Do you want a condom? Do I?

The dancer asked me a question I'd heard so often. Just yes or no. Yet it got me going each time. So much promise. Just five words plus a question mark. Every time I'd hear it, my dick got harder and bigger.

"Do you want a condom?"

Do I want a condom? This was a dancer who had already agreed to fuck me. On her knees sucking my dick, she looked up and asked. This was question I welcomed. Or did I?

I long ago lost track of all the times I fucked dancers without a condom. For more than a decade, the raw pussy was easy - and cheap. There were several clubs within 30 minutes drive where fucking was ordinary and condoms weren't. The price for such pleasure was roughly $150. Some of the girls were young and truly hot.

One was a dream. Strawberry blonde, flowing curls, sorority girl sexy, you don't need me to paint the picture. She was college-age with a long, slim torso over endless legs. Creamy white dancer ass. Sculpted B-cup breasts with pink, pink nipples. She didn't belong in this sleazy dump, showing it all right down to a shaved slit. Let's have a dance, I said. I offered $100 plus $20 a song for "everything." Let's go, she said. I can still feel my hardness dipping into her wetness.

That club closed within a week, and I never saw those strawberry curls again. No need to cry for me, though, because only a couple of miles down the road was plenty more pussy. Young pussy. Raw.

My first skin to skin there wasn't even 21 yet. She couldn't drink. She sure could fuck. This was the girl from school you dreamed about fucking not because she was pretty (she was) but because she was nice. Our first dance ($100 plus $25 a song) she treated me to an expert blowjob. When I asked if we're going to fuck, she just climbed on. We'd do that again plenty. So would several other dancers there, most of them young and pretty too. None seemed to have "condom" in their vocabulary.

Things change, however. New management. New policy. With those evolutions, years of raw pleasure seemed to pass forever. Other clubs had cameras. Other girls had different expectations. Over the years I reconciled myself to a dick that no longer was would be covered by body fluids. Raw was in my past.

I could still fuck - if we went safe. This other club was in an entirely different direction. The girls were a mix. Still a few matched my preference for slim and young. We could still get it done though now the price point was over $200. Plus the cover. So when this one - a tattooed goth type - asked me, it was a surprise.

"Do you want a condom?"

The truth? The question stumped me. I wasn't ready. I'd just been thinking how the bra deceived me. I was also thinking that the blowjob could have been, should have been, better. Do I want a condom? Do I? Well ... Do I?

I'd been lucky through the years of joy. My dick went uncovered well over a hundred times without a hint of trouble. Then in this safe sex interim, I got unlucky. I was traveling and met someone random. We fucked. I didn't have a condom. Why should I? I got a dose. Imagine. All those dancers and nothing. Now this ...

"Do you want a condom?"

All of a sudden it was different. My mind went to a new question: What are the odds? The answer: The same each and every time. We're not going to fuck raw this time. I'm going to settle for the BJ that wasn't quite good enough a minute ago. Which I did. Didn't really think I had an option.

Of course I do. Now I think I'm going back. I think the two of us will return to that room. And this time if she asks, I won't be surprised. I know what I want.