I let my cousin talk me into going to a strip club. It did not go as expected. [M36/F23] [lap dance] [groping] [blowjob] [breakin' the rules]

"I don't know, man," I say, sitting back on the stool, shaking my head, "It's not something I really like to do, you know?"

My cousin Joaquin leans in, nodding, "I do know. That's why I think it'll be good for you. Change your scenery. Get yourself a little ‘feminine attention.' It'll be fun, man, you're not gonna regret. And, Justin, man, it's not even like you've got a girl waiting for you at home."

"Yeah, but you do, so what the fuck?" Joaquin wanted to meet up, so I told him to come here, my favorite beer bar, a bright and industrial place where the wall behind the bartenders is lined entirely with taps. Not a sleazy place at all, unlike Joaquin. "If I want to see girls take their clothes off, I can do that just fine on my computer."

"Looking at girls on a screen isn't the same thing, don't even pretend." He gulps his beer down like it's a cheap gutter pilsner and not the rich, heavy ale that it is, gaze running to the rafters. "And Mary's being a bitch again. Won't even let me in the house right now. I'm staying on my buddy's couch."

"Dude."

"Be happy I didn't ask you. But it's why I need this. And it's just some harmless fun, man. The girls aren't even naked, usually. Not all the way at least. They just dance, you know? Tease you for tips. It's easy. Straightforward. None of that messiness of actual relationships."

I sigh. I don't know why I'm actually considering, don't know if I even really am. Joaquin's always been a degenerate, but he's straightforward about it. He's no liar, doesn't spin stories. "How much would this even cost me, if I went?" I ask.

He grins, knowing he's won. "Don't worry about the cover, I got you Justin. But bring some cash if you want to tip, a lot of the girls don't want to mess around with credit cards. Especially if you want a lap dance."

"I do not want a lap dance."

"Sure you don't, man," his grin spreads and he drains what's left of his beer.

The club is… less sleazy than I expected. It's still somewhat sleazy. Dark inside, except on the runway stage which is brighter than daylight. A DJ booth is elevated in the corner, where the big guy there keeps the music pumping. Little tables with little shaded lights on them are scattered throughout, and the hostess, a pretty woman whose smile is forged from pure confidence leads us to one unoccupied. The club's not busy, and no sooner are Joaquin and I sitting then a waitress appears at my side. She bends over the table, taking my cousin's order while bouncing her fishnet-wrapped hips into my shoulder.

I had told myself these places aren't my thing, that I'd find the transactional nature too offputting to be arousing, that the girls wouldn't even be that hot anyway. But a quick glance at the ass casually bumping against me throws all that out the window. It's thick, round, sexy, and right there if I want it. Those hips bumping my shoulder are the most action I've had in months, and knowing if I want more all I've got to do is pay for it… I'm already disturbingly horny by the time she turns and faces me. "What about you, cutie? What're you drinking?"

I swallow nervously. She's young and she's cute and she's flirting with me and even if it's all just a show my brain doesn't care to tell the difference. "Uh, I'll just have whatever he's having."

She flashes me a last flirtatious little wink and then struts, hips swinging. I stare at her ass as she goes.

"Relax, man," Joaquin nudges me in the side, "It's all just in fun. You don't have to act so on edge all the time."

I shake my head clear. "Dating in my thirties sucks. I haven't talked to any girls except through apps in, fuck, a long time, you know?"

"I know. Those apps can fuck off. All bots and hoes. Much more honest here. Speaking of, one of the girls is going to dance now, look."

The DJ announces her, and as some bass-heavy remix of a country song starts pounding through the sound system, she starts her routine. She's a big-titty blonde with a nice curvy ass, wrapped in a tasseled leather perversion of a cowgirl outfit, stetson and all. As a dance, it's all right. As a striptease, it's a little better. She peels the outfit off bit by bit, taunting and tempting her way along the catwalk. I get none of the thrill like I got from the waitress and her hips, though. I tip her just to be polite — she's working hard up there.

The next girl comes on dressed just as ridiculous, in some horny kind of schoolgirl uniform, and I doubt her glasses are prescription. I swallow guiltily as I dissect her outfit, study the shape of her breasts pressing through her top.

Joaquin nudges me, "Eyy, this one's for you, Justin."

I mutter, "Dude, that's fucked up."

"Oh, come on. You never have fantasies about your students? All those hot teen girls in your classroom, needing just a little bit of extra credit in order to pass your class? I'd give her an A if she let me suck on those tatas, man." The girl's dance presses her slender chest out, her white silk top ‘accidentally' slipping open.

"Dude, no. That's so messed up. Real life has nothing in common with this. If you ever think that way about your students, even in your most private thoughts, you shouldn't ever be a teacher."

He shakes his head. "Relax, Justin. She's smiling at you. And if they didn't want me to think about fucking them, they wouldn't wear those skimpy short skirts."

The dancer's cute dimpled grin slides away from me and along to the next table. "They don't actually dress that way, you know. Schools here don't even have uniforms anymore. And the fashions today… they make me feel old."

"Ten minutes alone with this schoolgirl on stage, I guarantee you she'll have you feeling young again."

I shake my head, sip my drink. The dancer unclasps her pleated skirt, and it drops to the floor. The golden thong she's got on beneath is even less probable. That this girl's much better at drawing my attention than the first is something I don't want to analyze.

The third dancer comes on to Mexican rap, a latina with a big grin and even bigger tits. Her moves are fluid and graceful and seem specifically selected to make the audience imagine exactly what this girl could do to them, if you let her. I can't help but stare and daydream, idly finishing my drink as I do.

"Bring you another?" The waitress is on her game, appearing from nowhere to crouch at my side, brushing her fingers along my arm as if by accident, smiling at me coyly. She's not any hotter than the dancers on stage, but she's so much closer — so much more direct — that I'm again bowled over by the thrill of her proximity.

"Uh-huh," I nod dumbly.

Joaquin clicks his tongue. "Watch out, they're not cheap."

"The drinks or the girls?"

He laughs. "Neither." And as the girl on stage flashes a final farewell from the curtain, and the DJ switches back to the regular mix, Joaquin motions across the room. "Here they come."

"Who?" But all I have to do is look, and I see. A few groups of girls are peeling out of the back to filter through the tables, false inviting smiles plastered across their faces, sex appeal wafting from their bodies. They're all types of bodies, all builds, all ages, all manner of outfits.

Three of the girls buzz over to us. The first sits back on our table, her ass right next to my empty drink. The second pulls over the open seat to my other side and sits, resting her arm on my shoulder. Joaquin offers his lap to the third, and she makes like she's never heard a better idea in her life, perching her cute butt daintily on his knees and saying, "Are you boys having a good time?"

"My night just got a whole lot better," Joaquin says, "Now that you ask."

"Did you like the dancing?"

His grin is ear to ear. "I'm a big fan of dancing."

The girl on my shoulder purrs, "What about you? Are you shy?"

I swallow. "I'm a little shy, yeah."

She drags her fingers down my chest. "Anything I can do to help? I know some techniques."

My heart thumps, and I wonder that I'm such a sucker for this obvious manipulation. I look up at the girl with her butt on the table, realize she's older. Not old, but older than the rest, maybe my age, and smiling at me like she knows it. Oh, fuck. I haven't really been taking these younger girls seriously. But her? She's pretty, far sexier than anyone I've ever been with, and I don't know what exactly she's selling but my heart's already telling me to buy it. I cough, clear my throat. "I– I probably shouldn't."

The girls aren't even offended, drifting off to the next guy. I make myself breathe again. Was I an idiot, turning down this offer? Joaquin, sleazeball he may be, was speaking truth when he called me out earlier. Single. Lonely. Nothing to lose but some cash. An easy transaction: give that sexy woman some money, get some sort of … lap dance? Foreplay? Female attention of some kind, a thrill that'll quicken my pulse and stiffen my cock. Make me feel alive.

My cousin's busy in some hushed conversation with his girl. How they could possibly have so much to talk about, I don't understand.

I glance around the club, see the dozen or so girls milling about the other customers. I can't decide whether this whole concept turns me off or is delightfully honest. And lost in that circular argument with myself, I don't realize that I've been making eye contact with a pretty young woman with long blonde hair. She's across the room, and as she stares back at me, she begins weaving her way through the tables and chairs in my direction.

Of course she is. I was checking her out, which in this place is an invitation. She's not my type, I tell myself, which is an insane thing to think, because she's objectively hot. Young and cute and fit and made up with dark eyeliner and pink lipstick. Nice tits in a black push-up bra. Shiny black leather skirt barely covering her ass. Black leather high-heel boots. And perfect pale skin on a toned, petite frame everywhere in between. The only thing missing is a smile. The waitress drops my next drink off, and I'm so mesmerized by the blonde I don't even glance at her. When she stops right in front of me, it's with an easy assuredness. "Were you looking for me?" she says like I know her.

"Uh, no, sorry," I say, "I'm just here with my cousin." I shrug his direction, as if this means anything to her.

She glances at him, frowns, turns back to me. She's considering something, but I cannot guess what. How complex can this be? Her eyes narrow, and she asks, "Just two guys, out for some fun?"

"Uh, yeah. That's about it."

"Huh," she says, "I've seen him here before. But you… first time?"

"Yeah," I nod. I don't know why I'm keeping her talking. I should send her on, let her find someone who'll hire her services. But a smile spreads across her face, hesitant yet sharp, deeply charming, and I can't make myself look away. "First time."

"Well, why didn't you say?" She crouches in front of me, rubs my knee through my khakis. To her touch I'm instantly addicted.

"What's your name?" I find myself asking.

"You can call me Candi."

"'Candi.'" I repeat.

"What? You think I'm lying?" she says with a giggle, a natural one, or so near I can't tell the difference, and my heart thumps for her. "Candi's my name, scout's honor. Or you can call me whatever you want. What do I call you?"

"Um, Justin."

Her grin spreads, and fuck me but it seems genuine. I'm losing my mind, clearly, lost in this girl's raw appeal, can't anymore tell up from down. "Well, Um Justin," she says, "I'm here to help you have a good time. Would you like that?"

She's asking me to agree to something, something I don't understand. I deflect, "You're really pretty, you know that?"

Candi laughs, seems to break character by tucking her chin bashfully, then slips back into her self-confident persona. She turns around and bends over the table, presenting me a face full of her slender-but-round skirt-clad ass. And when she faces me again, it's with my drink in her hand. She sniffs it, then leans over and brings it to my lips, guiding me into taking a sip with her tits in my face, tilting the glass back more and more until I've drained the whole thing at once. I've never had a woman do this before, didn't know how erotic it is. Joaquin warned me these drinks are pricey, and they're probably watered down too, but I don't care, if Candi wants me to I'll finish another again in an instant. Fuck, I'm wrapped around this young woman's finger.

"It's nice to escape from real life sometimes, isn't it?" she coos, "This is a good place to sneak away from all your troubles, indulge in a little fantasy." She takes the napkin, dabs it across my face, flicks a hand signal to someone over my shoulder.

I'm breathing hard, eyes wide. "I don't have much going on for me at home," I confess, unprompted, just blathering, no idea what to say to a stripper but needing to say something, "It's just me and my dog, a golden retriever."

"Oh? I love golden retrievers. They're my favorite. Well, one of my favorites. But they're such cuties, aren't they?" She says this while brushing up against me, overwhelming me with her sexuality, continuing her campaign of touching my knee, adding to it my shoulder, the back of my hand. At seduction, she's a master. Or I'm easy. Or both.

Another drink arrives to replace the first, placed directly in Candi's hand. She straddles me on my lap, makes eyes at me, watching me as she sips from it, lips pursed and big tits pushed out.

Time passes in slow motion, the fluid slow to enter her mouth, pouring like molten glass, thickly coating her tongue. She swallows, looks proud about it.

When I start breathing again my hands are out, hovering above her hips. I don't know the rules, don't know if I'm allowed to touch her, don't know even if allowed whether I should.

"Justin. Let's go somewhere a little more private," she suggests.

Oh, wait, no, all this sexuality and temptation is just her negotiating a business contract. She made me forget for a moment yet that moment's gone. I may be lonely and even a little desperate but I'm also a cheap bastard. "No, I– I can't afford– thanks, though, it's not personal."

"Dude." Joaquin's glaring at me meaningfully, momentarily ignoring the girl crawling on him, licking the side of his face like she's done it before.

"What?" I frown.

He nods towards Candi. And Candi, she's looking at me with an expression I cannot read. "I wasn't asking you for money," she says.

"Why not?"

Joaquin kicks me. "When the pretty young lady asks you to go somewhere private with her, gratis, you say ‘yes,' you idiot. Who cares why? Maybe you made an impression."

Candi stands, holds out her hand. Despite my confusion I place mine in hers and let her lead me away from the refuge of our table, towards one of the doors lining the wall opposite the stage. She sets me on the studded shiny red leather couch and slides the burgundy curtain closed behind her, cutting us off from the club. Dim red light forms a cone playing down on us from above. The music thumps in, muffled, only the bassline surviving intact.

I've never before had a lap dance and wasn't expecting that to change tonight. But as Candi begins gyrating her butt in my face I stare, transfixed on her ass, on the way the black leather skirt undulates and oscillates and fluctuates, every motion another clue as to the precise perfection of toned young glutes alone in the booth with me. And as she rolls her hips and twirls her belly, the bottom of her skirt slips up slowly, exposing the sexiest pair of cheeks. A narrow strip of black fabric runs down between them, cups her pussy so perfectly.

She sits back, grinding against the tentpole rudely bulging from my khakis. I am so fucking hard, my head swimming with lust. I dig my fingers into the cushion beneath me just to stop myself from grabbing her, from breaking some taboo. She says, "You really don't remember me, do you?"

Her long blonde hair swishes across her back, bare but for the single black bra strap running across, and it's the sexiest back I've ever seen, skin smooth, shoulders toned. "Remember you from where?" I would've remembered if I met a girl this hot, not that I can think of how I'd even know a stripper.

"From senior year physics, Mr Williams."

We're on the surface of the Earth beneath sixty miles of atmosphere and yet the room is somehow violently decompressing, all the air abruptly having left us with naught but vacuum. "What?" I say, even though there's no sound.

"Maybe this will help," she says, still grinding her ass against my boner, now doing something with her hair.

Her long blonde locks somehow come lose, and then I realize she's unclipping a wig, setting it aside. I'd been believing it was real, had no idea. But now I see she's actually got short dark brown hair, a dozen pins arrayed throughout to hold it flat against her head. And as she twists around on my lap to face me, she smiles at me with her real smile, and like tumblers on a lock rotating into position the memories roll into place.

"Janessa Mills," I exhale, eyes wide. "Oh. Fuck."

Her smile grows so wide she bites her lip. "So you do remember."

"What're you doing here?" It's a stupid question.

"Making your dick hard, it would seem. You always were one of my favorite teachers, you know. Even if you never gave me better than a B minus."

"We can't do this!" I hiss.

"Why not?" She starts dancing again, grinding her ass into my lap. "There's no rule that says I can't perform for people I know."

"But you're my–"

"Former student," she finishes, "From five years ago. It'd be one thing if you tracked me down, came here to see me, knowing it was me. But you didn't, did you? You're here because your horny cousin dragged you in. I didn't believe my eyes at first, thought it must just be someone who looked like Mr Williams, but no, it's you in the flesh. Thirsty. Turned on. Getting hard while he looks at me."

"Janessa," I say, "I need to leave. I'm breaking so many rules just being here. I would never– had I known–"

She nestles her ass against my cock while taking my hands, pulling them around her, setting them on her bra. On her tits. "So leave then," she says.

I'm squeezing her magnificent boobs, fingers automatically seeking her nipples.

"Is it breaking any more of your rules if you take my bra off?"

I whip my hands down to the couch, fingers splayed, heels shoved into the cushion for chastity's sake.

"Fine," she says, "Be that way." Then she turns around to straddle me, spreading her legs to place a leather boot on either side of me, and takes her bra off anyway. Her tits — my former student's tits — are big and bouncy, perky and perfect, bubbly and bare. She puts her hand behind my head, pushes my face down into them.

I'm slobbering over her nipples.

"I don't know if you realize," she continues, "How much this is turning me on. For real, I mean. Getting my old teacher all horny. ‘What if someone we know' is one of those things us girls always joke about backstage but never really happens, you know? Until it does. And lucky for me, you're one of the cute ones. One of the few I wouldn't have turned down back in high school."

"Janessa!"

She laughs and pushes my face back down into her tits. Not that she has to push hard. "Grab my ass already, Mr Williams."

She shouldn't call me that. I shouldn't be groping her, either. And I definitely shouldn't be grabbing her ass, kneading her robust flesh. My fingers dig into her cheeks, bare but for the thong. I shouldn't be doing any of this yet I am anyway, pulling her into me, dry humping her through my pants. Fuck, I am in a bad way. Nothing good will come of this.

"Why are you a stripper, Janessa?"

"What? Now you're having an ethical dilemma, once you realize I'm not just some anonymous bimbo? I thought you were more progressive than that, Mr Williams. I paid for college by stripping, so you know! I make good money doing this. Here, spank me. Harder! Yes, like that. I didn't mean I'm going to charge you. I'm giving you a freebie, for old time's sake, and even having you do stuff I never normally let guys do. But that's just because I know what a sweetheart you really are, and I like seeing you corrupted. Tell me I'm hot, Mr Williams."

"You're so fucking hot." I wince as I say it, voicing it only because it's true.

"Tell me I'm sexy."

"You're so fucking sexy."

"Tell me how hard I make you."

"So fucking hard."

She grins down at me, self-assured and proud of what she's done to me. "Tell me how badly you want to fuck my little schoolgirl brains out."

I gasp.

She laughs. "You're fun to fuck with, Mr Williams." And then suddenly she's serious, deadly sexy, one hand tweaking her nipple while the other pushes underneath her panties. "And you make my pussy so incredibly wet."

My dick tries to tear its way out of my pants.

She tucks her chin, looks at me with a caricature of innocence. "I'm not really supposed to let you, but do you want to feel it?"

I stare at the strip of black fabric between her thighs, held in place only by the little strings running high over her hips, the beautiful smooth white expanse of bare thigh on either side, the soft little mound wrapped so delicately, the stretched distortion of the material by her fingers beneath.

"You want to rub my sexy little clit, don't you Mr Williams? You want to feel what it's like to put your fingers inside my tight pussy. You want to make me cum."

I nod, because I do want these things. I want something I cannot want — to fuck my old student Janessa Mills. My hand reaches out, slides down her hips, slips under her panties. My eyes widen, not believing I'm doing what I'm doing. I drag my thumb along her ridge, make her shiver. She's so soft and tender, so warm and wet. Her tits heave as she sucks down a breath.

"Oh, fuck," she moans, eyes swimming with lust, "You're really doing it. Fuuu-uck! You're filthy, Mr Williams!"

I rub her harder, push with more force.

"Oh!" Janessa's eyes widen, her jaw drops. "Oh wow! Fuck, Mr Williams. If you keep touching me like that…"

I'm definitely absolutely positively not supposed to be doing this to anyone who's ever been one of my students, and I'm probably not supposed to be doing this to a stripper either. But neither prejudice is enough to overpower the furious temptation of this crazy hot young woman in my face hanging from my shoulders legs wrapped around me riding my hand begging me to bring her near the gates of climax.

She throws her head back far as it can go, pushing her tits up into the sky. I lean in to suck on them, her nipples so sweet in my lips. With my thumb I knead circles around her clit, with my fingers I thrust little curls into her sex.

"Fuck…" she's moaning, writhing, "Fuck yes…"

I can't believe I'm doing this to anyone this hot, let alone Janessa. It's surreal, the violation making my head swim, making me need her all the more. Spreading her legs further, she thrusts onto my hand, her heat smearing my fingers sticky.

She shoves me back into the cushion, making my eyes widen with fear. Have I done something wrong? "I'm completely not supposed to do this," she says, pouncing on me, pressing her lips to mine in an act of frantic desperation, her tongue in my mouth and her moans in my throat as she quivers and bucks. I may be new to strip clubs but I know she's not lying, this isn't normal.

"You…" she's panting too heavily to speak, "Mr Williams… the fuck… so hot…" With a blink she pulls away, eyes big as plates, as if as surprised to find herself making out with me as I am. "Oh, fuck," she says. Her hand comes down, grabs my dick through my khakis as if in disbelief. "That's so fuckin' big."

She catches her breath and finds herself again, her smile returning, although now with cheeks warm and blushing. Tugging on me, she says, "You want me to make you cum, Mr Williams?"

Despite it all I question her. "Is that allowed?"

"Breaking every rule we've got. And yet…" She slides off me and onto the floor, onto her knees, grinning up at me while working my belt open, unclasping my fly. "Wig on or off?" she says, nodding over at her discarded long blonde strands.

But she's so much cuter with her natural hair. "Definitely off."

She flicks her eyes at me as she smiles.

My cock, finally free from its restriction and exposed to the club's cool air and dim light, towers thick and tall and imperious, a fat baton in her small fist. She giggles as she gives it a first little yank, and it feels so much better than it has any right to. Janessa licks her painted lips and runs tentative fingers up it's vein, teases the head, takes in its size. "Wow, Mr Williams. Is this huge fuckin boner just for me? I'm only an innocent little girl. I don't know what to do with a giant cock like this."

"Rub your tits on it."

Her eyebrow lifts. "Like this?" she says, sitting up and bouncing her nipples against my shaft. Then she push it into her cleavage. Squeezing her rack together, she pins my dick between the big soft flesh of her boobs and pumps me against her chest. I think I'm going to lose it right then, watching my girthy erection pop out between her tits only to disappear again over and over, but I somehow don't.

"Oh fuckin hell…" I groan.

"No, Mr Williams," she says, "I know some guys like to get off this way. But I'm betting what you'd like to really do is make me drink your cum." She giggles. "And anyway, I really just need to know what you taste like."

My jaw is slack and my head swimming and my ears roaring and I have just enough wherewithal to nod at her.

Her tongue is the gentlest silk, curling and twisting down the underside of my shaft, making precum ooze from its tip. Her pink lips are delicate satin, kissing the glans, smearing the precum into a glistening gloss. Her eyes are pools of pure desire, unfiltered lust that make sinfulness their plaything and taboo their medium. I have never been blown like this. I have never even dreamt of being blown like this. I didn't know blowjobs like this even existed. My cock feels like it's going to burst, and the only thing holding it back is the deliberate and methodical teasing pace of Jenessa's ministrations.

She's in complete control of my dick, deciding when it gets pleasure, how much it gets, and when it's allowed to cum. And she's decided: not yet. But that doesn't stop her from bringing me closer and closer and closer to the edge, riding me along at the very cusp of bliss, letting me see over the crest but no further.

My chest is heaving, my mouth open, my throat dry. "Oh fuck," I mutter, "You're so fuckin good at this."

She licks a swirl around the head of my cock before smiling at me. "So what grade would you give me in sex education, Mr Williams? Is this B minus work?"

It's the forbidden fantasy. "You're getting an A fuckin plus, girl," I tell her.

"I always wanted to be your star student." And when she goes back down, pinching her thick lips tight, cheeks hollowing as she sucks, she grabs the base of my shaft and pumps. But it's something in her eyes — something I can neither define nor identify even though I know it's there — that gives me permission to cum.

And she sucks and sucks and sucks, tireless and relentless as my bliss rises. I'm staring her in the eye, transfixed, hypnotized, the pleasure in my cock escalating, building past the point of no return into a deafening crescendo. She knows it as well as I do, feeling when I tense, when I stop breathing, when I groan with the ultimate release. Holding her mouth open and tongue out, her fist twists around my cock in powerful strokes.

Cum jets from me, with each thundering beat of my heart a new spurt fouling Jenessa's cute, innocent, naughty little mouth. Thick white ropes spray between her lips as my load pools on her tongue, each burst adding to it as her silken bottom lip smears against my glans. She keeps going, milking me and milking me until I've nothing left to give, until I'm a brainless heap of a man. With a grin, she shows me my mess in her mouth and then swallows it all down in a single gulp. I am absolutely certain strippers don't normally do that.

Drained in every way, I sink into the cushions and succumb to the daze washing over me. I expect the regret to arrive any minute now, the guilt, the self-loathing. But it doesn't. It doesn't show its face then, and it doesn't show when Jenessa's done putting her outfit back together and slides onto the bench next to me.

I swallow, wetting my dry mouth. "So now what?" I then say.

She giggles, shrugs. "That was a nice little playtime we had, Mr Williams. Justin. Wasn't quite the high school reunion I was expecting, but way more fun." She leans over, gives me a peck on the cheek and then stands, starts to walk to the curtain, then pauses and says over her shoulder, "I'm happy to see you again, but don't think next time it'll be free. A girl's got to make a living, you know." Then she slides open the curtain and slips back into the club. I watch her go, see her wave at one of the bartenders, disappear into the backstage.

And then I stand, stumble to find my footing, and somehow make my way back to Joaquin.

He's alone, watching the dancers as he sips a drink, a collection of empties on the table in front of him. "Dude," he says, "You were gone a while. What the fuck did you get up to?"

"Her and I," I say, blinking and shaking my head, still fighting off the orgasmic daze, "Had a very interesting conversation."

"Conversation! Pfff. Whatever, Justin. You think I can't tell when you got laid?"

"She was a very nice girl."

"I never been with that one before. How much it cost you?"

I smile at him. "Not a dime."

"Bull-fucking-shit."

I click my tongue, turn away, look towards the door through which Janessa retreated. "You ready to go?"

My ethical gymnastics allow me to enjoy the memory mostly guilt-free, aided by the fact that I get the whole weekend to put the incident behind me before I have to return to my classroom and face my students. And when Monday comes, the realities of grading assignments and updating lesson plans and dealing with staff lounge drama mean I don't think about Janessa at all. Until I get home that evening, take my dog for a walk, and return to the house to cook my dinner for one.

I was lonely before, and I can be lonely again. Even though I know I can go get my keys, drive over to that strip club, and get a quick salve, it's not the real thing is it? And it's a terrible, horrible, putrid idea. I shouldn't even think it. What I need is actual companionship. So I shove the entire half-baked notion away and curl up with my dog and watch some TV before eventually migrating to my bed.

And that's what I do every night that week and the next, life having managed to return to normal.

But then one Sunday morning there's an email waiting for me. My address isn't hard to find, I've had the same account for fifteen years now, and it's written on my classroom wall and posted on the school website and listed on the county. So the fact there's an email isn't on its own remarkable. It's who it's from that causes my breath to stick.

"Great catching up with you," reads the subject. I tap it. "It was so fun to see you again last week, Mr Williams. If you want to meet up again and talk more about that project I'm working on, here's my phone number. I've got some new ideas to run past you. Text me anytime."

I set my laptop down, make myself some coffee, and stare at the screen from across the room while the espresso slowly grows cold in the mug.