I've succumbed: Juicee's

I succumbed. Dark. Red lights. Deep shadows. A blaring base. I should'a brought the ear plugs; they're out in the car.

This place is a bit threadbare. Worn. The furniture. The accoutrements. Some of the dancers. Okay, so it's not the highest class joint I've been in for a bit. I know, like any club is high class. But you know, some clubs at least front the image.

I'm intrigued. On stage is a glass box -- about the size of a phone booth. I ask Rosie, a pouty, top heavy dancer, what it's for. She looks askance. "Shower," she says, her voice accented with Spanish.

The club's owner comes over wondering what I'm writing. Yes, once again I'm taking notes with pen and paper (I like the heft of the pen). How does a person explain a sex blog? I drop back to the ever understandable "for my website." He wants the address. "I'll give you a card," I say. "They're in the car." He seems satisfied with my responses and wanders off.

When I leave an hour later he shakes my hand & wishes me a safe journey. Now that's class.

In all my times of whipping out paper and pen, this is the first time management has ever wondered what I'm doing. Dancers, they wonder all the time. Maybe the owner thought I was a member of the health department. Yeh, here I am, undercover, checking out health code infractions. Not likely.

At the runway sit pairs of guys and one lone guy and then two guys with a woman. She could be a dancer, full breasts, very pretty face with full lips, a great smile. The dancer on stage is young, tall, straight dark hair, and tattooed. She has a tattoo on one bicep, two large ones on her back (one at the small of her back and one across her shoulder blades) and then there's one above her well trimmed muff. She dances in the nude, a dollar earning a look at her pussy. I'm tipping, but too far back to seet the details. Her breasts are all real, as is her smile which slips out every once in a while, her wide mouth looking delectable in the darkness.

Three guys play pool in the haze of cigarette smoke. Big Brother plays on the jumbo screen across the room.

The main stage dancer moves, fluid-like. Something about her features is Indian-like; she reminds me of my ex, Kathleen, as a young woman. Although, she'd never have danced. Too much trauma, too close to heart, too revealing in a way she never could.

I get a Diet Coke at the bar, rail polished deeply. The bar tender is friendly and gives me a tight smile.

The woman who was sitting at the runway is now playing with her friends. Her faded jeans hug her hips, and she wears a looped metal belt around her hips accenting her roundness, the curves.

Why is it that sometimes a woman fully clothed is more erotic than a naked, strutting woman. And how is it a little belt can put such an accent on a woman's body. I think back to Anastasia and realize she had a little belt around her hips, too. Very late 1960's -ish. I'm at home.

I sit back from the stage, nursing my Diet Coke. The tattooed dancer, a tall drink of water, leads a young guy to the lap dance area after flagging down a big bouncer. When the woman are giving lap dancers, there's always a bouncer nearby. The lap dance area is a raised part of the room, partitioned off by a half wall. Dances are $20 each (for a seven minute dance), and to get one you have to purchase a ticket. A ticket from the owner, up front. As Tiffany explains to me, it's because the house gets a cut from every dance.

I decide to see what the dances are like, and I purchase a ticket. The owner reminds me I said I'd bring him a card, so I walk out to the car to get one. I hear my phone buzzing on the front seat, and I ignore it without even looking to see who's called.

When I hand him a card, the owner smiles. "A hobby?" I laugh. We decide that if I made it a business, I could deduct the lap dance as a business expense.

Tiffany's lap dance is nice, lots of grinding, and a real smile. Seven minutes and I'm more than rock hard, but not about to get off. Tiffany has to go on stage to dance.

When I get back to the runway to see her dance, the woman who'd been sitting at the rail with two guys earlier is back. And she has her top off. And she's standing up. And Tiffany is caressing and licking her breasts. And I'm hard. And I figure every guy in the joint is in the same condition. Damn sexy. Damn sexy. Young breasts. Nice breasts. She looks a little embarrassed; flushed. She's not a dancer, but she could be.

When the other woman has had enough, she sits down, and Tiffany goes into her routine. I'm at the rail, and in the light, I can see her bare pussy, a tuft of hair above the lips. She's athletic. She swings around the pole, faster and faster.

The runway is below the rail with mirrors. When the dancer is down on the ground, we peer into the pit and have to look in the mirrors.

A dozen guys show up for a bachelor party and sit at the runway. Tiffany keeps her pace up, her athletic moves, her right hand slapping her right cheek. There are two grip bars in the ceiling. Tiffany lifts herself up and holds herself at the ceiling, legs bent back, skin glistening red with sweat, ass rounded and firm and plainly in view.

I want to touch her, slide my hands along her soft skin, gripping muscled back, slick with the wetness of her body.

She teases the boys at the rail, placing bills they've folded neatly on their body -- tucked behind an ear or in a belt, and then makes a show of claiming her pay.

Tiffany leaves the stage and Rosie takes the stage. Perhaps she's Cuban. Doesn't matter. Her boobs are huge and massively fake. I decide her lips are, too. The product of some doctor, a knife, an injection. Some people like that. Me, I'm attracted to real.

Tiffany is a respiratory therapist. Funny, she will not tell me more; I'm a stalker, my goatee a sign of mental imbalance.

I sit against the wall, another ticket in my hand. No one approaches. I'm ready. Perhaps there's a house rule that dancers can't solicit dances. Or maybe I do look like a stalker. Tiffany has disappeared, as have the other dancers. Perhaps they're readying a surprise for the soon-to-be-doomed groom.

My eyes are crusted from the smoke, and I consider bugging out. But, I'm committed to one more foray into the lap dance area. Yes, the bump and grind awaits.