to love or lust [mike schmidt AU]

vii.

vii.

[private]

before i die i
wanna fuck you
baby hopefully we
don't have no babies
i don't even wanna
go back home

no guidance - ayzha nyree

|"You don't have to ask for permission to touch me."|

MIKE.

The air between Sol and I feels charged with an energy we've never felt before. I can sense it in the way she glances at me every so often, fighting a smirk and rolling her eyes in a manner I deem playful. Dare I say she seems slightly enthusiastic. It's not everyday we engage with each other in a different setting—a strip club at that—to converse or make amends. It seems, partly at least, that she wants to get back at me in perhaps the best way she knows she can. After all, I am the one searching for her here, and to her, because I've shown up and paid for a dance, this screams desperation. It takes everything in me not to sprint out of here—it's curiosity that keeps me moving forward with this.

To enter the private room, we walk through a busy hallway, where several Vixens and clients mingle. There's so many men back here, either high or drunk, their eyes bright like it's Christmas morning, knowing they're going to get the present of a lap dance by a Vixen they sought after. Does this seem loser-ish of me? Possibly. Because, how am I any different to these men?

Among them, Sol and I, are walking swiftly through the hall of rooms. The position I've been put in—willingly—is no different to the previous men, who've bought a dance from Sol. And it bothers me a little to know that there's been many men before me to want Sol in this fashion, and who've perhaps wanted more of her, wanted more from her... all in the name of lust.

I picture Matt's horny friend, who had relayed the information that Sol works at The Vixen. He must have felt like the luckiest man in the world.

Did he, too, hold her hand, trailing right behind her, anticipative of what's to come? Were his eyes ogling at her shoulders, the way the defined muscles of her shoulder blades and back trails down to the line of her spine, and down to the voluptuous curve of her ass? Had he taken time to notice how hot the hints of stretch marks are on her hips? Or, did he see the slight cellulite of her thick thighs, noticing the muscle that protrudes with every step she takes, because of the amount of strength she has to use her legs for this job? Or, maybe, he was too busy staring at the way her voluminous brown hair moves with her every movement?

And, who wouldn't stare after her? She's gorgeous; having a girl like Sol working out there is like dangling a once-in-a-lifetime-wet-dream right in front of your face. Who wouldn't jump at the opportunity? There's no doubt in my mind they'd take the chance to woo her with their hundred dollars bills and private-dance-money splurges.

This is her job, her career, and it matters not who she dances for or on. And there will be many more after me—that much I know. Because as we walk together, I see men in this hall, watching our every move and cursing their luck they're not me.

But why does this sudden revelation bother me—the revelation that I am not the only man she's danced for? That I am not the only man she's turned on? And I certainly won't be the last. It's comical, really, absolutely hilarious to me that it's so suddenly mind-boggling to know I am in this position right now, but then there will always be someone after me. There will always be someone searching for this girl, pining and yearning for her attention; and because she's a Vixen, she will more than likely fulfill every man's dreams.