caressing her shawl with lacquered nails. It has gold or silver woven through it and sparkles as she slides it back and forth across her shoulders. She drops forward suddenly at the waist, throws her head back, and shimmies.
The men holler. Two or three stand, shaking their fists in encouragement. I glance at Cecil, whose steely gaze tells me to watch them.
The woman stands up, turns her back, and strides to the center of the stage. She passes the shawl between her legs, slowly grinding against it. Groans rise from the audience.
She spins so she's facing us and continues sliding the shawl back and forth, pulling it so tight the cleft of her vulva shows.
"Take it off, baby! Take it all off!"
The men are getting rowdier; more than half are on their feet. Cecil beckons me forward with one hand. I step closer to the rows of folding chairs.
The shawl drops to the floor and the woman turns her back once again. She shakes her hair so it ripples over her shoulder blades and raises her hands so that they meet at the clasp of her brassiere. A cheer rises from the crowd. She pauses to look over her shoulder and winks, running the straps coquettishly down her arms. Then she drops the bra to the floor and spins around, clutching her breasts in her hands. A howl of protest rises from the men.
"Aw, come on, sugar, show us what you got!" She shakes her head, pouting coyly.
"Aw, come on! I spent fifty cents!"
She shakes her head, blinking demurely at the floor. Suddenly her eyes and mouth spring open and she pulls her hands away.
Those majestic globes drop. They come to an abrupt stop before swinging gently, even though she's standing perfectly still.
S a r a G r u en
There's a collective intake of breath, a moment of awed silence before the men whoop in delight.
"Attagirl!"
"Lord have mercy!" "Hot damn!"
She caresses herself, lifting and kneading, rolling her nipples between her fingers. She stares lasciviously down at the men, running her tongue across her upper lip.
A drum roll begins. She grasps each hardened point firmly between thumb and forefinger and pulls one breast so that its nipple points at the ceiling. Its shape changes utterly as the weight redistributes. Then she drops it—it falls suddenly, almost violently. She hangs onto the nipple and lifts the other in the same upward arc. She alternates, picking up speed. Lifting, dropping, lifting, dropping—by the time the drum cuts out and the trombone kicks in, her arms move so fast they're a blur, her flesh an undulating, pumping mass.
The men holler, screaming their approval. "Ohyeab!"
"Gorgeous, baby! Gorgeous!" "Praise the sweet Lord!"
Another drum roll begins. She leans forward at the waist and those glorious tits swing, so heavy, so low—a foot long, at least, wider and rounded
at the ends, as though each contains a grapefruit.
She rolls her shoulders; first one, and then the other, so her breasts move in opposite directions. As the speed increases, they swing in everwidening circles, lengthening as they gain momentum. Before long, they're
meeting in the center with an audible slap.
Jesus. There could be a riot in the tent and I wouldn't know it. There's not a drop of blood left in my head.
The woman straightens up and then drops into a curtsy. When she stands, she scoops a breast up to her face and slides her tongue around
its nipple. Then she slurps it into her mouth. She stands there shamelessly sucking her own tit as the men wave their hats, pump their fists,
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
and scream like animals. She drops it, gives the slick nipple a final tweak, and then blows the men a kiss. She leans down long enough to retrieve her diaphanous shawl and disappears, her arm raised so that the shawl trails behind her, a shimmering banner.
"All right then, boys," says Cecil, clapping his hands and climbing the stairs to the stage.
"Let's have a big hand for our Barbara!"
The men cheer and whistle, clapping with hands held high.
"Yup,
The men holler. Two or three stand, shaking their fists in encouragement. I glance at Cecil, whose steely gaze tells me to watch them.
The woman stands up, turns her back, and strides to the center of the stage. She passes the shawl between her legs, slowly grinding against it. Groans rise from the audience.
She spins so she's facing us and continues sliding the shawl back and forth, pulling it so tight the cleft of her vulva shows.
"Take it off, baby! Take it all off!"
The men are getting rowdier; more than half are on their feet. Cecil beckons me forward with one hand. I step closer to the rows of folding chairs.
The shawl drops to the floor and the woman turns her back once again. She shakes her hair so it ripples over her shoulder blades and raises her hands so that they meet at the clasp of her brassiere. A cheer rises from the crowd. She pauses to look over her shoulder and winks, running the straps coquettishly down her arms. Then she drops the bra to the floor and spins around, clutching her breasts in her hands. A howl of protest rises from the men.
"Aw, come on, sugar, show us what you got!" She shakes her head, pouting coyly.
"Aw, come on! I spent fifty cents!"
She shakes her head, blinking demurely at the floor. Suddenly her eyes and mouth spring open and she pulls her hands away.
Those majestic globes drop. They come to an abrupt stop before swinging gently, even though she's standing perfectly still.
S a r a G r u en
There's a collective intake of breath, a moment of awed silence before the men whoop in delight.
"Attagirl!"
"Lord have mercy!" "Hot damn!"
She caresses herself, lifting and kneading, rolling her nipples between her fingers. She stares lasciviously down at the men, running her tongue across her upper lip.
A drum roll begins. She grasps each hardened point firmly between thumb and forefinger and pulls one breast so that its nipple points at the ceiling. Its shape changes utterly as the weight redistributes. Then she drops it—it falls suddenly, almost violently. She hangs onto the nipple and lifts the other in the same upward arc. She alternates, picking up speed. Lifting, dropping, lifting, dropping—by the time the drum cuts out and the trombone kicks in, her arms move so fast they're a blur, her flesh an undulating, pumping mass.
The men holler, screaming their approval. "Ohyeab!"
"Gorgeous, baby! Gorgeous!" "Praise the sweet Lord!"
Another drum roll begins. She leans forward at the waist and those glorious tits swing, so heavy, so low—a foot long, at least, wider and rounded
at the ends, as though each contains a grapefruit.
She rolls her shoulders; first one, and then the other, so her breasts move in opposite directions. As the speed increases, they swing in everwidening circles, lengthening as they gain momentum. Before long, they're
meeting in the center with an audible slap.
Jesus. There could be a riot in the tent and I wouldn't know it. There's not a drop of blood left in my head.
The woman straightens up and then drops into a curtsy. When she stands, she scoops a breast up to her face and slides her tongue around
its nipple. Then she slurps it into her mouth. She stands there shamelessly sucking her own tit as the men wave their hats, pump their fists,
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
and scream like animals. She drops it, gives the slick nipple a final tweak, and then blows the men a kiss. She leans down long enough to retrieve her diaphanous shawl and disappears, her arm raised so that the shawl trails behind her, a shimmering banner.
"All right then, boys," says Cecil, clapping his hands and climbing the stairs to the stage.
"Let's have a big hand for our Barbara!"
The men cheer and whistle, clapping with hands held high.
"Yup,
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