Falling into the abyss: a visit to Lipstick

Well, I went and did it... After more than 12 months at not walking into a strip club, I went to one tonight.

I'd like to say it was an accident. It wasn't.

I'd like to say the car pulled in on it's own. It didn't; I drove out of my way.

I'd like to say a friend pulled me along. Not so; I went alone.

Tonight I stopped by Lipstick, a little club on the outskirts of town. I arrived a little before 7pm. There were two cars in the parking lot. I walked in and the place was dead: the guy at the door and one dancer.

Lipstick is an interesting place. It's small. There's a very small runway that never gets used. In the front of the building is a lounge. The one dancer, Christina, was sitting on a leather couch watching TV. There was no music. Behind the lounge is another room, actually larger than the lounge. In the back room are seats, sort'a couch-like, built for one thing only: lap dances.

Lipstick is all about lap dances. To hell with runway dancing. This is a no-alcohol, dance-on-my-crotch, let-my-hands-roam-your-body place.

I sat down and chatted with Christina and then, after some short banter, we went back for a dance. Three, actually.

I gave Christina money for the juke box: three songs. Then, she led me to the back, sat me down on a bench, and stripped off her pants and top, leaving her in a frilly, white pair of slight panties. Christina's skin was bronze under the soft lights, her hair golden, her breasts full and real. She asked if I'd been there before. "Not for a while," I said. She then went over the rules for me: I could touch, but not her crotch and not her breasts. Then the music cranked-up and she started to slide her ass over my lap.

They don't call it a lap dance for nothing.

Her skin was hot and soft to the touch. Her ass full, but not too large; her waist accented.

In the middle of the second song, I came. I usually last much longer -- like 14 songs... at ten bucks a dance, that can be pricey. Christina slid along, maintaining a touch on my hard cock until the wetness escaped.

We didn't speak a word. Every once in a while, her head would be near mine, and I could hear a moan escape her lips. Once I came, she slowed a bit, almost cuddling. My hands traced her spine; my hands rubbed her ass; her fingers traced along my legs.

When the third song was finished, we were done; we chatted a bit; I paid her the money, along with a ten dollar tip (after all, she got me there quicker than most dancers in the past; who am I not to reward that?). Then we went back to the lounge and chatted a bit. She is a real estate agent who supplements her income by dancing a couple afternoons a week. Then, she was up and headed home.

I sat on the couch, watching Friends on the tube. Then I saw another dancer. Christina was cute, full; attractive in a I'll-give-you-a-second-look kind'a way. The other dancer, Jenna, was taller, thinner, with large -- but not too large (fake?) -- breasts, blonde hair to her back, deep blue eyes.

I wanted some of that.

Interesting. Christina was all about getting me off. And she did a great job. Jenna wasn't there. Sure, perhaps there was no way, since I'd gotten off not 40 minutes ago, my pants still wet and sticky from my load. We chatted in the lounge; she's a mother with three kids: 17, 15, 13. No way, thought I. Later, while she was dancing with me, my hand on her flat, hard stomach, the other hand on her slight ass, I could see the age in her face. Still, damn attractive, but closer in age to me than many of these young dancers, the college students and the fresh-faced women out looking for a quick buck. Three dances with Jenna.

I didn't come; it would'a taken another 10 dances.

Part of the problem might have been that we were talking while she was dancing. At one point we were talking about dancers falling into the abyss; you know, doing bad shit followed by bad shit and then spinning out of control.

Sort'a like my return to Lipstick... spinning out of control...