Part one:


"Anybody recognize this sound? Oooaggghh. That is the sound of someone who has something really gross in their mouth that they don't want to swallow."

Perched on a stool in the center of the small stage, Buffy paused for the giggles in the audience to quiet down.

"You know what I mean....don't you, girls? Oral gratification, as it's called by people who rarely get any, is a lot trickier than the romance novels make it seem. The most em-barrassing...the most FRUSTRATING thing...is being in bed with a man who doesn't know what the hell he's doing. A man that's just lousy at it. And you can't tell them, either. Because you might damage their fragile little psyches, and then they end up in a clock tower with a sniper's rifle, and who needs that kind of guilt?"

A small burst of applause accompanied their laughter.

"There's nothing worse than trying to concentrate on whatever fantasy you've got going, while the guy between your legs is searching for the right spot with all the finesseof a rodeo clown. Your clit is right there! YOU can find it! Why can't they?"

She took a sip of water from a glass one of the waiters handed her.

"They sure as hell don't have any trouble finding the opening below it, do they? Shit, no. They've got THAT calibrated like a blip on a radar screen."

Sighing regretfully, she waited for the laughter to die down.

"But that's not enough, is it, girls? No. Men...listen to me; we need you to find that button and push it for all it's worth. Like you're ringing a doorbell. Leeeannn on it, boys." Miming, she jabbed her thumb on an imaginary doorbell several times, then pushed it hard. "And whatever else you do, don't leave without giving us a chance to get to the door! We could be on the other side of the house, for god's sake. Ding-dong-ditch wasn't funny in junior high school and it's not funny now, I don't care WHAT your friends tell you!"

Buffy scanned the crowd, mentally choosing who she'd be talking with later in her act.

"Unfortunately, for most guys, it's hit or miss. Sometimes they find it, and sometimes they just can't. No matter how much encouragement you give them; yeah, good, now down a little..no back up...little bit more...I said a LITTLE bit more! Okay...sorry. Over...over...over...over...it's not that big an area...no, now you've gone TOO far over! "

Uncrossing, then recrossing her legs, she shook her head.

"Nope. They can't find it. You can lay there until judgment day, and it won't matter. And after an hour, you just want to get it over with. And, guys...you aren't helping matters by lifting your head every two minutes and saying, "Well?" Well, WHAT, you selfish bastard? Do I look 'well' to you? Stop yapping, get back down there and get busy. I'll let you know when I'm well!"

Looking up, she saw the owner of 'Laughingstock' leaning against the back wall, his arms folded across his chest.

"And no matter how sub-par their performance is, they all want to hear a chorus of moaning and groaning and sighing and sobbing and squealing and 'oh-my-GOD!!!-ing'. And you'd better by God scream long and loud. They want their friends in the sports bar on the other side of town to hear you shriek until your throat bleeds."

She demonstrated by starting a low moan, then gradually increasing it in volume and pitch, changing to mimic the sound of a police siren racing through city streets, then to an air raid warning alarm, slowly letting it wind down.

"THEY want to hear, 'oh, baby...yeah, baby...you're the best, honey...yeah...doing me so good...', but what YOU want to say is 'ENOUGH ALREADY!' "

She took another quick peek towards the rear. He was still there, and he was laughing.

"Cuz it gets uncomfortable after a while, right ladies? You've been laying there for like...three days...your legs are starting to cramp up...your muscles atrophy...not to mention the way your skin feels. Oh, there's nothing worse than getting head from a guy who hasn't shaved....and YOU have."

Another burst of laughter and applause rocked through the club.

"That's tender skin down there, boys. Sandpapering it will NOT get you the results you're hoping for."

Buffy waited out the laughter, trying not to stare at the owner. Not an easy thing to do, as he was awfully easy on the eyes.

"Now, men are lucky! No one has to go fumbling around searching for THEIR sweet spot. It pretty much encompasses the entire lower half of their bodies. You touch any guy, any where above the knee...even just a casual pat to say 'Well, good for YOU', and everything on them leaps to attention like a trained seal.. Their crotches actually emit a high pitched beep, telling you where to go. Meanwhile, they can't find a clit with both hands and a road map."

William McAllister was an inch or so about average height, and leanly built.

"And they're so impatient. I mean, there you are, you're trying to make it good...going slowly...moving down...giving them all the little kisses and touches you THINK they like...and the next thing you know, they've got their hands on your shoulders, pushing down hard enough to break your collar bone."

His face was beautifully made, all sharp edges and high cheekbones.

"But it's even worse when they reach down and grab on to your hair. Oh, man...you know that's it. You are going down, and you'd best hustle it up before he gets carried away and detaches it from your scalp."

His hair was a silky looking mass of loose curls, its dark roots tipped blonde from a previous bleach job.

"Just try and explain THAT one at Supercuts!; Yeah, yeah, I know it's on both sides. Never mind what happened, just fix it!"

The man's eyes were dark blue, intense and sharp as the rest of him.

"Then there are the guys with....control. God, I hate them. They've got all the control in the world...except when it's really needed. The same guys who can hold off an orgasm until you have a case of temporomandibular joint dysfunction, will thrust three times, climax, and collapse on you like a sack of wet cement."

He was dressed all in black. Probably knew how devastating he looked in it.

"We were talking about the nasty mouthful, right? I swear, there are some guys who think they're doing you this huge honor...taking their 'essence'. That's an actual term the romance novels use to describe semen. 'Essence'. Like it's a goddamn cologne."

She used a breathy voice, mocking a television commercial.

"Essence. Just a drop or two behind your ears...and no man will ever...want to touch you again. Essence...by that slob snoring on your pillow. Available at Macy's...out in the parking lot, behind a dumpster."

Black silk shirt...black trousers...black necktie. Not a cheery look, but it worked for him.

"Sometimes, I try to stop before the critical moment, but that usually pisses them off and they whine about it for an hour. And some guys try to sneak it past you. Don't even try giving you the old 'heads up!' . No warning, no nothing...just a sudden mouthful of something that tastes like salty egg yolks, and you're trying to keep it away from your taste buds, so you pull your tongue way into the back of your mouth."

God, he was sexy when he smiled. Smiling was important to her, and it had been the first thing she'd noticed about him.

"So, THEN what do you do with it? Do you spit it out...do you swallow it? What's the proper course of action?"

Holding one hand as though it was a piece of paper, she pretended to write with the other, furrowing her brow thought- fully. "Hmmm. Dear Miss Manners..."

Such nice, even white teeth he had.

"I don't know what to do. I tried to give it back once, but he didn't want it either."

Her set was winding up. Jumping down from the stool, she moved it to the rear of the stage.

"Here's an idea....spit it out in the palm of your hand and wipe it on the sheets. Let HIM lay in the wet spot, for a change."

Picking up her water glass, she finished it off.

"Two things. Boys...oral sex is a privilege, not a right. And girls...oral sex is a right...not a privilege. Which brings us to the men who don't want to reciprocate and you know who you are."

She snapped the microphone back into its stand.

"You do them, then go to the bathroom to brush your teeth...because you have to or they won't kiss you...a minute later you come back and there he is...sound asleep, like you'd been gone for days. Just TRY and wake him up. You'd have a better change of reanimating Elvis."

Placing her hands on her hips, she mimed glaring at an imaginary bed.

"You know...suddenly that vibrator seems like a real smart purchase, doesn't it? You're trying to wake this clown up and he's whining "I'm tired. I can't just turn it off and on like a switch, you know."

She shrugged. "So you say...'That's okay, honey. I can.' Click. Bzzzzzzz..."

Blowing her audience a kiss, she thanked them and skipped down from the stage, heading up the center aisle towards the rear of the club, reveling in the applause.

Buffy stopped two feet from where Spike was standing. "How'd I do, boss?"

He smiled that lovely smile again. "Sensational, luv," he said, slipping one hand behind the back of her neck and leaning down until she could feel his breath against her skin as he whispered, "But now all I can think about is going down on you."