Point of No Return

Chapter Five

For the sake of variety, I ventured back to Slay Queens for a few days, just to cool off a little and dust myself down. It was a pretty hard fall, but not one I hadn’t experienced before. Like Forrest Gump, I was always running.

Running to escape the hurt, erase the humiliation, and forget. The antidote was always the same too.

The first woman I ever ran away from was Stacy, who remains the love of my life. If she were to rock up at my door today, more than a decade after we parted, and asked me to run through a brick wall for her, I would do it. No question.

Every password on my computer is a variation of her name. Stacy is literally the key to my life, and no woman on the planet could replace her, not even Lisa.

I first met Stacy at the local watering hole in my hometown, where I had been out to watch a rugby game with William, my closest friend at the time.

William and I were at one end of the bar, watching the Springboks lose to some or other opponent, probably the All Blacks, but I don’t care enough to remember. In the greater scheme of things, the defeat was of little consequence anyway.

The Springboks were the defending World Cup champions and had just won the Lions series. As far as I was concerned, every match between then and the next World Cup was purely preparation, nothing worth fussing a tremendous amount about.

Most people in the bar area seemed to feel the same way, but Stacy wasn’t one of them. She could not for the life of her understand why Morne Steyn was not on the field, and as far as she was concerned, that was the only reason the national team lost this particular outing.

And boy did she make her feelings known, although I suspect a little liquid courage had helped her along.

“Oh great, another Blue Bulls fan,” said William.

I had a good chuckle.

The thing about Bulls fans is they think every Bulls player should be a Springbok, and they are pretty vocal about it, too. Suffice it to say, Steyn was the darling boy of Loftus, home of the Bulls.

While I appreciated William’s sense of humor, I did think there was something more to Stacy, but I had no idea just how unique she would turn out to be. Stacy was an older coloured woman. If this was a race, she already had the inside lane, even if she didn’t know it.

Just two days later, not knowing if Stacy would recognize me in her sober state, I made the bold decision of walking straight into her office unannounced, and before I knew it she became the most important person in my life.

We went to work together, spent lunch hours (sometimes two hours) together, went home, went out, and drank together. While we met at a bar, I wasn’t much of a drinker at the time, but under Stacy’s tutelage, I evolved into a fish, a drunken master. It felt like an accomplishment.

Oddly enough, amongst all of that, I only ever slept with Stacy twice in two years, and the second time doesn’t really count because neither of us had a clear memory of it. But it was one of those relationships where sex hardly mattered anyway, and my entanglement with Lisa reminded me a little of that.

When I reflect on it now, I am prepared to accept that perhaps it should have mattered and that maybe, just maybe, we would have had a chance. I read something to that effect in Cosmopolitan.

It did get to a point where I was searching for something more from the relationship, but Stacy was never on the same page. My massive insecurities exacerbated things, as I never thought I deserved Stacy from the outset. She was breath-taking, and I was Shrek.

Sensing that there was no future to be had, after two incredibly memorable years, I started searching for my distance. In a crude attempt to justify my running, I have always sought to blame Stacy for pushing me away, but in reality, I am the one who pushed her away.

I was bringing nothing to the table physically or materially, and because I couldn’t face up to my own failures and shortcomings, I decided to create some distance by moving 1000km away.

I had moved to a new job, which was the perfect justification for migrating to Cape Town, but deep down inside, I felt like I just needed a fresh start, and Cape Town was it.

When I walked into The Cage for the first time, I was a wounded animal seeking refuge, not realizing how much I would come to rely on these houses of ill-repute for the next ten years of my not-so-precious life.

Strip clubs and brothels had become my ****. If it wasn’t The Cage, it was the Honey Pot. If it wasn’t the Honey Pot, it was Slay Queens.

And Slay Queens was merely the next stop on my depressing journey. .

***

Slay Queens was better stocked than any other strip club I had visited, but there were tremendous drawbacks. The patrons weren’t just a rowdy bunch but also pretty comfortable with pickpocketing and outright mugging. The place was unsafe, but I never expected it to be safe.

The service from the bar staff was also lousy as if they were doing you some kind of favor by being there.

As bad as all that was, the women themselves were the major drawback, believe it or not. No effort, no wit, no charm, no professionalism. I get it; by being there, I was the pathetic one, but losers like me are also paying customers. The least the so-called Slay Queens could offer me in return was some value for my buck.

Splashing the cash usually solved all my problems, but not at Slay Queens. Most of the girls in these parts, probably because they were so stunning, felt like they didn’t even need to try.

One of the older Slay Queens (Maggie) caught me off guard at the bar though. While age was no longer on her side, she was still a seasoned pro, a rare breed in these quarters.

The younger men might not have been chasing after her like dogs in heat, but she could still snuff out a wounded puppy in need and knew exactly how to tend those wounds.

I honestly can’t even remember what Maggie and I spoke about. In fact, I don’t even think there was much of a conversation. She merely produced a masterclass in seduction, although it generally didn’t take much to seduce me.

Maggie was in her mid-to-late 40s, a real industry veteran. The beauty about it was that she knew it. Without any warning whatsoever, Maggie swiftly crept into the stool next to mine, like the Scarlet Pimpernel.

I initially ignored her as my mind was still set on Lisa… discarding her from my memory was proving impossible. Slay Queens was merely meant to be a distraction, visual stimulation at most, and nothing more.

I was never really that interested in the shows - and this goes for all the strip clubs I would go on to frequent in my life. If I wanted to witness a stage performance, I would have gone to the local theater, where I was guaranteed much better quality.

Scantily clad girls swinging on poles and dancing around chairs in silly costumes didn’t really cut it for me.

It was partly why I was never really that interested in pornographic films, bondage, or role-playing, or any of that weird shit. It is either you were seductive or not, and no bunny outfit was ever going to change that for me.

At least Maggie seemed to understand that. I always give credit where it is due. Come to think of it Maggie wasn’t even scantily clad the day she snuck up on me.

She just got straight to the point, and I appreciated that. She was also coloured, with strong shades of Aunty Mavis about her, and that helped her cause a little. I might have ignored her otherwise.

“Can you smell that?” she asked.

“What?” I snapped back.

“Can’t you smell anything?”

Okay, I take it back; she was beating around the bush a little bit.

“I smell beer, some tobacco, possibly some marijuana, and a lot of stale perfume.”

“No, man, can’t you smell it? It smells like pussy.”

“I don’t doubt that at all. The place is full of it.”

She chuckled.

“Smell this. Here, smell my fingers. It smells like pussy, doesn’t it?”

“Nothing some soap and water can’t take care of. No need to panic about it.”

“Do you like the smell of pussy?”

“Depends.”

“Perhaps you could smell mine. Tell me how it smells.”

“I think I already know.”

“And do you like the smell?”

“Manna from Heaven,” I said with a straight face.

“Then you should come upstairs with me.”

“Nah, I would rather just sit here and drown my sorrows thank you.”

“What’s wrong? Women trouble?”

“Something like that.”

“She doesn’t deserve you.”

“Honestly, I don’t deserve her.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking about Lisa or Stacy.

And as I said it, Maggie’s hand slipped down towards my crotch. Was there some kind of stripper training manual for this?

Hers was a similar technique to Lisa, but a little fuller. A lot less ambiguity and certainly no attempt at discretion. Maggie knew what she wanted, and she was certain to get it, as my manhood stiffened immediately.

Man, I was weak…. I still am.

“Ah, there we go. I knew what you needed.”

And in a flash, she wrapped her entire hand around my shaft…I was doomed, as all manner of resistance failed. She loosened my zip a fraction and slipped her delicate hands down my trousers, and just like that, the screen broadcasting the Premier League football just above the bar faded into this massive blur.

“Do you feel a little better?”

I just groaned a little, the pleasure outweighing the shame of it all. I let Maggie work, as disrupting her made no sense anymore. She rubbed, and she rubbed, and she stroked, and she rubbed. My goodness, such a simple yet critical skill.

She never stopped until I was completely satisfied.

And for her extensive efforts, all she asked for was R50. I was on the other side of town now, shopping at Hillbrow’s very own Bargain Wholesalers.

“Thank you,” I whispered after letting out a light groan. Now, this was a pure transaction. No emotion involved whatsoever.

Maggie walked away, chest out and satisfied with her work. As far as she was concerned, the mission had been accomplished. Little did she know that she had merely reeled in the fish for somebody else, a lass from Laos called Minjee. Not a woman of many words, I might add, but who needed words in an environment like this?

“Do you want to fuck?” she said.

“Hi, my name is Wolf. How do you do?”

I also did that racist thing of speaking slowly, as if it was going to make any kind of difference here.

“Do you want to fuck?” she repeated.

I could see there wasn’t going to be much progress. I just nodded my head and followed her lead. Who needs words at a time like this?

For all my strip club adventures, I hadn’t actually shagged anybody yet. I could tell that this was going to be a first, and a voice inside my head told me it would be worth it.

Minjee was honestly spectacular looking and properly fit in every place that mattered. Her calves, thighs, and breasts were immaculate. Some parents merely produce offspring, while others produce art, and Minjee was a work of art.

It was all-natural, too. I could tell she wasn’t one of those gym types based on her flat butt cheeks, the only drawback on her otherwise spectacular body.

Minjee had many redeeming features that more than made up for it, including the most stunning mound I had ever seen between a pair of legs. I cupped it at the first opportunity I got.

Neither of us bothered with the small talk as she swiftly removed her clothes, exposing the most beautifully shaped breasts I had ever seen. Not too big and not too small. They were about the size of a lawn bowl, fitting perfectly into both my hands. And they were so firm, too.

What witchcraft was this?

Minjee then pulled me closer to her bed, slowly but decisively, and the moment she sat down on the edge, I collapsed onto my knees. I wasn’t weak or anything. I just couldn’t wait to stick my tongue between her thighs. This vagina was unlike anything I had ever encountered before. Perfect in every way.

“Ohhh, ahhh. Yes,” she said.

At this point, Minjee whipped herself into quite the frenzy as if I had done something out of Hogwarts. Tongue work had become a signature of mine now, and Stacy deserved all the credit for it…out of sight but not entirely out of mind.

“You are very good,” added Minjee.

While it was likely she said this to everybody who paid for her company, I didn’t doubt my skills in this sphere, which made up for all my other physical shortcomings.

Once again, I wasn’t actually interested in penetration, and there was none in the end despite all the preamble, much to Minjee’s confusion.

“I thought you want to fuck?”

I didn’t answer, and thankfully she didn’t press me too hard on this.

I never saw Minjee again. In fact, I was pretty much done with Slay Queens after my encounter with her. Physical perfection isn’t always enough. It was time to return to women who knew how to handle broken toys. It was time to face my Honey Pot return.