XXIV. Tokyo Decadence, Part Two

“You can begin whenever you’re ready,” Evan said.

“What, no music?” I asked.

“Hey, I’m giving you a break as it is.”

It was a difficult to just begin a striptease, especially with no musical intro. Evan suggested imagining the club as it was at night, full of giggling Japanese women, housewives mostly, looking for a little excitement. (Has anyone ever actually used this kind of advice? Aside from sexual fantasies, I could never sustain a visualization for more than thirty seconds. Well, a sexual fantasy would be appropriate, if I could overcome the shame…)

I closed my eyes and imagined a bevy of stunning Japanese women in their thirties and forties, all properly and conservatively attired. The slits along the sides of their skirts offering tantalizing glimpses of well-toned thigh, however, told me their propriety would not last long.

I slowly unbuttoned my smoking jacket, slipped it off one shoulder, then the other. I shimmied it halfway down my back like Marilyn Monroe with a feathered boa, making the most of my small, yet jiggly, man-boobs. Whipping the jacket up over my head, I twirled it around a few times and let it fly. I meant for it to land into the audience, where the women would fight over it, and subsequently tear it to shreds, but my timing was off. The jacket flew off, up and behind me. Unintentional, but effective: Evan chuckled. The act was working. It was time to get really shameless.

Standing naked save for a leopard print g-string, another borrowed garment, I proceeded to erotically massage my loose belly while I moaned, licked my lips, and rolled my eyes to the back of my head (facial expressions of a sort seldom seen outside of an old-timey Prince video). I sucked on my finger, stuck it into my belly button, and, well… fingered myself.

“Alright, you’re kind of creeping me out now,” Evan said.

Feeling it was best to move into the big finale, I finished masturbating my navel. I reached into my amply stuffed g-string, rummaged around a bit, and pulled out a long, thin balloon. I stretched and pulled at it as sexily as one could stretch and pull on a balloon and blew it up. A twist, a twist, a fold, and a twist, et voila – a three foot long phallus, complete with head, scrotum, and a small handle behind the scrotum, which allowed me to carry the phallus between my legs while I strutted about the stage displaying my inflated manhood.

I turned my back on the screaming, nearly naked throng, their hair teased to a frenzy. Reaching again into my bag of tricks, I pulled out a white balloon. I blew in a small bubble of air, worked it to the end of the balloon, and inserted the thin end into my “urethra,” all the while miming masturbation. Just before climaxing, I spun back around to unveil my finest creation – The Ejaculating Penis Balloon Trick. (I developed this one working adult parties in San Francisco. Always got big tips.) The audience let out a collective gasp; some fainted. Just as the remaining conscious, panting, practically rabid women crawled over their fallen friends to rush the stage, Evan brought me back to reality.

“Okay, I get the idea. Get dressed.”

To be continued…