Busier tonight. Women in various stages of undress, a steady procession of couples headed upstairs. The DJ is obnoxious, cutting in to the songs with inane comments. Here downstairs, couples are leaning in to each other, lots of touching; girls on guys’ laps.
Nicole brings me my drink: Diet Coke. As I noted earlier, what’s the difference between a waitress and a dancer? Nicole is a knockout young lady with long straight brown hair, bright eyes, and a great smile. Oh, and a body that puts many of the dancers to shame. She’s showing the requisite four inches around the midriff. I ask her about Stephanie and she grins, “I’ll keep an eye out for her.” If Stephanie doesn’t show, perhaps Nicole will sit and chat. Were it not so busy, I’d ask her.
On stage, a dancer has her legs wrapped around a balding, bi-speckled man in a coat and tie. I catch her eye, and she smiles at me from over the guy’s shoulder. She doesn’t miss a beat, and he is oblivious as he’s surrounded by her flesh and warmth.
It’s an interesting culture. I wonder what it would be like to be in the business. Perhaps I could own a joint like this. Here in New England, where there doesn’t seem to be same moral constraints as in the Bible-thumping South, things look pretty good: fully nude, alcohol, lots of touching. A business owner couldn’t almost not go wrong: each dancer pays the house a nightly pay-out; for most clubs it runs something like forty or fifty bucks; that could add up to nearly two grand a day just from the dancers’ fees. Add in the bar, and it’s a veritable cash cow.
Summer dances, a clingy summer dress, strapless; she makes her hips and ass move in a way that just makes me want to jump up on stage and grind with her.
I get approached for upstairs dances by two women. I say “no.” I can’t say “yes” to everyone, but I hate to say no. Rejection. I don’t want to, but my wallet would cry foul sooner or later.
I could lose track of all time here: it’s always cool and dark and red; the music is loud. Like most gentlemen’s clubs, Rolls Royce has a huge runway; this one’s in the round with two brass poles. Most of the dancers use the pole as a prop, perhaps twisting around it casually. Summer used them as tools, somehow getting to the top of one, her legs wrapped around the pole, as she leaned backward toward the floor. Her breasts, full; her nipples so hard I can see them from fifteen feet away; they stand at attention, two soldiers guarding precious jewels.
Shift change, and as the dancers come and go, they look like the proverbial girl next door, although perhaps a bit more lithe. Damn, I wished I lived in that neighborhood.
Lap dance from Yvonne. Tall drink of water (she says she’s 5-10 in bare feet; she’s wearing four inch heels), long blonde hair, fake boobs. Fun, but alas, she knows she’s good looking and thus isn’t as much fun as she might otherwise be. Does that make sense? Musky perfume that pulled me in. But, I need some sort of connection beyond playful sarcasm; I need a little something that makes it seem less like the business it is.
I talk with Summer; we lean toward each other and talk about reality versus fantasy, how some guys don’t get that this is a world that’s not real. And then she tells me she’s dated guys she’s met at the club. I tell her not to tell me that; I’ll think my reality might be able to collide with her’s. Summer introduces me to Kristine. She joins us and sits back on the couch, running her hands all over her luscious body, tracing her bikini bottoms. Summer suggests I take her up stairs; Kristine is a good little toy, she tells me. We go upstairs for a little dance. I last just past one dance; she’s either really horny or a really good actress. While she dances, we talk. Rather, I listen and prompt, and she talks, all the while rubbing herself all over me. She claims she hasn’t had oral sex for four years (or maybe it was six; frankly, my mind was lost). She’s a handful, clearly. More long straight hair. Says she’s going through a divorce and hasn’t had sex in nearly forever; her husband claims she’s gained too much weight. Okay, she’s not a size 2, but she’s all woman with curves in all the right places.
Downstairs later, Kristine and I are talking, and I see Stephanie across the room, sitting at a table. She’s wearing a think white top with spaghetti straps, her pert breasts alive in the darkness. Kristine tells me she needs to head out; she’s day shift and has a night on the town with a bunch of girlfriends planned. They’ve rented a limo or a bus or some such and plan on having a huge, bar-hopping, drunken night. On her way to change, she stops by Stephanie to tell her I’m waiting in the shadows. I hadn’t asked her to tell Stephanie; I had told her I’d spent time with Stephanie the other night. A brief act, but a telling one: selfless.
Even in a place like this: decency. Summer had encouraged me to get a dance from Kristine, rather then trying to “sell” herself. Kristine told Stephanie I was at the club. Not cut-throat. In some ways, it’s a microcosm of the world outside; sure it has it’s own rules and boundaries, and in some ways its more predicable. But, it’s still human beings creating relationships.
On stage a dancer has her feet tucked behind her head. Damn. Earlier there’d been a little lesbian show: two dancers caressing and kissing each other on center stage. And, I’m told that later in the evening the “featured dancers” will go even further, playing with toys. Reminds me of the three most amazing things I’ve seen in a club like this:
- A woman smoke a cigarette. Yes, not with her mouth. Springfield, Massachusetts, some two decades ago.
- A woman launch a ping pong ball from her twat. Damn thing went a good five feet. The Banana Club in Amsterdam.
- A woman wrote a note. Yes, she stuck a Sharpie marker in her pussy and then squatted down and wrote me a note. I still have it. Same club in Amersterdam.
Kristine had said she was going to call me while out with her friends… so we could hook up. Sure. That’s the outside world. While she’d been dancing on my lap, she almost kissed me on the lips; I wondered how out of her mind she might have been. She also made mention of “nice package” (it’s not bigger than others, or so I think) and “this would be nice to ride.” Ah, yeah, comments like that and I’ll be driven to believe the reality of Rolls Royce might collide with my outside, real-world reality. Sure, that’ll happen.
Later, back at my hotel, she doesn’t call, of course. But let’s say she does. She calls, buzzed and freaky. She’s in the lobby of the hotel, her girlfriends egging her on; they say she needs a good lay. I tell her to come on up. A minute or two later she’s at my door. I’m wearing comfortable Sponge Bob boxers and cotton pajama bottoms. She’s wearing a short little skirt and a tight top, all black. She steps in, eyes aglitter with anticipation (and alcohol). She crosses the threshold and falls into my arms, her large breasts pressed against my chest. We stumble back and fall into the king-sized bet. Our lips lock as I hold her head in my hands. I can taste the beer on her breath.
My hands travel tow her breasts. My fingers slide under her shirt and pull gently at her nipples. Pretty soon, she’s laying back propped up on the four pillows, her skirt pulled up around her waist, and I’m resting between her legs, my head pressed up against her, my tongue licking at the wetness of her pussy. She’s wet and moaning as I lick and bite; her hands grasp my bald head and pull me close to her. She’s moaning, growling, grinding, whispering, all at once. Six years, and I’m rewarding her long wait.
No, the reality of it is as I picture it” she’s out carousing with friends, traveling from bar to bar, from hot spot to hot spot, in a white stretch limo, the alcohol clouding her brain so that she doesn’t even remember my phone number stuffed in her skirt pocket.
The world of fantasy and the world of reality once again do not collide.
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