A Kiss From A Rose
I met Rose at Noah and Mia’s wedding, she was Mia’s bridesmaid, and I fell in love with her at first sight. Her dark red hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back in gentle waves, her blue eyes shone brightly. For the photoshoot, as the groom removed the bride’s garter with his teeth, I was paired with Rose to remove hers. On bended knee, I looked up at her and determined within weeks that I would be on bended knee asking her to marry me. I kissed her thigh as I pinched the garter with my teeth. No other man would ever touch her beyond that point again, that was my vow. I kept the garter, and as I stood up, I kissed her hard on the mouth. Tonight she was going home with me.
A month to the day later we were in a restaurant. I got down on one knee, and produced the garter from my pocket; I’d cut it, threaded it through the engagement ring and sewn it back up. I had the disc jockey play ‘A Kiss From A Rose,’ and I asked her to marry me? She said: “Yes!” I was the happiest man alive.
We bought a flat together. Rose worked at the supermarket. I worked in a factory Monday through Friday as well as keeping my job as a barman. I knew Rose wanted to get married, but we couldn’t afford it. She never once moaned, not once, and as her friends got married, she never pushed for the one thing I knew she wanted before we could start a family; to walk down the aisle.
I worked for a woman called Bridget DeFoe; she had bars and clubs all over the city. One night we got talking, and I told her about wanting to get married, because yes, Rose wanted it, but I wanted it too! Bridget offered me a better-paid role in one of her private clubs, so much better in fact, that for three hours work, two nights a week, I’d earn as much as I did in the factory in the week lifting heavy lumps of steel. All I had to do was dance and keep the punters happy.
The following Friday night, I get on stage with another guy Eli, both of us wearing a toga. We dance sexily with one of the paying girl punters, while we take her clothes off and ‘make love’ to her there for the crowd of baying girls. One by one, the girls come onto the stage, with Eli and I in our skimpy outfits, and we repeat the action.
Sometime’s there would be a sexy girl, who would give us the horn and a blow-job while we fingered her and made it look like we were making love to her. Bridget’s one stipulation was never to make the punters feel cheap; they pay a lot of money to get up there with Eli and me. As for me, there was only one woman I made love to; that was my Rose.
A lot of the women were on their hen nights, and if Rose did to me what they were doing to their husband-to-be, I would never forgive her, but Rose wouldn’t because she wasn’t that sort of girl. While I was working the clubs, Rose was at home or working an extra shift, and if she were out with the girls, she wouldn’t come near this sort of establishment. If she was on a night out, then I worked one of Bridget’s bars, so she was never going to find out that I was licking girl’s privates and getting wanked off, and having sex with punters in a high-class strip club.
The pay was good, and soon we’d be able to get married. I told Rose I’d got a promotion at work. She never once questioned me, never once doubted a word I said, never once complained about my long hours and late nights. Rose didn’t complain about anything at all; she was always smiling, always bright and cheerful. She was the best lover a man could have, when I was inside her arms, in between her legs, I was in the place I belonged, my Rose. Her smile brightened my day, and a kiss from Rose made my life worth living.
The club was in the city. No one who knew Rose, who knew us, would ever go to a whorehouse like this, mainly because it was out of the price range of our acquaintance. These were rich whores, and getting married or not, the things they did to me, Eli and the other guys, and to each other for our enjoyment, they were no better than street-walkers, and yes I know what you’re thinking, neither was I, but I was only doing it so I could give the woman of my dreams, the wedding of hers!
One Saturday night Eli and I had done about six women when the compere asked the next punter what song she’d like while she danced with us. The punter chose: ‘A Kiss From A Rose’. Mine and Rose’s song. Guilt overwhelmed me, but the show must go on.
Each girl always had a favourite, either me or Eli. Eli had short dark hair and dark eyes; I had long blonde hair and blue eyes. We always knew how the dance was going to go by who the girl turned to face as she climbed onto the stage. The girl who got on stage turned her back to me; one for Eli then. I would dance behind her, helping to remove her clothes. The song started, and I ran my hands through the girl’s long dark red waves. As I slid my hands under her top, she spun around to face me.
“Rose!” I screamed. She slapped me across my face, the sting barely registered. “What are you doing here?” I yelled at her, angry that she’d come to a place like this! How dare she go to a male strip show!
“My friend saw you and said she thought I should come and check the show out.” The disc jockey stopped the music. The punters started to boo, and I told them to shut the fuck up!
I tried to put my arms around her, my Rose was crying, and I wanted to comfort her. She brought her knee up, spat in my face, and I keeled over. She jumped down off the stage and left.
By the time I got home, Rose had packed her bags and gone. I heard about a year later she’d married some guy who worked in a bank. Her hen night spent at a spa, no male strippers included.
Night after night, I pretend to make love to one woman after another, one face fades into the next, girls pleasure me and each other, and I go home alone.
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