The Show Begins

The good news was that the show started off fine. The host, a pretty average-looking guy with a close-cropped beard, opened the Open Mic night with some bland jokes at the participant's expense, and reminded the crowd to tip their waitresses and to laugh or groan as much as they wanted.

Then he introduced the first ‘comedian.’ It was a big guy, heavily muscled and he looked like he was probably juiced up. He had an awkward start, catching a few chuckles from the crowd with his stiffness more than being funny. Each act was going to get ten minutes, and he went through her material in about six.

You and Gemma had spent more time looking at each other than the guy, and you had to assume he had noticed this.

“So I guess it’s time for me to do some crowd work,” he announced - already just a painful transition. Then he stomped across the stage right in front of you. “What’s your name, honey?”

You bristled at the audacity and glanced at Gemma to check if she wanted you to do anything, but she met your eye quickly and gave you a half-wink. “Gemma,” she said.

“And what’s a girl like you doing out with a guy like this?” he asked.

“Well, I thought we were at a comedy show, but it looks like they forgot to screen for funny,” Gemma retorted. She said it was a smirk, and I saw that the game was on.

The guy rocked back a bit as a couple of other people in the crowd chuckled. His nostrils flared and he frowned. “I’m not surprised really. I could feed you my funny bone and make you laugh over and over.”

“Oh, that explains everything,” you said, and turned to Gemma but kept talking loudly. “All the steroids shrunk his funny bone along with his cock.”

This got us a few more laughs, and the guy was starting to go red. He lifted an arm and flexed. To be fair to him, it was an impressive muscle, but he looked ridiculous doing it. “Boy, I could fold you in half and-”

“Alright, and that’s time for Corey Muscles,” the host said, stepping on stage and getting between the muscle-bound comedian and us. He said something to the guy away from the mic, and the guy backed off but didn’t stop glaring at us. Once he was gone, the host checked his clipboard. “Alright, let’s get a change of pace. Next up, give a warm welcome to the Mistress of Mayhem, Julie Miles!”

A woman, probably in her late twenties, strutted onto the stage wearing thigh-high black leather boots, booty shorts and a leather corset. To be quite frank, the outfit wasn’t working for her. She was built wide, and you would have been hard-pressed to find a way to consider her attractive. Thankfully you didn’t have to try and find a way to try to describe her, because once she stepped on stage she said. “What’s up, what’s up, party people! I’m Julie Miles, but I like my bitches to call me their Bull Dyke!”

It went downhill from there. She got some laughs based purely on how crude she was, but that was about it. About halfway into her set, she asked the audience, “So who here eats pussy?”

Several people in the crowd gave shouts from the darkness, and Gemma laughed and gave you a playful shove as you grinned at each other. Julie Miles, Bull Dyke must have seen it because she waddled over towards us. “Uh oh, looks like our princess over here has a frog on her hands. I saw that look, don’t tell me your date doesn’t work out at the Y!”

“Oh, he does,” Gemma grinned, reaching under the table and squeezing your knee out of sight. You knew she was both assuring you, and also asking you to let her take this one.

“Wait, is that an Australian accent?” Julie asked.

“Well it isn’t Scottish,” Gemma heckled.

“So then I guess you know all about going down under then, huh?” Julie retorted.

“Everything I know about it I’ve learned from him,” Gemma said, glancing at you with a smile.

“Oh, god no,” Julie scoffed. “Honey, let me tell you - you ain’t had a good pussy licking until you’ve been with a proper lesbian. Let me guess, he spends about five minutes down there, then pops and sticks it in?” Julie seemed to have the sense to try and at least pivot into whatever joke she wanted to get to, but Gemma wasn’t letting her escape.

“Actually,” she said loudly. “It’s more like twenty minutes of heaven.”

This stopped Julie in her tracks and **** her to pivot back to the conversation. “It takes him twenty minutes to turn you on? Look, girly, if you want me to teach him some lessons I charge by the hour and I can’t be held responsible for your starting to question your orientation.”

To Julie’s credit, this netted her some laughs from the crowd.

“Oh, no,” Gemma said. “Twenty minutes gets me to orgasm number four or five. But if you want some lessons, I’m sure we could arrange a demonstration. You just gotta be careful, you might find your Bull Dyke status taking a trip back down the Kinsey scale.”

This set Julie back on her heel for a moment, and you could see the host hovering off the side of the stage, clearly annoyed that he might need to intervene again.

“Oh, honey. Seems like someone’s had too many drinks,” Julie said and turned back to the audience.

Gemma snorted. Loud and long. And the look on her face was screaming ‘Hah, coward.’

Julie stopped again. “You got a problem, bitch?”

This got some mutters from the crowd.

“Just waiting for you to say something that isn’t about someone’s pussy,” Gemma said. “Are you really that downbad that it’s the only thing on your mind, ever? You know you could always ring up an escort service, though they might charge extra wedged into those boots like that.”

“Aaaand that’s time,” the host said, sliding on stage and taking the mic from Julie before she could retort. “Alright, it’s a fun crowd tonight! Nice and rowdy, just the way we like it. Next up on the stage…”

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