The music is loud,
again. I'm up in the lap dance area, again, the dancer grinding away near me. She's not touching me & her skin is like peaches. Across the room is my colleague, Joe; his dancer (compliments of my wallet) is working him over but good.
When we walked in an hour or two ago, Joe was stumbling drunk, already. When we entered, I was greeted with "You're not going to write more, are you?" Of course.
Joe turns to me, "I'll bet she wants to have my baby."
The dancer, slinky with bright eyes, replies, "Watch out when you say that, stud." Joe peers at her intendly through alcohol hazed eyes.
It's going to be a long night, I think to myself. Joe, he's an expert at strip clubs; years ago we went to a couple of clubs in Louisville. Damn. But, that's another story.
We go to the rail. The dancer is tall and as black as the night sky outside. She's flailing about, back on the floor of the sunken runway, diddling herself. Joe is fixated. No other word for it: fixated. The one's keep coming.
"You've got to pace yourself," I say. "There's more to come." He's like a kid in a candy store; he takes the first bit of candy which presents itself.
Some of the same girls as last night hover about. And a couple of others. There's a cute, young, nubile blonde playing pool with some guy. I figure she's another maybe dancer.
Joe has gone like the guys in
Peep Show Stories; a vacant look, the thousand mile stare as she flounds and sways, hips rolling in erotic circles.
My mind wanders.
Do big boobs equate to big tips? Not in my book, but what the hell do I know.
Monique is the dancer. Here's a bad sign: when I'm six feet away and can smell her scent. She's outstretched on the pole, wrapped around, arched like a mermaid. And then, she falls with a thud to the floor three feet below.
From my seat at the rail, I can see the dressing room behind the curtain, reflected in the mirrors on the wayll. I am more intriqued and focused on the dancers' preparations for the stage. I can't see but a sliver; a dancer is in and out of my field of vision. I try to piece together what she's doing.
Then, there's a bevy of dancers in the rest room. There must be half a dozen young ladies. None, but Monique, to be seen. Two guys (one of which had been playing pool earlier) hover by the door as if whoever is inside will escape.
There's a change out of dancers. Angelique takes the stage. She's tall, comes out in red: bra, panties, dresslet. Soon, she's nude. I'm still looking in the mirror. When I don't pay attention, she pouts, "Look at me!"
I decide it's time for Joe and me to get lap dances. I go up to the door to buy two lap tickets. As I wander back to the runway, I run into Mia and Amanda. Mia is tall, pale skin, dark hair; she's wearing a white, one-piece swimsuit kind'a thing. She is more than a little attractive. Amanda is wearing street clothes: tight jeans that look like they were painted on and a pink top. She's blonde. Peachy.
Mia wants to know if I've bought a lap dance ticket. I tell her I have; I'm hoping for a dance from the dancer on stage. Mia smiles, "How about me?"
Sure. "But my friend needs a dance, too. Maybe you could give my friend a dance and your friend could dance for me."
Turns out she's never danced. She's thinking about trying out. "Ah, come on. This will be good for her."
And that's how I end up getting a nearly-no-touch lap dance.
In the middle of it, the house mother comes up, yelling at the bouncer in the lap dance area. "She can't be dancing!" she yells. Turns out that getting this dance from this dancer virgin isn't supposed to the do the bump-and-grind on my lap. I hardly even get it up.
I hope she learns how to increase customer satisfaction.
