Rolls Royce: Clubbing in New England

I pull up as an ambulance drives into the parking lot; this is the first club I could find in the city, and I'm not sure I want to spend the time looking for another. I park the rental car – a Jeep Grand Cherokee – and glance in the rearview mirror: they’re loading someone into the back. A load and go. By the time I get to the club’s entrance, the diesel engine of the rig is racing; they’re ready to go. I almost step in two huge pools of blood at the door.

I’m thinking I’ve never made an entrance like this. At first I’d thought maybe a customer had a heart attack – you know, the dancers got to him so much, a little over-excitement for a weak heart. But pooled blood at the door tells another story. I decide I don’t need the full story and head inside: it’s loud and dark and red. Half a Rolls Royce greets me as I cross the threshold. Who the hell cuts a Rolls in half?

No sooner have I sat down than a dancer is on me. She’s blonde and built, but her breasts are fake. I should tell you, I’m still in my suit from client meetings today. Perhaps I look like money. She’d be very disappointed to learn I have $38 in my pocket. She’s all over me, hands under my suit coat, rubbing my shirt. “I’m horny; come upstairs and we’ll get to know each other.” I tell her no, but it takes several utterances before she registers I’m serious. I need to get used to the club. She’s undone my tie and walks away, a pout on her lips that’s all act.

I do need to get the lay of the land. I can’t walk in, cold, to a place. Especially if I’ve never been there before. I need to get acclimated, get used to it.

Whenever I’m in a club, writing, I always get the “what are you writing.” The notion of a sex blog, even in a club like this, is foreign to many dancers. You’d think that working in the industry they’d have a notion about various aspects.

I’m approached by two dancers – each tells me their stage name, and then tells me their real name. I wonder why. Do I look like some trustworthy guy who needs to know the truth? Although I do know this is the only place in the world where a pretty, sweet young thing will hang out & flirt with an old, middle aged, bald guy like me.

Stephanie tells me she’s been dancing since Saint Patty’s Day. She can’t be a day over 19, long straight hair to the middle of her back, white mesh stockings with garters, a bright infectious smile, tangling sparkly earrings. Small breasts. A small waist. Real. I’m attracted.

We chat for a while; she is a day over 19; she’s twenty. Tall & petite. We chat for a bit and then head upstairs for a little lap dance. Topless. She sits me down on a low comfortable couch. She sits next to meet, close, until the start of the next song. Then she gets up, hovers over me, and then rubs against me. She’s positioned herself so the bouncer, sitting across the darkened room, can’t see me; I’m hidden by her lithe body and her hair. Her breasts are small, with tiny nipples. I’m not sure I’m allowed to touch them; I do. She grinds in to me. Her skin becomes wet with perspiration. Her perfume, some sort of vanilla, envelopes me. She grinds, always touching. I’ve grown rock hard, my cock would be tenting my suit trousers, but she’s on me; once she gets up and turns away, sitting on my lap so I am faced with her back, but generally she is atop me, grinding her crotch against mine. At the start of the fourth song, I come. I’m sure I utter something obscure. For the rest of the song, she rests on me; I hold her tight, my hands around her waist.

I was reminded of my ability to bring a woman nearly to the brink of an orgasm and then floundering. I wonder what sexual excitement she gets from this, if any. There’s a part of my that realizes this is all business, but there’s another part of me that wants her to get something in return. I had thought she was enjoying it, but, then, I just don’t know.

This place is full of young dancers… they’re all pretty, not drop-dead gorgeous, sort of a sampling of cute girl-next-door types. Hope was going to be a waitress here, but ended up dancing. I wonder how a young lady makes the leap from waitress to stripper. Sure, in some clubs there’s not much difference in the amount of skin shown, but not here. She’s a dancer, willing to bare it all. And she does; when we were upstairs, she moved her bikini bottom to show me her lips; they were full. In another place, in another life, I would have dived right in.

Across the way, a dancer is giving a lap dance at a table. The energy in the club has picked up, and Hope and I are surrounded now by dancers talking and moving about. The lap dancer has that faraway look; I’ve seen it before, disengaged.

Stephanie and I talk; somehow she gets me talking about my life. I tell her about Miller and a little about Jane. I become lost; my depression, which had been at bay, crept in. She leaned in to hug me, a real hug of meaning. Empathy.

While Stephanie is off changing, the dancer who first accosted me is back. “Let’s go upstairs now,” she says. “You look ready for pussy.” I try to explain I’ve had a good dance upstairs, got everything I wanted (and then some). “You haven’t had me. You haven’t had anything.” Oh, to the contrary I think. I’ve had my fill. “You don’t know anything,” she says with a snide accent.

I wonder if she knows her fake boobs and hardcore persona don’t do a thing for me. I like conversation beyond “Want some pussy?” Be likeable. Be real. Be compassionate.

Stephanie enters the room, having changed into a soft white top and short, hip-hugger pants. She’s so pretty, that even from across the room, my breath is stolen. She joins me, and we talk about her dream house she wants to build. She tries to draw it for me, but the scribbling on the paper makes no sense to me. But she is enthusiastic about the project and describes bits and pieces of the house so that I can almost see it. She says it’s clear in her mind’s eye. I pray that it comes true for her, that she creates that haven in the country, that her life is full of beauty and love, that the trials of her life (which she has alluded to) all slip away in some sense of usual life. We talk, she doodles, and I’m staring at her long neck, her upturned nose, her long features. I see the mix of Sicilian, French Canadian, and Mohegan she says are her ancestry. I’m staring, and she glances up; I blush. “Sorry,” I say. “I was staring.”

“Stare all you want,” she says, her smile wide showing perfect white teeth, her eyes sparkling even in the red dim light of the club.

I don't need to know the back story on the blood in the doorway. Right here, I've found what will make my heart stop; I'll be carted out by EMTs, another "load and go." And I think, that'll be alright with me...