Going out for dinner: A trip to HipHuggers

After a bit of a nap following my last meeting of the day, I hooked up with Kenny and we went out to find some dinner. We ended up at Hip Huggers somewhere here in the southend of the Bay. We drove past, the neon Go Go sign lighting up the busy street. The car just pulled in to the parking lot like it needed to take a break.

Not wanting to pass up an opportunity, we walked past The Black Hole joking it was a different kind of club, and walked into Hip Huggers. The first thing I noticed is that all the women were clothed. Fully. The dancers were all wearing tops and bottoms: a bikini club.

Some places are nude. Some places are topless. Some places are either topless or bottomless. Some places are pasties. And, now apparently, some places are bikini.

Two raised stages, each surrounded by a floor level walkway then a bar. All the dancers are either on the stage, in the walkway, or on the bar. There's no hanging out on seats like in most places. They can hang out, but they hang out on the bar. No lap dances. No touching.

Kenny and I order from the waiter, a buff, short guy in a black polo shirt that says STAFF emblazoned across his back. I'm thinking the waiters double as bouncers. I order a Diet Coke and Kenny orders a draft beer.

The dancers are pretty, generally thin, and, yes, fully clothed. I see more skin at the beach at OBX than I'm gonna see in here.

I toss a five dollar bill on the counter in front of Kenny and tell him he needs "special attention." He moves the bill to in front of me, and we trade words. The dancer, Rain, has sandy blonde hair down to her ass; she's tall, wearing a red bikini thong and a small black top. She's on the stage, feet toward us and spread wide, and she slaps her crotch. Hard. She smiles, and pulls the bottom tight, accentuating what's hidden behind the slick fabric.

There are eight girls dancing; some are on the bar rail, some on stage; one girl gives the four-poled cage workout.

Rain ends up in the corner, on the bar, stretched out; she's still and leaning into the guy sitting on the outside of the rail. His head is cradled between her clothe covered breasts, and her hair is covering him from view.

Molly starts to dance. She, too, is tall. She has dark hair that falls to her shapely shoulder blades. A bright piece of jewelry tangles from her belly button, accentuating toned muscles. My ever-present pad is with me, my pen making chicken scratches in the dim red light as Kenny and I trade comments about the just-completed expo and we watch the dancers gyrate. Molly asks what I'm doing, and Kenny tells her I'm a writer. She rolls her eyes, the stage lights catching them just so. I tell her I'm going to write about her, and she laughs and hides behind the gold pole in the center of the stage. Her face is thin and demonstrative; her smile is wide and white; the wedding band on her finger catches the light.

She doesn't match her stage name. For me, Molly is submissive. When I think of Molly, I think of a submissive, naive girl. She's not. The music has a hard beat and her body grinds to it. She is shapely with full-sized breasts; I wonder if they are augmented. If so, a good job; if not, perfection made by nature.

Rain finishes her "dance" in the corner and passes by along the walkway between the rail and the stage. She smiles and says "hi." I tell her my friend needs special attention and slip a bill into her hand. She stops, puts down the stuff she has in her hands, and leans in to Kenny. He disappears beneath her golden-brown locks. In a few minutes, I'll learn that the joining includes her moaning gently, hot breath, and the scent of peppermint. She gets up on the bar and spreads her legs, slapping her crotch pulling the bikini bottoms tight. Her pussy lips are full; there's a wetness in the fabric, and I swear I can see the outline of her clit straining against the cloth. Perhaps this is wishful imagination. She looks into my eyes, her legs spread to a full split. Her skin is smooth with a mole on her torso between her orange-sized breasts and her belly button. An imperfection that makes her real. She leans back in, almost touching, but never quite. I sense a welling and wish for Jane, a completion.

She completes her dancing and heads off to the dressing room and I see Molly and another dancer giving an older guy with a huge belly some special attention. Molly is in black thigh-highs and a tiny micro-skirt. The dancers are touching each other; one's hands rubbing here and the other's hands rubbing there. The other dancer caresses Molly's legs; it is vicarious touching for the man at the bar. He can't touch, but he can touch through the dancer's touch. He can imagine himself being able to touch.

The dancers are clearly having fun. Molly is expressive, her perfect teeth showing as she smiles and talks. It is a show, more sexy than sexual; it is light and fun. The juke box shifts gear and we hear "Fever," a sultry beat & the whole club takes on a different tone. Caressing. Molly gets behind the other dancer and presses up against her; Molly's hands drift around the other dancer's thin waist and disappear from my view. A stanza or two later Molly and her friend are facing each other, breasts pressed against each other, their smiles wide; I'm guessing the ol' guy is all-a-titter. As the song ends, they've turned with their backs to him, leaned over to the stage, and grind their hips in unison to the lyrics, turning and smiling at each other.

I'm thinking that even fully clothed, it's fun for a cheap night out. Certainly beats Law & Order re-runs.

I'll be home tomorrow night, late, and then Sunday is Mother's Day, a little something special planned for Jane. I'm excited to be headed home.