary took a step back.

“Remember, I’m no Angel, and you must always remember that--right? The head teller. And since I’m no Angel, I’ll have to go ahead and tell you like it is. I mean were all human. Right? Sorry.”

John was trembling.

“So that’s the way things are and I know that you helped me tonight in this horrible den of sin this evening but...”

John was heartsick, his heart pounding.

“Yes. But what?”

He had never felt so rejected in his entire life yearning for her soul, and yes, that fabulous rear end of hers.

“Well, John, I’ll tell you.”

Mary shrugged her eyebrows again. She was perfect at it.

“Well. What did you expect? And what are you waiting for? Now be a gentleman and walk me arm in arm across the street to the motel.

Right this second.

John was thunder struck. He didn’t say a word.

All of a sudden, he was walking arm in arm in the cool night air, Mary did all the talking.
“I know what you want. We’ll get a room that faces the swimming pool. And don’t say a word. After all the money I made tonight because of you, I’m paying.

“When we get to the room, you have to pull out my Channel No. 5 underwear out of your pocket because I’m naked under this bathrobe now. Let’s see. Then I will put them on for you--no, better yet, I will slither them up slowly for you, ever so slowly. Since all you want to do is hug me on the bed from behind, as you said, ‘for a while’ why don’t we make “a while” be 24 straight hours.

Mary’s supernatural strength held him up.

“Hour after hour, you will get to hug and embrace me all you want as I slowly grind my--how do you want it--throbbing?--butt--now let me get this right, yes, my perfect, tall, proportional bum bum as you Canadians call it--lovingly into your crotch as you hold me, hug me, cup your hands around my breasts. All you want. Play with my perfect, swanky, long smooth crotch. It will be all the better because I know you’d rather do something that wondorous than just have regular old sex.”

They crossed the street arm in arm in. Mary had to hold John up because her butt was bumping John’s hip with every stride. Mary wasn’t trying to be wicked. She knew what John wanted. Contrast. Just an aberrant, audacious... Angel!

“And hey Mr. John, after a lifetime of hard farm girl work, my bum bum muscles are strong but don’t worry. It’s all covered by your ’marshmallow.’ So, how about me pulsating my buttocks against your crotch like one of those vibrating pillows? Would you like that?

John’s chest was heaving, and his crotch was exploding at the thought of it--no her thought of his thought or... crazy, but the way she said it in such a matter-of-factly, ho-hum way was surreal.

“Remember, you promised, I’m no Angel and certainly no mind reader, but I am a pretty good predictor. I have a feeling that this will be one big hug session that you will never forget.
“So, forget the Angel stuff. I have read that even if an Angel were on Earth, they must do as Earth people have to such as work, go to school, cry, be humiliated, feel absolutely alone, worry about money, sweat on hot buses--stink a little--it’s all the same. Hell--excuse me!--but even Angels get skidmarks.”

For once in his life John was speechless. His only thought , and she knew it, was will I have a stroke or heart attack first?

They went into their room and Mary turned on the TV at 3 a.m. Gilligan’s Island was playing. John, like most men, preferred Mary Ann over Ginger but not now.

Perfect. Mary’s mind was scintillating. She did wriggle them on incredibly slowly. She of course knew to leave her deliciously decadent panties on and immediately assumed her position exactly as promised in the bed facing the wall and started undulating her breathtaking bottom.
“Please, come hold me. Here’s my angel perfumed panties--Angel sweat perfume just like you wanted. Do anything you like and I know what that is. You want to lie your head down on my rearend like a human pillow and take in my Chanel No. 5. Please. Have at it all you want.”

John plunked down on the cheap chest of dawers and took in the view.

“As a favor, though, please, let’s lay face to face for a few minutes because I want to tell you something.”

John kept loking and finally lay down. They faced each other for exactly nine minutes. During that time, Mary whispered over and over into John’s ear, in the most seductive possible voice, over and over,

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much. My dear John, thank you, thank you. You have saved my life. No sir, you have saved my soul...”

It was like being in a dream state. For hours on end, John embraced, explored and caressed Mary’s body from head to toe. With Mary, the Angel, it was much better than regular sex because Mary knew what John was lusting for every minute.

It was unreal... no surreal... it was timeless because there was no time... in her dimension...
______________________________

John jerked. Bring! Loud ringing! Bring!

John’s eyes popped open he looked at the ceiling.

My God! Where am I?

John sat up. He was alone! No! She’s...

He ran to the bathroom. Oh my God. It was empty. The phone was still ringing.

His mind cleared a little. He lunged for the phone.

He screamed into it. “Mary!?”

“Uh, please to excuse--no sir.”

John’s was standing, breathing hard, bent over. A man with a heavy Indian accent was on the telephone. It was not Mary.

“This is Vinod at the front desk sir. I sorry call so late but I just noticed that you did not check out. It is almost five o’clock in the morning.

Please now. Your checkout time was supposed to be yesterday at 11 a.m.”
“What? Yesterday! We got here at 3am!”

“If you want to stay at at our hotel we need another $45 for today or if you want you stay past 11 o’clock this morning and stay a third day--that is our checkout time, we need $90 for tonight.”
John dropped the phone. Panic-stricken, his eyes popping out, he looked as if...
I’m losing my mind!

He scanned the room again.

“Mary!”

“Mary!”

His legs buckled. He stumbled into the bathroom again. He dropped to his chest--a falling pushup--and looked under both beds. She can’t be. She can’t be!

He started sobbing.

She’s gone. She’s... gone!

He opened the door and ran into the parking lot in his underwear, scanning it. Gone. He heard some music. It was coming from the Bottoms Up across the street. Disgusting.

He sloughed off to the room. He plopped onto the bed, sitting, and put his head into his hands.The Angel can’t be gone. Angel? Yes! She was! She was an Angel! She read my thoughts and everything!

John was getting more terrified by the moment. He slapped himself in the face. He whipped his head upwards and screamed at the ceiling.

“Nooooo! She read my mind! She knew my thoughts! Nooooo! I’m not crazy! It was real!” Incredibly, John search ed the room again.

There was no Mary. Mary had certainly been real. And so was the angel thing. Or was it?
John scientific mind told him that it was impossible. He thought hard to himself. No. It was real.
He screamed aloud, “I don’t know!”

Morbid with a frantic fear that he was losing his mind, he ripped at his clothes, yanking them on, ran out into the night, across the street, and jumped in his car, his mind out of control. He never even thought about paying for his “lost day.”
_______________________________

Weeks turned into months as he tried to put her out of his mind, but exactly every nine hours for the rest of his life he would think about Mary in every manner possible.

Nine days after that terrible, terrific night, he had even gone back to that scummy hotel, the man’s name having been burned into his memory.

“Hi. Is your desk clerk called Vinod here?”

Another Indian man who bobbed his head up and down as if he was saying yes, said,
“No!Vinod went back to the Punjab.”

“Can you look to see if a pretty young blond lady checked in here? Nine days ago?”

Again, the Indian man bobbed his head up and down as if he was saying yes when he was saying no. John knew that this peculiar mannerism was unique to the Indian culture. No other culture on Earth nodded yes when they were saying no except East Indians. John had never seen an Indian man so upset.

“How can I know? That Vinod is a lund! You took my money, but he is crazy! He took my hotel books and everything so I know nothing!”

John left, furious. He promised himself that he would hunt that dot head down. You would. In his next counter-life. The man was a lund. John was like probably one American in 9 million that knew the Indian word “lund” meant “dick” in English. Years later he did hunt that towel head down. After all, John was a man of his word.

In the meantime, he settled on a compromise. John thought, maybe she wasn’t an Angel, but she was definitely in that room!

The scent of her would never leave him. John knew that the sense of smell created the strongest memories in humans. Angel or not, she was there all right. John thought about it and over and over. She said she was in a university. He hunted and hunted, search and all the colleges: Oglethorpe, the College, University of Georgia, Georgia State University, Mercer University, and even the John Marshall Law school. He couldn’t find her. She was gone. Gone.

She was there. She was there. She was there!

It never occurred to him that she was majoring in civil engineering at Georgia Tech. It was the biggest mistake of his life.

So, anyway, for all his two lives, and into the future, she was absolutely the most pretty woman he had ever seen and the only one he had so spiritually, voraciously hugged in his life. But what was better than her being pretty or beautiful was the fact that Mary was the most friendly woman--no human--or Angel, but no that must’ve been a dream.
_____________________________

He would never find out until his next lifetime, which the Hindus ironically believed in, the true nature of the miracle that had occurred that night in that godforsaken, gruesome club, Bottoms Up. John had went home and dreamed about Mary all day when he had gotten home. Even though he was like a lovesick boy, moping around, it had been a day that haunted him with happiness.

Not for Mary. It was the worst day of her life. They knew. They all knew her secret. What would she say to the people “back home” the ones up there who helped her tearfully saying their goodbyes?

She knew it deep down inside. They knew--for sure. But never could she have imagined this. It was so bad she was horror-struck. They had all been so heartless.

It happen the next day in her Industrial Management class at Georgia Tech. She just prayed that she would get over it. Even if that only happen when she went to heaven.
Everybody has heard the term “dying of embarrassment.” For Mary death would have been preferable to the abject mortifying humiliation she had to suffer that day, and a few more days on campus and in class. Everyone at the University knew what she did and now what she really was.

The ubiquitous Japanese students knew.

The Chinese knew.

The Arab students knew.

Everyone knew.

She couldn’t escape it because even the women knew because a good many Georgia Tech women were lesbians and would come to see her “dance” just like the men. Some of them even dressed up like men when they went.

Even students who had never even been to a strip club knew. Everywhere she went they were whispering about her and pointing at her, some even making obscene whistles at her, giving her the finger, gossiping about her and a few psychos even stalked her. The worst of all, the people she needed most knew too.

The ones who held her life in their hands. Deplorably, her professors knew. All of them!They were just as bad or worse as the students. Just that one night, three of her professors had been there. Mary wanted to run away, but she couldn’t. She hid in her dorm room crying instead.
Then as word spread, something good happened. All because of John and his girl next-door thing. She deserved every bit of it because she was the girl next-door.

In less than a week Mary came to realize that the wheel of life was a strange game. It had been the greatest day in both of their lives after all.

She had cut her work schedule down from six nights per week to one, saved every penny, and quit in less than a year when she had $100,000 in the bank and nobody knew about it and that was the best part.

She had quit that club—all the whore Atlanta clubs—and went on tour nationwide with her new act, flying in first-class, sipping champagne, making $5-10,000 per night as the headliner for clubs all over America.

She had even managed to make her girl next-door act more refined, where it got to be UN-stripping, making her sweet darling act all the better.
You see, for poor Mary, much better than the money, the be

st thing of all for her… she was far, far away, out of town away from the nerdy Georgia Tech geeks that came to leer at her--the ones who used to whisper about her in class the next day. On the worst/best of nights--that night, at least 30 of her classmates and three of her professors had been right there in the darkness giggling and elbowing each other like the antisocial, ugly nerds they were.

She would always think about him and thank the stranger in the night, John Pemberton. She for some reason, she could never remember his name.

Neither knew it, but they had missed each other by exactly nine minutes that day at the scummy hotel across from the Bottoms Up. She too had had to hear all about Vinod absconding back to India.

Far away in time, but near in space, in Atlanta, John couldn’t forget it as well. His very being was overflowing with her soul. His heart, or at least his old heart, ached for her.

Finally, and it absolutely did save her from either suicide or at best a nervous breakdown, her meek, mournful, scintillating soul housed within her breathtaking body, the body with the almost broken, female back did not have to suffer the abject humiliation of having all of her college professors and fellow engineering students—90% male—come to the Bottoms Up in Atlanta to snicker and point and leer as their prize “A” student stood right in front of them completely nude, the tall, perfect blond, the one with the natural blond cooter, the one who refused to let the other whores in the back room shave her pubic hair into some unnatural shape, the one that bravely did this for tuition money just so she could go to college. The girl in the sandbox was free except that she still had nightmares about some Angel.

See? It’s all good in Atlanta.

EPILOGUE TO THIS CHAPTER:

The girl next-door story is true. Since this near riot in Atlanta, they actually passed a law requiring that all strippers wear “stage costumes.” They were not allowed to wear street clothes after Mary’s show. The city thought too many “girl-next-door” types would be raped.