Becoming Julie, Part 4 - CD, mast, smoking, PAYOFF
Becoming Julie, part 4 – More Later Teen Years
Remarriage meant living together again in the same house, in Atlanta. Somehow I got the master bedroom, with a half-bath (toilet, sink, shower), so wasn’t I lucky! I thumbtacked posters to my bedroom ceiling, normal stars like Farrah and Adrienne Barbeau, and porn stars like Seka, and PMOY Debra Jo Fondren, with that luscious hair!
It was no time at all that I began collecting and dressing again. There was a costume shop near our house with many types of wigs. The “LA3000” became my favorite, in platinum-blonde and jet-black of course. Long and wavy and thick! I ordered bras, heels, and a very few items of apparel (still no great place to store much). Speaking of storage, it’s when I bought my first fuck doll. It was advertised as not-just inflatable, real foam doll! Well, of course it had started out as an inflatable doll, but they put zippers in her feet, and shipped a big box of Styrofoam pellets with her, the k** found in “bean bag chairs”. Imagine having to stuff a life-sized doll by means of a 6-inch zipper in a foot?! I think I remember making a big funnel out of a large sheet of paper, and taking HOURS to fill her up that way. Needless to say, and flat plastic vagina does not feel real or open when a doll is filled with Styrofoam pellets. Luckily the mouth was molded into more of a tube, and that part as okay. It was a “big boob” model, so those were … meh, okay. But the youthful me loved her, put one of my wigs on her, had a hot titfuck while dressed … and promptly had nowhere to store her! I kept her in my shower stall for a few days, but it wasn’t 100% private on a day-to-day basis, so alas, she went into a large opaque black plastic lawn and leaf bag, and thence into the garbage. So much for true lust!
But ohhh the dressing and smoking! With a huge bra, wadded towels for tits, a sexy stretchy blouse (thanks Roamans!) and my long sexy hair gathered up onto the shelf my ridiculously huge tits made, I could exhale my sexy smoke out in a plume, or into and onto my hair, and breathe it back in as an extra-hot trick. Inhaling the white smoke from my black hair was almost like breathing in come (a fantasy), so of course it got me hard and gave me some wonderful orgasms! Speaking of my smoke, that was about the time Lorillard came out with MAX120s. Goodbye, too-light Eves and VS120s! The big kick from the high nicotine content of the MAX120s put my cums into overdrive! The exxxhales were thicker and creamier as well! Perfect for the little sissy slut I was becoming!
I began to get a little braver. I would often ride by a billboard that was about 5 miles out of my way, because they ALWAYS featured a sexy VS ad. One I particularly remember was a lady in black aviator shades, with brown leather bomber jacket. Ohhh I was hot for her! I never masturbated in the car, but as soon as I got home after visiting her billboard, MANY TIMES!
Once I got so brave as to take one of the cardboard ads, about two feet square, from the holder of one of the MARTA trains, when I rode it late at night and was alone in a train car. I fully expected FBI agents to surround me as I tried to leave the train station, but of course, they didn’t … no one cared … and I taped that to my bathroom door and exxxhaled at that slutty smoking ad many many times indeed! Of course, I had to cover up the lifesized poster of Traci Lords, which my bathroom door held, and who had watched me exxxhale into her face and onto her nice big tits so many times!
It was about this time, late high school, that Vicky came into my life, and into the lives of my friends. They’d met her, of all places, at a science-fiction convention. Vicky was only 14 or 15 at the time, and so didn’t drive, but otherwise was every inch the woman … the woman I wanted … and the woman I wanted to be! She had honey-blonde hair, medium-blonde (mid-back) and wavy. She had the slender body that only a young teen can have, but gigantic, firm, natural tits! We’re talking a 34-inch ribcage (she told me, she told me EVERYTHING) but F-cup tits! She was a knockout, and obviously was getting a lot of attention. She was reasonably intelligent, was a big Star Wars fan, and immediately ate up all the attention we geeks lavished on her. Most of us would spend most of our free time at her parents’ house, hanging around, visiting, going to get ice cream (she loved Baskin-Robbins), going to Midnight Movies (she loved Rocky Horror), and her parents let her go with us because practically none of us drank (drinking age was 18 then), we didn’t do d**gs, we made good grades, and were smart enough to be respectful and respectable. Of course Vicky has a flourishing borderline personality disorder, and would do “quaint” things like running away from a friend’s apartment when bores (the game is now “chase me!”) or throwing a hatchet at whoever she was dating that week when she tired of him … predictable stuff like that. And we tolerated it, because of … TITS! Another trait that I loved that most of my friends hated was that she (i*****lly, too young) smoked, sometimes Silva Thins (her Mom’s brand), but more regularly, whatever we’d buy her when we took her to the convenience store. So Salems or Eves (Never MAX120s or VS120s, darn it). She didn’t light up as often around the other guys, but knew I didn’t mind (what an understatement), so would often have a cigarette or two when she and I would take off on an adventure by ourselves. She seems to really enjoy the smoking, too, as her huge breasts would swell noticeably as she’d inhale deeply, then without holding very long, she’d exxxhale long thick creamy plumes, giving me a massive erection. I can’t say that she ever exhaled directly into my face to turn me on, but by accident she did a few times (genuinely apologizing for it), and when the weather was cold out and the car windows were rolled up, and I still let her smoke, her exhales would practically FILL the confined space of the old Nissan I was driving (which was extremely hot, as I was literally breathing her smoke)!
She “fooled around” a lot, but didn’t really have intercourse for many years (at least until she was 18, and was fairly serious about one guy by then) I never was on the receiving end of the fooling around, although there were a few times I could have been. Twice, when my parents were out of town, after school, I took her to my house, and opened up my liquor cabinet. I’m pretty sure she was 18 by then, because by that time I was in college. She got drunk as a skunk (but did not puke), and started kissing me and giving me hickeys. I could not, in good conscience, have sex with someone who was drunk, so I put her to bed and let her sleep it off for a few hours, taking her home mid-evening, when she was sober enough to say Hi to her folks before going to her bedroom to “do homework”. (i.e. pass out). Yes, her folks were a little lax, sure. Seeing her snoozing in my bed, on her back, her huge yet firm tits sticking straight up, I wanted so badly to either masturbate onto her right there and wipe it up before she awoke, or to go into the bathroom and masturbate, but I did neither. After I got back from taking her home? OF COURSE! Dressed as close to I could get as she had been, to the point of laying in bed, tits sticking up, fondling my tits with one hand and my pantied cock with the other. Biggest orgasm to date! Ah Vicky, Vicky, Vicky, you crazy little pseudo-slut. More to come with her later.
About this time, Russ Meyer’s masterpiece came out, “Beyond the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens”. It aired, uncut (being only X and not XXX) at a nearby theater, and I almost could not believe what I was seeing Anne-Marie was even bustier than Vicky! And her doll-like voice And cutie-pie face and kissable sucking fucking lips! Well! It was all I could do to not jack off in the theater. Afterwards, at home, YOU BET! Eventually I would own a copy, when it came to rental, and a friend with 2 VCRs ran off a copy for me. Jerking off to her fucking while I was dressed with huge tits bouncing, was a very special time for me, one I repeated dozens of times.
I had several girlfriends along the way, here and there, none of whom were extremely busty. One did smoke, and knew of my smoking fetish, and would indulge me, which was nice, for as long as that relationship lasted. Several were one-time hookups at the aforementioned science-fiction conventions, and sci-fi fangirls tend to be very popular, but mostly because the sci-fi fanboys were so hard up for ANY female contact. This was way before sexy cosplay, you must understand.
When I was working part-time while going to school, I finally started going to strip clubs. Atlanta had some of the biggest names in the country: The Gold Club and the Cheetah III were the best of the best. I preferred the downtown Cheetah III rather than the suburban Gold Club. The Cheetah had more and better girls, and the bouncers/staff weren’t on the make for tips to get you inside and get you a table. (Side note, the Gold Club was Mafia-owned and was subsequently shut down. Serves them right, the greedy fuckers.) It was at the Cheetah that I finally met Julie, the woman who was the total package.
Every evening at 8 PM, when the day shift girls retired for the day and the night shift girls came on for the day, Cheetah would have its “revue”, where all the girls would come out at the same time, and compete for table dances. Even though the club was large, so was the number of girls! It was common to see 2 or 3 girls dancing on one table, the fever for dances was so high at that moment! The girls barely had room to gyrate, much less do real dance moves, but we horndogs didn’t care, the nusic was blaring, the girls were pretty, and the money flowed freely! Back then a table dance was only $10. My friends and I bought many of them.
I began to concentrate of a pretty dancer named Julie. She didn’t have the perfect surgically-enhanced Barbie-doll face, but she was naturally pretty. She would wear either a jet-black or platinum-blonde gypsy/showgirl wig, either wavy or straight. She had maybe a few more pounds on her than the anorexic model-types, but I didn’t mind a bit. Her breasts were natural E cups, with yes, some sag, but not a lot for a 24-year old (just a year older than me). She may not have been all the guys’ top pick, but she was certainly my top pick! After dances, she would sit and chat with customers. The girls were supposed to order overpriced drinks (to boost the customers’ tabs), but quickly she began ordering bottle of water when with me – dancing under hot lights is legitimately thirsty work, and she did not like to drink alcohol on duty. She did smoke, and VS120s, at that! She would almost always have one (sometimes two if she took a long break from dancing) when taking with me, and I am sure she knew of my fetish, as she asked me to give her lights and would occasionally exxxhale into my face, and laugh as I blushed red! She never pushed me to buy more dances, although I practically never bought dances from anyone else. Lots of guys would bring gifts for the girls. I found out she was a student of art and photography at one of our local art colleges. She once told me she was saving for a special set of pens, Rapidiographs, I believe they were called. One of my friends was a successful graphic artist, and he liked them, too. I acted nonchalant, but asked enough questions to find out which set she was thinking of buying. The next visit, I brought her the set, and she was floored when she opened it! She gave me a quick hug that turned into a little-too-long hug, because a bouncer came over and broke it up (there was a strict no-touch rule at the club, which I was fine with and actually though was prudent.) She found a scrap of paper somewhere and wrote down an email address! She took the pens back to her dressing room, and I was not able to get another dance that night, the place was so packed. But I drove home in a happy daze.
I emailed her and she emailed back. From that point on, we had a dual relationship. I was a confidante and friend in the outside world, and still a customer at the club. We would share an email once or twice a week, mostly fairly short and on surface topics, but occasionally a longer, “what’s life all about” one. She let me know up front that she was living with her boyfriend and they were monogamous, but that she relished my friendship. And of course in the club, she was friendly and flirty (as the girls knew to be, to maximize dances and tips). But I swear, there were a lot more quick touches on the hand or face (her to me), all when the seriously watchful bouncers had their attention elsewhere. It was a giddy time for me.
But soon, she was graduating from school. She emailed me an invitation to come to the juried review of her final project, paintings and photographs. I was honored and thrilled. I overdressed for the occasion, in a suit. She was in a leather jacket, t-shirt, and black pants and low heels. She was beautiful, makeup on but sedate, as befitting a student, rather than the full-on glam of the stripper. I’d brought her a single red rose, and put it on a table where she’d lain the dozen roses that her art professor had brought in. There was champagne and crackers and cheese, but I ignored all that, instead walking slowly from piece to piece, making notes. She saw me doing that and smiled. I got to say “Hi” only briefly, as she was actually being interviewed by one of our local news stations, and some evidentially hoity-toity types were chatting her up as well. Before I left though, she excused herself and came over to me, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and thanked me for coming. “It means a lot to me,” she said. Apparently her live-in boyfriend had not shown up, I found out later. I emailed her my thoughts on her work, and she appreciated that to no end. We talked back and forth about my impressions, many of which seemed to really please her, to be really what she was striving to make the viewers feel.
Next time we chatted in the club, she told me she had plans to move to New York and make a name for herself. (She did exactly that. “Julie” was merely her dancing name.) I was understandably upset, but was genuinely happy for her, and told her so. She said she would be leaving soon, but would be in touch before she left. She sneaked in a very fast kiss on the cheek, squeezed my hand, and left to dance for someone else.
The next time I went to the club, she was gone. I asked another dancer who I was on friendly terms with where Julie was. She told me Julie had left for New York. I was crushed. She was gone, and we hadn’t said goodbye!
About a week later, I got a call, at almost midnight, on a Friday night. It was Julie. She explained that she was indeed in New York, and had had to leave in a much more rushed fashion than she’d planned, because her ex-boyfriend had been a huge tool about her success. She thanked me again for my friendship, especially when dancing. She said I was one of her few customers who always perked her up when they came in. I thanked her again for her kindness and beauty and friendship. The way things were going, I knew this was going to be our last call. (This was before widely-available caller-ID and certainly before cell phones). Out of desperation, I blurted out, “Julie, you’re so sexy. I … I … I dress up like you when I masturbate, I love you so much!” She did not hang up. She did not express displeasure. At all. Instead, she said, “Tony, that is a huge compliment! Please tell me about your dressing up.” We chatted for a half-hour, with me spilling everything, big boob fetish, long hair fetish, smoking fetish. I described my wigs, my costumes, the things I would say when dressed and emulating her. She never gave the slightest inclination she felt it was strange. For the first time in my life, I fell completely accepted and validated, all of me, the crossdressing part as well as the “normal” part. As we were winding up, for whatever reason, she said the following. “My friend, it sounds like you have a special place in your heart for me. I want you to know you have been a very special friend to me, too. You saw the student and the stripper, the ordinary girl and the sexualized object. You accepted them both, and grew to love them both. I am so grateful to you for that. So if you’d like, I want you to keep pretending you’re me when you dress. Make your boobs nice and big, and squeeze them, like you’re squeezing my tits. Shake your head and have your sexy hair fall in your face, and imagine it’s my hair your face is buried in. Take long drags from your MAX120s and blow your smoke in the mirror, and imagine I’m blowing my smoke in your face again. And enjoy it to the fullest, touch yourself, give yourself great, great orgasms. I wish things had been different, and we could have done that with each other, but keep the fantasies, keep the memories. I love you, Tony. I love you also, when you’re Julie. Always remember me, honey. Good bye now.”
I was stunned. I cried at my loss, then I dressed and rejoiced in my fantasy, in my memories, in the explicit permission and acceptance she’d given me. I took my time, lazily, dreamily, recalling her voice, her words, and of course, the images so firmly already in my brain. I flirted, I flounced, I swayed and danced, I smoked, I touched, I teased. I came. I relaxed. I rested, there, in the bathroom. And then I started the process all over again. I came and rested until the sur was well up, then slept the day away, in my cummy clothing, in my touseled wig, only kicking off my heels before I went to bed. I changed wigs and outfits, and Saturday night became a repeat of Friday night, as I danced alone-but-together, climax after climax, moaning, being fierce, being demure, striving for orgasm after orgasm, again going until after dawn. Sunday I cleaned up, washed the sheets, grocery shopped, and resumed my everyday life, but the “Farewell but never Goodbye” weekend will never, ever fade from my mind. And Julie will always be a part of me, and I love that part of me now and always, just as I love the rest of me.
There is more to tell of me, but not of Julie. So we will end here for this chapter.
Remarriage meant living together again in the same house, in Atlanta. Somehow I got the master bedroom, with a half-bath (toilet, sink, shower), so wasn’t I lucky! I thumbtacked posters to my bedroom ceiling, normal stars like Farrah and Adrienne Barbeau, and porn stars like Seka, and PMOY Debra Jo Fondren, with that luscious hair!
It was no time at all that I began collecting and dressing again. There was a costume shop near our house with many types of wigs. The “LA3000” became my favorite, in platinum-blonde and jet-black of course. Long and wavy and thick! I ordered bras, heels, and a very few items of apparel (still no great place to store much). Speaking of storage, it’s when I bought my first fuck doll. It was advertised as not-just inflatable, real foam doll! Well, of course it had started out as an inflatable doll, but they put zippers in her feet, and shipped a big box of Styrofoam pellets with her, the k** found in “bean bag chairs”. Imagine having to stuff a life-sized doll by means of a 6-inch zipper in a foot?! I think I remember making a big funnel out of a large sheet of paper, and taking HOURS to fill her up that way. Needless to say, and flat plastic vagina does not feel real or open when a doll is filled with Styrofoam pellets. Luckily the mouth was molded into more of a tube, and that part as okay. It was a “big boob” model, so those were … meh, okay. But the youthful me loved her, put one of my wigs on her, had a hot titfuck while dressed … and promptly had nowhere to store her! I kept her in my shower stall for a few days, but it wasn’t 100% private on a day-to-day basis, so alas, she went into a large opaque black plastic lawn and leaf bag, and thence into the garbage. So much for true lust!
But ohhh the dressing and smoking! With a huge bra, wadded towels for tits, a sexy stretchy blouse (thanks Roamans!) and my long sexy hair gathered up onto the shelf my ridiculously huge tits made, I could exhale my sexy smoke out in a plume, or into and onto my hair, and breathe it back in as an extra-hot trick. Inhaling the white smoke from my black hair was almost like breathing in come (a fantasy), so of course it got me hard and gave me some wonderful orgasms! Speaking of my smoke, that was about the time Lorillard came out with MAX120s. Goodbye, too-light Eves and VS120s! The big kick from the high nicotine content of the MAX120s put my cums into overdrive! The exxxhales were thicker and creamier as well! Perfect for the little sissy slut I was becoming!
I began to get a little braver. I would often ride by a billboard that was about 5 miles out of my way, because they ALWAYS featured a sexy VS ad. One I particularly remember was a lady in black aviator shades, with brown leather bomber jacket. Ohhh I was hot for her! I never masturbated in the car, but as soon as I got home after visiting her billboard, MANY TIMES!
Once I got so brave as to take one of the cardboard ads, about two feet square, from the holder of one of the MARTA trains, when I rode it late at night and was alone in a train car. I fully expected FBI agents to surround me as I tried to leave the train station, but of course, they didn’t … no one cared … and I taped that to my bathroom door and exxxhaled at that slutty smoking ad many many times indeed! Of course, I had to cover up the lifesized poster of Traci Lords, which my bathroom door held, and who had watched me exxxhale into her face and onto her nice big tits so many times!
It was about this time, late high school, that Vicky came into my life, and into the lives of my friends. They’d met her, of all places, at a science-fiction convention. Vicky was only 14 or 15 at the time, and so didn’t drive, but otherwise was every inch the woman … the woman I wanted … and the woman I wanted to be! She had honey-blonde hair, medium-blonde (mid-back) and wavy. She had the slender body that only a young teen can have, but gigantic, firm, natural tits! We’re talking a 34-inch ribcage (she told me, she told me EVERYTHING) but F-cup tits! She was a knockout, and obviously was getting a lot of attention. She was reasonably intelligent, was a big Star Wars fan, and immediately ate up all the attention we geeks lavished on her. Most of us would spend most of our free time at her parents’ house, hanging around, visiting, going to get ice cream (she loved Baskin-Robbins), going to Midnight Movies (she loved Rocky Horror), and her parents let her go with us because practically none of us drank (drinking age was 18 then), we didn’t do d**gs, we made good grades, and were smart enough to be respectful and respectable. Of course Vicky has a flourishing borderline personality disorder, and would do “quaint” things like running away from a friend’s apartment when bores (the game is now “chase me!”) or throwing a hatchet at whoever she was dating that week when she tired of him … predictable stuff like that. And we tolerated it, because of … TITS! Another trait that I loved that most of my friends hated was that she (i*****lly, too young) smoked, sometimes Silva Thins (her Mom’s brand), but more regularly, whatever we’d buy her when we took her to the convenience store. So Salems or Eves (Never MAX120s or VS120s, darn it). She didn’t light up as often around the other guys, but knew I didn’t mind (what an understatement), so would often have a cigarette or two when she and I would take off on an adventure by ourselves. She seems to really enjoy the smoking, too, as her huge breasts would swell noticeably as she’d inhale deeply, then without holding very long, she’d exxxhale long thick creamy plumes, giving me a massive erection. I can’t say that she ever exhaled directly into my face to turn me on, but by accident she did a few times (genuinely apologizing for it), and when the weather was cold out and the car windows were rolled up, and I still let her smoke, her exhales would practically FILL the confined space of the old Nissan I was driving (which was extremely hot, as I was literally breathing her smoke)!
She “fooled around” a lot, but didn’t really have intercourse for many years (at least until she was 18, and was fairly serious about one guy by then) I never was on the receiving end of the fooling around, although there were a few times I could have been. Twice, when my parents were out of town, after school, I took her to my house, and opened up my liquor cabinet. I’m pretty sure she was 18 by then, because by that time I was in college. She got drunk as a skunk (but did not puke), and started kissing me and giving me hickeys. I could not, in good conscience, have sex with someone who was drunk, so I put her to bed and let her sleep it off for a few hours, taking her home mid-evening, when she was sober enough to say Hi to her folks before going to her bedroom to “do homework”. (i.e. pass out). Yes, her folks were a little lax, sure. Seeing her snoozing in my bed, on her back, her huge yet firm tits sticking straight up, I wanted so badly to either masturbate onto her right there and wipe it up before she awoke, or to go into the bathroom and masturbate, but I did neither. After I got back from taking her home? OF COURSE! Dressed as close to I could get as she had been, to the point of laying in bed, tits sticking up, fondling my tits with one hand and my pantied cock with the other. Biggest orgasm to date! Ah Vicky, Vicky, Vicky, you crazy little pseudo-slut. More to come with her later.
About this time, Russ Meyer’s masterpiece came out, “Beyond the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens”. It aired, uncut (being only X and not XXX) at a nearby theater, and I almost could not believe what I was seeing Anne-Marie was even bustier than Vicky! And her doll-like voice And cutie-pie face and kissable sucking fucking lips! Well! It was all I could do to not jack off in the theater. Afterwards, at home, YOU BET! Eventually I would own a copy, when it came to rental, and a friend with 2 VCRs ran off a copy for me. Jerking off to her fucking while I was dressed with huge tits bouncing, was a very special time for me, one I repeated dozens of times.
I had several girlfriends along the way, here and there, none of whom were extremely busty. One did smoke, and knew of my smoking fetish, and would indulge me, which was nice, for as long as that relationship lasted. Several were one-time hookups at the aforementioned science-fiction conventions, and sci-fi fangirls tend to be very popular, but mostly because the sci-fi fanboys were so hard up for ANY female contact. This was way before sexy cosplay, you must understand.
When I was working part-time while going to school, I finally started going to strip clubs. Atlanta had some of the biggest names in the country: The Gold Club and the Cheetah III were the best of the best. I preferred the downtown Cheetah III rather than the suburban Gold Club. The Cheetah had more and better girls, and the bouncers/staff weren’t on the make for tips to get you inside and get you a table. (Side note, the Gold Club was Mafia-owned and was subsequently shut down. Serves them right, the greedy fuckers.) It was at the Cheetah that I finally met Julie, the woman who was the total package.
Every evening at 8 PM, when the day shift girls retired for the day and the night shift girls came on for the day, Cheetah would have its “revue”, where all the girls would come out at the same time, and compete for table dances. Even though the club was large, so was the number of girls! It was common to see 2 or 3 girls dancing on one table, the fever for dances was so high at that moment! The girls barely had room to gyrate, much less do real dance moves, but we horndogs didn’t care, the nusic was blaring, the girls were pretty, and the money flowed freely! Back then a table dance was only $10. My friends and I bought many of them.
I began to concentrate of a pretty dancer named Julie. She didn’t have the perfect surgically-enhanced Barbie-doll face, but she was naturally pretty. She would wear either a jet-black or platinum-blonde gypsy/showgirl wig, either wavy or straight. She had maybe a few more pounds on her than the anorexic model-types, but I didn’t mind a bit. Her breasts were natural E cups, with yes, some sag, but not a lot for a 24-year old (just a year older than me). She may not have been all the guys’ top pick, but she was certainly my top pick! After dances, she would sit and chat with customers. The girls were supposed to order overpriced drinks (to boost the customers’ tabs), but quickly she began ordering bottle of water when with me – dancing under hot lights is legitimately thirsty work, and she did not like to drink alcohol on duty. She did smoke, and VS120s, at that! She would almost always have one (sometimes two if she took a long break from dancing) when taking with me, and I am sure she knew of my fetish, as she asked me to give her lights and would occasionally exxxhale into my face, and laugh as I blushed red! She never pushed me to buy more dances, although I practically never bought dances from anyone else. Lots of guys would bring gifts for the girls. I found out she was a student of art and photography at one of our local art colleges. She once told me she was saving for a special set of pens, Rapidiographs, I believe they were called. One of my friends was a successful graphic artist, and he liked them, too. I acted nonchalant, but asked enough questions to find out which set she was thinking of buying. The next visit, I brought her the set, and she was floored when she opened it! She gave me a quick hug that turned into a little-too-long hug, because a bouncer came over and broke it up (there was a strict no-touch rule at the club, which I was fine with and actually though was prudent.) She found a scrap of paper somewhere and wrote down an email address! She took the pens back to her dressing room, and I was not able to get another dance that night, the place was so packed. But I drove home in a happy daze.
I emailed her and she emailed back. From that point on, we had a dual relationship. I was a confidante and friend in the outside world, and still a customer at the club. We would share an email once or twice a week, mostly fairly short and on surface topics, but occasionally a longer, “what’s life all about” one. She let me know up front that she was living with her boyfriend and they were monogamous, but that she relished my friendship. And of course in the club, she was friendly and flirty (as the girls knew to be, to maximize dances and tips). But I swear, there were a lot more quick touches on the hand or face (her to me), all when the seriously watchful bouncers had their attention elsewhere. It was a giddy time for me.
But soon, she was graduating from school. She emailed me an invitation to come to the juried review of her final project, paintings and photographs. I was honored and thrilled. I overdressed for the occasion, in a suit. She was in a leather jacket, t-shirt, and black pants and low heels. She was beautiful, makeup on but sedate, as befitting a student, rather than the full-on glam of the stripper. I’d brought her a single red rose, and put it on a table where she’d lain the dozen roses that her art professor had brought in. There was champagne and crackers and cheese, but I ignored all that, instead walking slowly from piece to piece, making notes. She saw me doing that and smiled. I got to say “Hi” only briefly, as she was actually being interviewed by one of our local news stations, and some evidentially hoity-toity types were chatting her up as well. Before I left though, she excused herself and came over to me, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and thanked me for coming. “It means a lot to me,” she said. Apparently her live-in boyfriend had not shown up, I found out later. I emailed her my thoughts on her work, and she appreciated that to no end. We talked back and forth about my impressions, many of which seemed to really please her, to be really what she was striving to make the viewers feel.
Next time we chatted in the club, she told me she had plans to move to New York and make a name for herself. (She did exactly that. “Julie” was merely her dancing name.) I was understandably upset, but was genuinely happy for her, and told her so. She said she would be leaving soon, but would be in touch before she left. She sneaked in a very fast kiss on the cheek, squeezed my hand, and left to dance for someone else.
The next time I went to the club, she was gone. I asked another dancer who I was on friendly terms with where Julie was. She told me Julie had left for New York. I was crushed. She was gone, and we hadn’t said goodbye!
About a week later, I got a call, at almost midnight, on a Friday night. It was Julie. She explained that she was indeed in New York, and had had to leave in a much more rushed fashion than she’d planned, because her ex-boyfriend had been a huge tool about her success. She thanked me again for my friendship, especially when dancing. She said I was one of her few customers who always perked her up when they came in. I thanked her again for her kindness and beauty and friendship. The way things were going, I knew this was going to be our last call. (This was before widely-available caller-ID and certainly before cell phones). Out of desperation, I blurted out, “Julie, you’re so sexy. I … I … I dress up like you when I masturbate, I love you so much!” She did not hang up. She did not express displeasure. At all. Instead, she said, “Tony, that is a huge compliment! Please tell me about your dressing up.” We chatted for a half-hour, with me spilling everything, big boob fetish, long hair fetish, smoking fetish. I described my wigs, my costumes, the things I would say when dressed and emulating her. She never gave the slightest inclination she felt it was strange. For the first time in my life, I fell completely accepted and validated, all of me, the crossdressing part as well as the “normal” part. As we were winding up, for whatever reason, she said the following. “My friend, it sounds like you have a special place in your heart for me. I want you to know you have been a very special friend to me, too. You saw the student and the stripper, the ordinary girl and the sexualized object. You accepted them both, and grew to love them both. I am so grateful to you for that. So if you’d like, I want you to keep pretending you’re me when you dress. Make your boobs nice and big, and squeeze them, like you’re squeezing my tits. Shake your head and have your sexy hair fall in your face, and imagine it’s my hair your face is buried in. Take long drags from your MAX120s and blow your smoke in the mirror, and imagine I’m blowing my smoke in your face again. And enjoy it to the fullest, touch yourself, give yourself great, great orgasms. I wish things had been different, and we could have done that with each other, but keep the fantasies, keep the memories. I love you, Tony. I love you also, when you’re Julie. Always remember me, honey. Good bye now.”
I was stunned. I cried at my loss, then I dressed and rejoiced in my fantasy, in my memories, in the explicit permission and acceptance she’d given me. I took my time, lazily, dreamily, recalling her voice, her words, and of course, the images so firmly already in my brain. I flirted, I flounced, I swayed and danced, I smoked, I touched, I teased. I came. I relaxed. I rested, there, in the bathroom. And then I started the process all over again. I came and rested until the sur was well up, then slept the day away, in my cummy clothing, in my touseled wig, only kicking off my heels before I went to bed. I changed wigs and outfits, and Saturday night became a repeat of Friday night, as I danced alone-but-together, climax after climax, moaning, being fierce, being demure, striving for orgasm after orgasm, again going until after dawn. Sunday I cleaned up, washed the sheets, grocery shopped, and resumed my everyday life, but the “Farewell but never Goodbye” weekend will never, ever fade from my mind. And Julie will always be a part of me, and I love that part of me now and always, just as I love the rest of me.
There is more to tell of me, but not of Julie. So we will end here for this chapter.
7 years ago
