Monday, September 17, 2007

Strip Club

“Do you want a chocolate lap dance?”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five for topless. Forty for all nude.”
“How long?”
“One song.”

Maya is light-skinned and thick with NBA tits and a BET ass. Hot enough to make me want to masturbate to black porn. She makes me wish I was a rapper – Cam’ron, maybe – so I could make it rain on her and look appropriate doing it.

“Well?”
“Is it a long song? Like ‘End of the Road’?”

She smiles. Walks away.

Patrick, my personal trainer friend, shrugs. Earlier we had both decided that if we were going to get a lap dance it was going to be from Maya. When else could we have big, chocolate breasts shoved in our faces? I mean it’s not like we ever have big, vanilla breasts shoved in our faces, but that seems a more likely scenario should we ever have breasts thrown at us.

A bit of exposition:

The Body Shop has a longstanding, titacular tradition in Hollywood. It is the flagship strip club of the Sunset Strip – not one of the shitty, hole-in-the-wall clubs I’m used to. There are no pregnancy scars. No stretch marks. No chewed-bubblegum clitorises or parachute vaginas. No Sudanese-colored assholes. The girls here are clean, fit, and beautiful. Some of the best-looking girls I’ve ever seen. Even the ugly ones look better than the pretty girls at other clubs.

And that’s basically LA, where BMWs are Hondas and Bentleys are BMWs.

We saunter up to the window with our free passes. There’s a girl with emo glasses on the other side:

“Ten dollars.”
“But it says free.”
“You’re paying for the drink minimum.”

I can kind of understand this. You know, fuck us up front.

Inside, there are two stages: white people around one, Mexicans around the other. Our waitress seats us with the Mexicans. I’m not sure if this is a compliment or not, since Mexicans are the lifeblood of most strip clubs.

Did the waitress think we were strip club Mexicans?

A little background on me and strip clubs:

I never go. Been a couple of times to a couple of shitty ones and actually felt my dick crawl inside of me. Strip clubs aren’t arousing to me. I don’t go to fall in love or to meet new people or to glean masturbation material. I go to people watch and crack jokes and see nipples I’m not used to. Tits are the ranch dressing of the adult world: good-tasting things taste a little bit better when they’re around.

A stripper somersaults into a cholo’s lap next to me and makes a wide V with her legs. Her vagina is clean and groomed and beautiful and looks better than the Homecoming Queen’s senior picture.

The cholo tries to eat it.

The stripper pushes his head away, light, sexy, playful, and wags a finger at him. No, no, no, Mr. Mexican. This isn’t East LA. She reverse somersaults back onto the stage and I. Just. Clap.

Patrick gives me a weird look.

“They like applause,” I tell him. “I’m validating her somersault. That took practice and I’m letting her know it paid off. That’s a fucking fantastic pussy-to-face technique.”

Patrick tosses out a dollar. But I wait until the stripper’s looking. I’m like George Costanza in the Calzone episode: if she doesn’t see me do it then what’s the point? Sure, I could set it out in front of me, but it’s not the same. It’s circumstantial evidence – nothing like being caught in the act.

Plus I’m frugal with my singles. I want them to last. Most of the time I abide by the eye contact rule: no eye contact, no dollar. I’m a cheap bitch.

Senior Picture Pussy collects her ones and says her thank you’s and gets off the stage. Another stripper replaces her within seconds. Hotter and with bigger tits and an even prettier vagina. How is this possible?

She spins around the pole and drops it like it’s hot. Makes eye contact with me. Crawls over, turns around, and taps her asshole like a microphone. Testing, testing.

I’m out another dollar.

A Norse-looking Helga girl with blonde pigtails and perky breasts comes out next. Patrick is digging her because he just moved here from Sweden and misses the racially-pure Aryan beauties he used to bone in the lush hills of the Olde Country.

He drops a dollar.

“Be generous,” the stripper says with an accent.
“We work at a gym,” I tell her. She seems to understand this means we don’t have shit and slinks over to some horny-looking Mexicans, as if there's any other kind.

A generic-looking stripper named Mariah approaches us. Tries to squeeze out a lap dance.

“You can touch for forty.”
“Touch?”
“Mmmhmm. But not my pussy.”
“Oh, no. I respect vaginas.”

We hint, half-joking, that we’re waiting for Maya, but Maya is nowhere to be seen. Later we see her disappearing into the back room with a large ese. Or is it SA? Or essay? Whatever. Fat Mexican.

We’re crushed. Not really. But what kills me is that now I’m seriously considering buying a lap dance. Coming in I was an adamant no-lap-dance guy. Sure, I joked about getting one, but I joked about it in the same way I joke about aborting my future retard son. In the back of my head I know I’ll keep him and exploit him.

The transformation to maybe-lap-dance guy is swift and you don’t know it’s happened until it’s too late. From that point on it’s just a matter of finding the stripper that’s right for you. Black or white? Blonde or brunette? Clit ring or no clit ring? The whole time you’re self-aware. You know you shouldn’t be doing this. You know it’s a bad investment ($25 for 3-4 minutes). It’s like unprotected sex except there’s no way you’re going to get lucky and come out clean. You will pay. Gonorrhea of the wallet.

But fuck it. It feels good.

Out of the corner of my eye I see another stripper approaching. I pretend not to notice her and engage Patrick in a conversation about Maya’s tits.

“Dude, they’re so big and black.”
“I know!”
“They’re like moon bounces at Hershey Park.”
And then I feel a hand on my leg. Hot breath in my ear.
“What’s your name?” in a sweet, almost lilting voice.

I turn to see the stripper. One not like the rest. She has an attainable beauty to her – the kind of girl you crush on during math class. Cute, not hot. Classy, not trashy. This girl’s parents would definitely disapprove of what their daughter is doing. And I like that.

Plus she smells so fucking good.

“Uh… Jeff.”
“I’m Vanessa.”

She starts to caress my leg. Back. Forth. And then lightly scratching with her fingernails. I fill with this hot tingling feeling. Her touch is electric, like Rayden from Mortal Kombat.

I’m putty.

“… hi… Vanessa…”
“You’re a cutie.”

I blush. Smile. Really?

“Ooh, look at those dimples!”

She giggles like a little girl. Caresses higher. Fingertips.

“So do you want a dance? I’m feeling extra catty tonight. Maybe I’ll make it a little longer for you.”

Yes, she is definitely making it longer. At an alarming rate, actually. But that’s not why I go to the ATM machine. Vanessa succeeds where Maya fails because she makes me feel wanted. I know she’s hustling me like one of my Mexican brethren, but I can’t do anything about it because I’m not taking orders from my brain. I’m not taking orders from my boner either.

I’m taking orders from my hot, tingly, middle school feeling. And there’s nothing I can do. Her touch. Breath. Voice. Smell. All of that shit. It’s one big roofie.

The back room is bunch of partitions with chairs in between. Vanessa sits me down. Takes off her top. She has small C-cups that are proportionate to her frame. Her nipples are brown and well-sized – a healthy balance of areola and protuberance.

Impressive tits.

She starts to writhe. Dance. Slow. Sexy. She rubs my chest, shoulders, arms. I flex my triceps when she runs her hands over them. She gives them a little “yes, I notice” squeeze and all is well. She puts her knee in between my legs and moves it back and forth. She climbs onto my lap and rubs her breasts in my face. I inhale her perfume. Or is it body spray? Or lotion?

She drops down. Brings her mouth an inch from my crotch. Simulates titty-fucking, which does nothing for me because I wouldn’t be able to actually titty fuck her since her breasts aren’t big enough. But this is just a minor inconvenience and the lust is not erased from my face.

She comes up slow. Smooth. Lips an inch from mine. And let me tell you, she is so good at her job that I actually think she’s going to put them on mine and tell me how I’m different from all the other guys and that this is all going to be free because she legitimately wants me and thinks that we should make-out in the rain together sometime.

But she doesn’t. And the dance ends. Three minutes. Maybe four. No song and a half. She gives me a big hug and I’m on my way.

$25 poorer.

And it feels good.

3 comments:

lauren vicious said...

see? I'm not the only one digging on the dimples...

SK said...

By the lack of activity on your blog, it looks like you are giving up on writing. That's a shame, you write pretty well. At least, when you aren't angry. Maybe all the pot you smoked is making you lose your motivation.

Anonymous said...

This is definitely your best post so far, some really good writing here. Keep it up!