Confessions of a Post-Spiritual Maverick .... a sort of memoir




"I don't know the question, but sex is definitely the answer."
-------- Woody Allen--------

Kings Cross is a district like no other in Sydney, known affectionately as ‘The Cross.’ Its streets fill with the provocative, the outrageous and the unseemly, and the atmosphere hangs thick with an air of intense anticipation. From housewives to prostitutes, from evangelists to drug addicts, from strip joints to McDonald’s, this place of human incongruity lying deep in the heart of a sprawling metropolis is a paradox of incomparable mystery.
        I should know. I have frequented The Cross on the odd occasion; not as a fully-fledged participant, but as an observer intent on getting whatever thrill might avail without the risk of actual participation. Such has been my disposition in life in general, and it has kept me relatively safe, if rather dull and predictable.
        After one typically hot Christmas day, however, the forces of the universe conspired to lure me into unfamiliar territory. An old friend of mine, Rose, had invited me to join her in Sydney for a few days. Having resided in a small town on the east coast for some years, I looked forward to patronizing the cafes of Darlinghurst and the eclectic shops of Oxford Street in the company of such an agreeable companion. Rose was a former girlfriend. She had just finished high-school when I first met her twenty years earlier. I had found her keen intelligence and eccentric humour appealing, as too her long, straight auburn hair and diminutive stature. Even so, the sexual aspect of the relationship ended soon after it began. In its place, we discovered a friendship that proved to be far more dependable than the vagaries of sexual intimacy. We had kept in touch since that time.
        After window shopping in Oxford Street and satisfying ourselves with coffee and cake in one of Darlinghurst’s upmarket cafes, I accepted Rose’s invitation to take a stroll down The Cross’s main street, only a stone’s throw away. As we turned the street corner, all the usual players appeared for our entertainment, including bleach-haired ladies in tight skirts and fishnet stockings milling around the entrances to apartment blocks. I attributed their neglect of me on this occasion to the female companion by my side. Not a bad thing, I thought; arousing as any ensuing proposition might be, I always found their solicitations rather discomfiting.
        Not so a tall, slick-looking man outside one of the strip clubs, who, upon seeing us approach the red carpet extending from the building behind him to the street curb, sidled up to me. “Turn her on for later on,” he said, with a snigger. “Come on in and see The Cross’s sexiest ladies dance naked on stage.”
        Rose and I looked at each other in the type of silent communication capable only between good friends. “Come on Eddie,” she said, her face breaking into an impish grin. “Let’s give it a go.”
        Fishing out $10 each, we paid the woman sitting in the entrance booth and made our way into the theatre. Even though the air-conditioning was on, it felt muggy and oppressive, like being in a high-testosterone gym full of pumped-up muscle-heads. Loud music began just as we found our seats towards the front of the darkened room.
        A young woman in her early twenties strutted onto the stage in a tight red top with a matching pleated red mini-skirt, and dark grey fishnet pantyhose underneath. The silver straps of her black, round-toed shoes coiled around her long legs, ending midway up her calves. She turned around to face the back of the stage and bent over, revealing two delightfully taut cheeks separated by a tight pair of bright pink knickers. The audience of about a hundred men clapped excitedly.
        She swivelled around, slowly pulled off one of the arms of her top, then the other, followed by a swift upward tug that saw the top fly over her head towards the side of the stage. Unfastening her bra and skirt in quick succession, she let them both slide to the ground and stepped out of her shoes. She leisurely unrolled her pantyhose over her legs and feet, and with only knickers on, swayed her long blonde hair in front of her face while gyrating in unison with the music.
        The men got on their feet and cheered wildly as the stripper eased her knickers off and threw them across the stage.
        With breasts heaving, she rocked her hips backwards and forwards, then spun around 180 degrees so that she once again faced the back of the stage. She slowly bent over until her eyes appeared mischievously between her straight legs. Her lips parted, smiling. The men hooted and whistled, stamping their feet on the wooden floor.
        I was mildly aroused as I gazed at the naked form a few metres before me. Having previously been in the company of undressed women in much more salubrious circumstances, the sight of a stripper simulating pleasure in front of a bunch of hyped-up males was only marginally fascinating. A minute later, after turning around and dancing herself into a frenzy, she collected her clothes from various positions of the stage and rushed off.
        This process of stripping, dancing and rushing off-stage was repeated a number of times by a series of women of various shapes and sizes. I soon felt bored and motioned Rose for us to leave.
        “Where are you going?” the woman in the booth asked just as we were about to exit the establishment. “We’re going to have a live sex act on stage. You don’t want to miss that.”
        I found this prospect a lot more appealing than what had already transpired. After all, how often does one get to witness a live sex act on stage? Rose was once again of similar mind and we soon found ourselves sitting back in the theatre.
        Heavy metal music began blaring out of the speakers as a scantily dressed woman with long legs, and large breasts which peered invitingly over the top of a very tight dress, emerged on stage. She swayed her rounded hips, then gestured with her arms towards the audience, motioning with the index finger of her right hand for someone to join her. When no one responded, she stepped down the front stairs of the stage and approached a middle-aged man in the first row. Grabbing his arm, she led him back on to the stage and slowly peeled off his clothes. After several failures at eliciting an erection, however, she got the man to dress and placed him back into the audience.
        “Who’s man enough for me?” the stripper bellowed from the front of the theatre.
        Rose jabbed me in my upper right arm with her elbow. I reflexively stood up. The stripper came across, grabbed my hand and hurriedly escorted me up the stairs and onto the stage. She slid her torso up and down the side of my body, her breasts straddling my rib-cage, while rubbing her groin against my leg. She pulled my pants and underpants down to my ankles and sat me on the floor with the soles of my feet facing the audience. Her left hand massaged my penis while the fingers of her right hand gently kneaded my testicles. Then, in one continuous motion, she put a condom on my fully erect penis and placed it in her mouth.
        A few seconds later she stood up, took her dress and panties off and mounted me with her face towards mine. Strong perfume emanated from her voluptuous body filling my nostrils with delight.
        The music continued to thump loudly as adrenalin surged through me. It had all happened so fast I was hardly conscious of where I was or what was going on. Then, suddenly, in a moment of acute awareness, I realized I was on stage having sex with a stripper.
        I was the live sex act!
        “Where're you from?” the woman asked, breaking the self-indulgent thrill of the moment. Between my toes and her backside bobbing up and down on my penis, I could just glimpse the screaming audience.
        “Melbourne,” I replied.
        “How about that?” she responded, “I’m from Ballarat.”
        “Yeah? That’s pretty close to Melbourne.”
        “You’re not wrong.”
        She positioned her hands on either side of my face, straightened her torso, then increased the frequency of her hip movements. The wonderful pulsating sensation emanating from the base of my pelvis, rushed up my spine and cascaded down the front of my body. I grabbed her buttocks with my hands and rocked my pelvis in a continual motion. The excitement of having sex in front of an audience with a woman bouncing up and down on top of me, drove the energy to the tip of my penis for release.
        Just as I was about to climax, the music came to a halt.
        “We’re done,” the stripper said as she climbed off and beckoned me to pull up my pants and go back into the audience. She picked up her clothes and hurriedly made her way off the stage without a backward glance.
        Looking beyond either side of my genitals to the audience below, I glimpsed a sea of laughing, hooting faces, fists punching the air. I stood up, tucked my condom-covered member into my pants and strode to the front of the stage, where I received a standing ovation. My ego had inflated to a size disproportionally larger than the erection just a few minutes earlier. Grinning from ear to ear, I waved clasped hands above my head in a gesture of victory, climbed down the stairs and dropped into the seat next to Rose.
        A short time later, after the energy raging in my body had subsided, Rose and I were outside the club walking along the main street as if nothing had happened. We hardly said anything until after we ordered food and settled into one of the cubicles at the nearby McDonald’s. As I opened my mouth to take a bite, we looked at each other and burst out laughing.
         “All in a day’s work,” I said, while munching on a Big Mac with French fries.

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