Trying To Clean Up Its Act, In A Way

The latest updates on my trips (several of them from a pair of vacations to St. Louis) to Dollie’s shows … well, basically no updates. With one notable exception, this jack shack (which, I was told, was built in the seventies) continues to refuse to change, thank Buddha.

But I have to talk about that notable exception. It started last year, when I was able to hit up Dollie’s a few times. Once again I was able to pry the very popular veteran Autumn away from her other regulars for some one-on-one time. Autumn, like all the other girls there, understand what pathetic losers like me are there for, but her foreplay remains top-notch. We sit at a table and we talk about how we’re doing; all the while she glides her hand over my crotch. Autumn’s slow, deft hand slowly arouses me and gets me hard, although not wearing any underwear totally helps. And once she can see in the darkness of the room that the D is erect, we agree that it’s time to go behind the beaded curtain and the saloon half-door to commence our congress.

So one of us unbuttons my pants (I always want it to be Autumn because it makes things much more romantic, but it usually is me, sad emoji) and I unsheathe myself, and she grabs my cock. But at this particular point she takes out a condom. Condom? What’s with this condom bullshit? I know that fucking is available, but I have always preferred my contact with strippers to be gloveless. If that means that she only sucks my dick, that’s totally fine with me. Autumn knows this, and she usually would slobber all over me until I was ready to shoot, at which point she would hammer me until I cum. Never before had she seemed to care about containing my juice. Now, I don’t like it if I go into one of these three rooms and I touch or sit on something, uh, wet. But I don’t give a shit if I leave my life essence to the next poor bastard. Neither did Autumn. So why now?