I am glad to be a woman. In a way, men are a pitiful species. Ah, some of my best friends are men. Yes, I love them, I need their company, I need them in me every once in a while. I really do. Let's say there are men and men. The latter kind simply cannot control themselves, like bees can't resist the honey (and flies the shit, if you prefer.) Bad news, if you don't happen to need the attention of such a man, as a woman.

The following is a brief account that features one of that kind of men. The scene is a party. For those thinking, in spite of the above, that I am a man-hater pur sang, please note that I left the scene with a specimen of the other kind of men and had a very good time indeed.

I was visiting a girlfriend in a distant town. On the night in question she took me to a party she'd been invited to. The more, the merrier. The attending crowd were in their twenties and thirties, and artists, would-be artists and hangers on. My kind of crowd, since the subject of art as the key to the meaning of life is one dear to my heart and, no less important, any kind of behaviour is tolerated. I did not know anyone there but my friend. Therefore a great opportunity to meet people. I am not shy.

I was suitably low-key there, chatted here and there about this and that, including to some interesting men, danced a little, with them and with my friend. Then I got to talk to this macho jerk, who professed to be able to control his erections to precision. Whatever that meant, I said he would not be able to keep his sword down at will. He was cocky and insisted boisterously that he could. (He was also drunk, a point which might assist him in his claim.) Our discussion started to attract some bystanders.

Would he prove this, please? He appeared keen to do so and invited me to follow him to his abode. No, I thanked him very much, but declined the offer. Let everyone see his great achievement. I urged him to drop his trousers. Acclaim arose from all around. But what, he enquired, if he'd win? Should he stay down, he could have me for the night. Should he fail, without me touching him, he was to stay naked and tied to the sofa, the ridicule of the party goers, who would be able to monitor the movements of his member for the duration of the night. His pride was not great when he obliged, his head towards the floor.

I feel strangely charged as I begin to dance, a short distance removed from the sofa that supports him. The music is hard and fast. I like the excitement and the nervousness of the people around me, as they focus their attentions on me, on my body. What nervousness I have is well absorbed by my arousal. My focus is not on him - he is dirt to me and destined to lose - but on the audience at large. They are all going to desire me, my body.

I step out of my shoes and kick them under the sofa. Barefoot I continue. Hard and fast: I dance in tempo, shaking my head, swaying and rolling my hips, my bosom, clad still. Sometimes I switch to half-tempo, with the music continuing fast and I completing seductive slow movements. I look him intensely into the eyes and periodically lower my gaze to his prick, slow enough to let him and everyone else know I do so.

I look him straight into the eye when I unzip my skirt and while shaking my pelvis let it sink to the floor. My panties, red (a signal), shine through my black pantyhose. A pantyhose is not what strippers wear, for obvious reasons, and I am not going to ruin the spell I am casting by clumsily getting out of them. My friend, fortunately, is standing close by. I whisper for her to fetch me a pair of scissors. She faithfully does so.

On the pulsating beat of the music, I cut the band of the hose apart at the front. Next, at the rear. The main obstacle removed, I drop the scissors at my feet. I tear the hose into two halves, a trick that I have never heard a stripper use. It makes a great impression, though, the sound of destruction and the idea of a woman shredding her clothes in order to expose herself. Then, balancing on one ragged leg, I slowly remove the first damaged half from the other. The process repeats itself with the other.

My target has held up well, held down, if you prefer. His method is avoiding to look at me. My stockings, I thrust them in his face. He looks at me, startled. He is well aware of me. I? I am no longer aware of him. My body I am aware of. I am a body. My mind is a mere extension of my body. A supremely confident body. I am glorious, victorious. My energy has no bounds. I am larger than life. He? He is no longer in control of his mind, let alone of his prick.

Time has lost its significance. My body is the rhythm of the music. I sway my torso from left to right, from right to left, and again, again, as I unbutton my blouse, slowly. My hips follow a counter-movement, right to left, left to right... large, exaggerated movements, as my cupped breasts become visible. Casting my blouse aside, I shake them vigorously by gyrating my upper body.

I stop this movement when my bra is to be removed. There they are, released from their restraint, my luscious breasts, plentiful, round and ripe. I set up a heaving rhythm by dropping through my bending knees, straightening, dropping, straightening. My breasts bounce, my hair just brushes their nipples, exciting me to go on and on. I feel primitive, performing some ritual mating dance. A narcissistic mating dance, with no one but myself. And he? He cannot resist my curvy woman's body, moving, beckoning, My hips, my face, my chest, and, movement within movement, my breasts on my chest, my hair around my face, my eyes. Has he gone hard? Have I heard some muffled whispers indicating such? I am not sure. I am hardly conscious. I have allowed this because inside, I am so confident that I can't really care.

My panties... I have a task to complete, I realise. I pull myself back to consciousness to complete it. Not a professional stripper, who may be able to do this elegantly - I never saw one, to be honest-, I do not take to the idea of fumbling to step out of them. One for dramatic effects anyway, I pick up the scissors at my feet. From my bent position, I raise my head and look at him, swaying, my breasts dangling ... he is lost, he is hard. I can stop here and now, but why? I like to finish.

I rise and stand upright. I look around me, triumphantly smiling. The crowd is frozen, their eyes fixed on me. The music has stopped. I stand still for a long time, basking in my subjects' admiration - and a slight fear. I finally insert one cold leg of the scissors between my hip and the panty material. And cut. Half my naked vulva appears. A second cut at the other side and I am naked - my shaved pubes fully exposed. (Shaving was rare at the time, so I was regarded as exceptionally naked.) Nothing moves. Finally, my friend approaches me, touches my arm, embraces me.

Did he spend the remainder of the night naked on the sofa? I guess he did. Who cares? He must have felt a little man indeed, when my friend and some other women quickly stripped as well and joined me, while the music resumed. (No naked men joined us... strange...)

When my friend and I had had enough, we dressed, left and walked home (myself minus panties and pantyhose and pubic hair, allowing the evening breeze to tickle me, there.) We had taken our pick of the men, yes, whom we commanded to take care of us. How could they refuse us our every whim? We had a satisfying night.

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