Posts Tagged ‘lap dance’

prodigal stripper – part dos

March 22, 2012

and if i need to be reminded of the laws of stripperland let it be on the second night of returning. i arrive early again and caffeinated and i stop by walmart again for silicone ear plugs which can be worn invisibly while working.

from eight pm to three am i don’t stop moving or making money. there are so many men and they all say yes no matter how clumsy my sales pitch.

the first guy has dark rimmed glasses and reminds me of my childhood friend who still hasn’t french kissed a girl he’s so awkward. he’s a twenty five year old first timer which means he’s about to fall in love and spend too much money. i let him and with his new empowered sense of freedom from the fawning naked women surrounding him, he starts saying things like, “thanks for the dance, beautiful” and i know he’s been wanting to call a girl by the name of beautiful for a long time.

then there’s the drug dealer with hazel eyes who has the charming smell of chronic and cologne. he drops fistfuls of ones on my stage and buys a string of dances. i love drug dealers (the opioid-hallucinogenic-thc kind not the speed-powders-and-meth kind). they are always laid back to be with and loose with their money.

there’s no time to eat so i swig on my klean kanteen of cabernet sauvignon in back. i dance again for the newbie who finally leaves me for a girl with hard round tits and a hard flat stomach. i feel a sense of pride that my little freshy is growing up and seeking new flesh. they don’t stay wet behind the ears long in a strip club.

on stage i see a group of men come in the door. they wheel their friend to the stage in a wheel chair with a plushy back rest.  the man in the wheel chair can’t talk and his fingers are twisted over on themselves and his mouth is open all the time. but he can see my tits and he can see me clap my ass and his eyes get big and he yelps and the corners of his open mouth twist open. his friends keep throwing ones at me to stay my attention on the man in the wheelchair.

i go sit with my drug dealer and by this point i’m telling him in a boozy sort of free association style of speaking that his money is funding my greenhouse and my tomatoes and peppers are getting leggy from lack of sunlight and can he imagine what i look like without makeup in overalls and boots shoveling shit?. then i tell him i need to go sell myself unless he’s interested in buying me. “actually i was just going to go smoke a cigarette but come find me when i come back and i’ll definitely purchase you.”

“great. that sounds great.”

i look across the room and the man in the wheelchair’s teeth are glowing in a crescent as he gapes at the girl on stage. i find someone to buy me who hasn’t had a lapdance in ten years and remind him what he’s missed.

then i’m on stage again and my drug dealer comes and throws several fistfuls of money on stage and says, “that’s for your greenhouse,” and my coworker comes on stage for a dj-approved-pseudo-lesbian-titty-suck and more money is thrown on stage and i can only barely pick it all up at the end of my two songs. it’s crumpled and falling out of my hands like water. i love this. i love being naked on my knees surrounded by money. this is, on the spectrum of life’s little moments, probably in the top ten of most awesome.  from that stage – two songs long – i count out ninety six dollars of awesomeness in the dressing room and shove it in my locker and go back out for more.

the drug dealer’s friend gets a couple dances.

then the drug dealer has some more dances and we both lose count. i admit i like watching his eyes watch me and the warm column of his torso that i rub my hands up down while he breathes me in, “thank you for reaffirming my love of lapdances,” i say. i tell him about my creepy stalker customer who gave me another reason for leaving the club. my drugdealer is really good at nodding. i keep dancing.

the walls, like most strip clubs, have mirrors. they hang above the couches so as i straddle him and lean forward into him and rise up-down over his lap i see myself appearing and reappearing in the mirror in front of me. i am a warm shade of red which means my skin is flawless, my eyes are large and dark and shimmer and all the creases and smudges and caked on lipstick is smooth and my lips are wantable and my hair is tousled and i look absolutely magnificent to me. it’s like meeting myself again after a long absence and remembering all the good times. and then i dip down again into the drug dealer’s lap. then up to the mirror i rise and while he nuzzles my breasts i say hello again. back to lap, i breath on his ear. up again, hello happy stripper. down onto his boner and he breathes on my ear. up and there i am again – existing in warm ambiance, reflected a trillion times back into the mirror, rising and falling with beat of breath, desire, crappy hip hop.

bitches can’t be bought

September 19, 2011

i spent the night at jeb’s unexpectedly so i didn’t have my magical stripper bag for work tonight. i went to walmart and bought cheap foundation, cheap mascara, cheap eyeshadow, cheap jewelry and cheap body spray. brown sugar and vanilla cheap.

i took the lap dance virginity from a 19 year old boy who i would bet my night’s wages is a sex virgin also. he looked stonily ahead.

one customer said, “i don’t believe you don’t have a boyfriend, what with this you’re wearing…” as he fingered my walmart-fake rhinestone necklace i got for ten dollars and eighty-eight cents before tax. i tell him, like it’s a secret, that it’s fake. he says “yeah, but it’s special, someone gave it to you.” i give him a dance and he bucks and moans under me. he’d be a very bad lay, i think. like a fast selfish rabbit.

at the bar i ask  the guy who serves juice and redbull and soda for a glass of water. “anything you want, heartbreaker,” he says. “ah yeah, who’s heart am i breaking?” i say and look around, look back at him and answer myself, “nobody, that’s who.” “well, dean’s been in, making a fool of himself”. i know dean’s still been coming in even though i officially broke up with him. and by “break up” i mean i ended our in-club pseudo-relationship otherwise known as a regular customer fawning over a stripper. after i said i didn’t want to see him, dean told me i had made the worst decision of my life since he was the best friend i would ever have and wanted nothing in return. i pointed out that he never gave me anything without an expectation of something in return and then i said he wasn’t my best friend. he was my customer and this whole time we’d been exchanging resources not friendship. it’s been weeks and i’ve heard through the rumor mill he’s been getting dances from allison who’s my doppelganger in the club. and by doppelganger i mean she looks the most like me out of anyone in the club even though she doesn’t look like me at all.

anyways, dean came in when i was in the dressing room, before i came out begging a glass of water. he yelled at allison because i was there and then he asked for Manbo and yelled at Manbo because i was there. something about he wont come in if i keep working here. he knows what kind of car i drive. Manbo wont talk to me about it. all he says is “he was irate. i just dealt with an irate guy.” and i am angered because this is my life, my weird ex-customer, my job and i should know what flavor of crazy dean’s spewing. but Manbo’s all quiet.

there’s nothing to be done so i go talk to the young hippy couple. the girl’s teeth are all lined up nice and straight but they all point out at a slight angle so that her smile looks really big. they agree to a couple’s dance. i say i love giving couple’s dances and she says “why?” and i say “because i know you guys are going to go home and fuck tonight and it’s going to be hot and if i’m a little part of that, well, that’s great.” she’s not wearing a bra and i finger her nipples through her shirt.

i shoot the shit with her later and she asks how much i work here. “used to be three or four days a week but now it’s more like two, or one, or none. i’ve been getting burnt out.”she says that’s how it is with all jobs.  i don’t tell her about dean and how, for a couple months, i was less a stripper and more a walmart-fake girlfriend or a sugar baby without the penetrative sex or blow jobs or delicious dinners or shopping sprees. just strings of lap dances that were so mindnumbing i would invite other girls to do doubles with me for the a blink in the long monotony of dean staring up at me. i’m still living off the money from those months. i do tell the little hippie chick with the tilted out smile that regulars happen which she thinks is very funny and strange human behavior. i  explain briefly while pointing at allison, “see my ex-regular is switching over to her.” i don’t know allison but we smile kindly at each other and i tell her “i know you’re having drama with dean. i’m approachable.” she says he can have his hissy fit, neither of us need to leave the club. she just wants his money, she doesn’t know me but she knows herself and she’s not about to fuck another girl over.

i sit by rodney, a guy with a grey handlebar mustache and a tatted chest under his grey tank top. tall jeans. he tells me his excuse for being here right away – his brain wont quit. i tell him we’re snake charmers and that i’m a cherry on top of his night if he’ll take me as dessert. he finally agrees and i dance for him once, he asks for a second, and i like rodney because he’s the guy i started dancing for. the guy who only needs two tablespoons of my lovin’ and says please and thank you.

i want to tell this to rodney but he wouldn’t understand because he doesn’t know dean and he doesn’t know me.

dean really thought of himself as the biggest piece of shit in the universe. but he was the shit that the whole universe revolved around and his money made the planets spin. he picked this shithole of a club to spend his money at because it made him a big deal. he didn’t think he would be a big enough deal in the big city so he stuck to our club. he told me that. and when i didn’t bow and bend proper he’d tell me he gave me more money than any other customer i had and i should do this or that or another thing.

i apologized for things i wasn’t sorry for. for dean’s money.

it’s all over now and in the dressing room, at the end of the night, i ask allison if she wants advice to get money from dean. she sighs and says yes. i tell her he’s jealous, don’t dance for anyone else. and he likes a good sob story. “i’m not that type, you know, i just do my thing and ask for what i’m worth. but he wants you to be a victim so he can save you. you know, have a bill that needs to be paid or some rough life circumstance. i don’t know, i was never really good at it. but if you can do it, make your money, you’ve got my blessings.” “i’m not that way either. i’m really independent. i make my money and leave. there’s enough bigspenders running around who don’t act like children that i don’t take much shit. there’s money elsewhere. i don’t think this will last long with him.” she looks at me,  “i think we’re a lot alike.”

 

field notes for wednesday:there was a little boy who was curious about what a strip club was…

February 18, 2011

(another search term that brought someone to my blog: “my sexy grandad love my breasts in bed story”.)

i was feeling really blah and i called my manager and told him i didn’t want to come in. and then about an hour later, i called him again and told him i was going to come in. i was feeling so blah – it felt productive to haul my ass into work just to do something.

i brought scrabble.

the other day dj2 and i were talking. i asked him some personal and inappropriate question which he answered frankly and i said “thank you for answering that” and he said “well, it’s not like you’re going home and blogging about it.”

i nodded while a great wave of guilt crashed head on over my shoulders. so i’ve decided i can’t write anymore personal stuff about how i have a crush on dj2 or his answers to my inappropriate questions. and i can’t write about the ladies i work with who are the lifebreath of slow hours and keep my heart beating through crappy nights and shitty tips. sorry. suffice it to say, you’ll have to buy my book when it comes out.

anyways, i brought scrabble. it’s a road scrabble board where the little letters click into the board and there are little cases for your personal tiles. i held it up to dj2 and exclaimed “so i can just put my letters in my purse and walk around with them. how cool is that?” “that is pretty cool”. no one else wanted to play with us even though Manbo said he’d surely beat us because he would use make words like “hypothesis”.

let me say, definitively, that scrabble in the strip club is the shit. while the break song was playing out i would spell out “felt” or place my “n” in a strategic way so that i got a triple word score for a horizontal “on” and a verticle “on”. and even though dj2 got “sever” and “diverse”, i still won by three points.

in between the scrabble plays i danced for a construction worker who used to be married to a stripper and was not the type of ex-husband of a stripper who then thinks we’re best friends and he should get the “insider’s treatment” (no such thing) but instead was super polite, told me upfront i wasn’t wasting my time and he’d buy dances from me and loved the first so much he bought three.

in the first hour i made more than i had made the whole night before when i only sold two dances (and sadly, more than any other girl), one to a guy who told me that in his past life he was a stripper and the other to a guy who i can’t even remember. i also danced for one of Rain Drop’s regulars because she wasn’t there. i’ve danced for him before and i’m pretty sure he prefers her because she excels at dirty talk and well…i don’t. anyways, i told him how horny i was and how big his dick was and how i’m sure it would really fill me up because my pussy is so tight. he’s actually a really sweet guy and we had a good warm hug goodbye.

then i danced for this guy named peanut butter. his friend told me that was his name and he confirmed it and then while his friends were watching in a really wannabe gangsta way said, “so you wanna be my chocolate tonight and make some reese’s peanutbutter cups, girrrl” and i laughed and lead him to the lapdance room. he was pure sugar and gentle quietness when his friends weren’t watching. he watched me like a child watches the world awed by shapes and colors and movements of ecstatic light . then as we went to leave, he said some silly gangsta thing like “you know how i do, baby” and i said “aight. aight. i can feel that” so that we could both pretend he’s not just a total sweet heart.

there was another group of wannabe gangstas who were youngins and taking turns at the stage and doling their dollars out like they were on a five dollar allowance. they were all strip club newbies and i had patiently sat with them and explained how things worked around here so when another young girl, who definitely is not a wannabe gangsta joined them, they called me over to explain things to her. she wanted to understand what it would mean for her to buy a lapdance for her boyfriend because it was her birthday. i explained what we do in the back room and how he can’t touch his dancer but the dancer can touch him. “where do you touch him?!” she asked nervously and i quickly explained we rub up against the man’s body but we don’t grab his dick or anything. she kept nodding unsmiling and finally i said “you don’t seem to happy to be here” and she shook her head. i continued, “yeah, you don’t really seem to want to get your boyfriend a lapdance.” with that, her sweet little face cracked and tears started running down her face, “i don’t” she said. i smiled, “then don’t do it.” her friend explained that the young girl thought it was cheating but felt torn because it was her boyfriend’s birthday and she thought she owed it to him to get a lapdance. i told her it was up to her, if she picked me i wouldn’t grind on him too hard, but that my advice was not to do it if she felt uncomfortable. she picked me and it kind of broke my heart on one hand because i hate to see women bent by their obligation to be a perfect girlfriend. on the other hand, her life might be full of less suffering if she can loosen up about a lapdance. i waved at her and smiled as graciously as i could while i lead her boyfriend away from her and then i didn’t grind too hard on him per our promise.

her boyfriend visited me on stage later and i asked if i should refrain from putting my boobs in his face while she was watching, he said, “no, i want her to see it all. she needs to understand that stripclubs aren’t that big of a deal.” before i knew it the friends had waved her on stage and were throwing singles in front of her and telling me to rub up on her while she glanced nervously around trying to figure out where to look and how to not run out the front door. “nope,” i shook my head, “i’ve learned not to do things girls don’t want.” so i twirled around while she watched until, after shaking hands with her boyfriend, it was agreed that she was okay with me putting my boobs in her face. she still looked doubtful so we decided they were going to do it as a team. they leaned their heads together and i put one boob on each of their faces and shook my shoulders. and the jig was up. the little lady didn’t cry again and we had one last conversation at their table. she confirmed she’d never felt a breast before and i said “pretty soft, huh?” and i told her lots of couples come into clubs together for date night.

a man with downright luminous eyes came into the club and paid me for a conversation which i enjoyed as much as he did and then he put a folded up five dollar heart on my stage while some other real gangstas crooned softly into my ear and some women who aren’t afraid of boobs put one dollar bills in their mouths for me to retrieve. the man with moonlight eyes told me he lived in my hometown and gave me his email and then i drove home past the owl and the coyote, waving hello friends, hello.

lately the candlelight club has been looking up. last weekend a beautiful tall black man found me on friday and returned saturday to squeeze in three more lap dances and extended nerd talk. my railworker who refuses to ride on trains came in drunk and hit the atm machine twice for me and told me his tales of humanity between our twelve dances.

dancer rules and regs

December 29, 2010

so i was hanging out with my friend and i had a pile of paper on my floor that i had collected along the road. you know, little scraps of directions, a note some guy left on my windshield suggesting i might like to call him and talk dirty, random poems, business cards, etc. in this pile were two pieces of paper with the rules and regulations for strip club performers and my friend was reading them over.

“this is why i couldn’t be a dancer,” she said, “all these rules and fees. fuck that. i nearly had a break down in college about all the rules. no way could i give some manager my money.”

“yeah. i can understand that,” i said, “but they do protect us. some of the time. and only at some clubs.”

and, of course they also provide the space, the lights, the liquor license and the music. i don’t mind fees, really. i find the rules and regulations applicable to strip club performers interesting for different reasons. particularly, that the rules assume, imply, and possibly reinforce that strippers are the worst stereotypes of themselves.  i wish i had kept more of these little contracts i signed and picked up all over the country but this one is pretty representative of most of them. i’ve photographed them here for you with my notes below on why i think one rule or another is significant.

ladies and laypeople, please feel free to add other insights.

nola part II

November 21, 2010

the next guy has albino colored hair and says his name is Handsome and he lives in Fantasy Land. “okay, me too” i say. his eyes are bright blue and one of them looks the other direction than the other.  he gives me twenty dollars for a table dance. he’s never had a lap dance before which means i’m his new favorite thing. he says that his wife is beautiful but doesn’t sparkle for him anymore nor love him the same as she used to and i’m sparkling tonight. i ask how long he’s been married and he says 12 years. i say after 12 years of marriage i probably wouldn’t sparkle either and he cuts me off to say i’m sparkling tonight. he follows me around a little and then goes to get more money out of the ATM in a very unsly way. i sell him on a three for a hundred and he sucks my breasts like a calf on a teet during which i forget to look enthralled by him. he catches me staring off into space and looks uneasy but i smile in a sparkly way and he happily tells me he would do anything to make me his and he would love me forever.  when i say goodbye and wish him a good life he wishes me his own way: “i wish that you would marry someone who looks exactly like me and be loved the whole rest of your life”.

there is a boring boring sales guy. i sat down by him and basked prettily in the awkward silence that got filled up by rock music. i ask several questions of the “where are you from?” and “what do you do?” variety and he answers shortly and asks me none back. i wonder how to extricate myself in a somewhat socially graceful way. i’ve been sitting with him too long to just get up and walk away without saying anything and i have one rule: always ask for a dance. i think “this dude is in sales so he knows how to talk to people therefore his utter conversational disinterest in me right now is clearly a sign that he will not get a dance” but still i say “so you are in sales and so am i. i sell lapdances and all sales stuff  is the same and you know how it goes so i wont pressure you, but i’d like to offer you a dance”. i’m pretty sure he hates me and he looks back, doesn’t speak for a second too long and then says “okay”. in the back room i have half a song to kill in conversation before we begin our lap dance proper. i sit on his lap and find myself twirling my hair and saying incredibly stupid and silly things while giggling. i believe i even went so far as to just out of the blue start talking about my boobs. i let my mouth and my mannerisms intuit what he wanted and watched myself feign a ditzy and demented stripper conversation with a certain amount of dismay. turns out he wanted a second dance.

on stage, i’m circling the pole and surveying the crowd, none of whom are tipping, for some friendly eyes. a younger man is looking at me and motions to his companion to stop talking while he watches me. his companion is an older woman. i watch him watch me and when i get off stage i walk over to him. we say hello and he introduces me to his mom. she has a sweatshirt with a deer on it. we all chat. he asks me to finish the sentence “this one time a guy…” and so i said “paid me to step on his balls”. i learned the story behind the parental strip club visit: he didn’t know it was a strip club and when he figured it out, he cajoled her into stopping for a drink. it’s her first time at a stripclub and we discuss the option, upon my suggestion, of her buying her son a lap dance. she declines. he is interested enough however to shell out the twenty for a table dance. which means i’m dancing on him right next to mom. i can’t really explain the stripper powers that allow me to contain the hilarity while their two faces looked up at me, his in ecstasy and hers in a mixture of shock and laughter.

afterwards me and her had a nice conversation about how making it in life is all about confidence. she says she’s a manager and it’s all about strutting your stuff and pretending you know when you don’t and holding your head high. i tell her how much stripping has taught me just that. she wishes me the best of luck in everything i do with such a depth of sincerity i almost hug her because i feel like she’s anxious about me and i want to help her know that i’m really really fine. her son winks in a wannabe hunky-sexy way and says “thank you for the dance.”

nola

November 18, 2010

i’m doing that thing again where i tell you all where i am because i’m with a blogger-stripper. miss satan, aka the bourbon street dancer known as gypsy, dropped me notes to find her in new orleans. so i did. so here we are. side by side on her couch. beat and worn and richer than this morning. 4 a.m.

there’s too much to break down all right now. so let’s start with this one:

i’ve been there four hours. gypsy hooked me up with five dollars from a regular. and then i got one more dollar. at least i’m on bourbon street?

i was sitting at the bar near another lonely stripper and a good looking european styled guy walked in and sat at a far table. i waited while he got a drink and then to see if the other lonely stripper would go claim him. maybe he was a regular.

nothing.

so i walked over and sat with him. swedish. i congratulated myself on spotting a homegrown euro. small chat ensued. i asked him if i could tell him the menu.

this club is made of tourists so few customers know the pricing structure or the tiers of intimacy available to them.

he says he does not want to know the menu. he came in only out of curiosity and he will leave soon.

“well if you’re curious, don’t you at least want to know the menu for information’s sake. i wont pressure you to buy a dance.”

he reluctantly agrees to hear me out on the menu. i explain:

$20 for a table dance. $40 for a lap dance. 3 for $100. and the upstairs 30 minutes for $300.

we discuss the particulars of stripping. he is one of the more curious and since he asks interesting questions i take the time to answer them. i’m quite sure he will not get a dance.

i learn that he is curious about dancers but he’s worried that they are all whores. i say some are but many are not. i am not, for instance. he tells me that he has though about getting sexual services but it is very important for him that the girl be there on her own will, out of her own interest. “otherwise,” he says, “it is as if i do violence to her.” i find this statement extremely perceptive. i explain that we ladies are a diverse crew. “you have to sit and talk to each of us to begin to understand what motivates us to be here”. i explain i like my job. it’s untrue to say i don’t do this for the money, obviously, but i am happy here. he double checks by asking me if my work makes me never want to have a boyfriend again. i say no.  no, in fact, i love giving love to  men who haven’t been laid in ten years. i explain the grey shadows of truth that make me seek strip clubs if for nothing but their gritty candor.

he says he is really shy and would like a dance from me. but he doesn’t want me to dance, he explains, he just wants to touch me as i described. on my back and my stomach. i agree.

the club manager must punch your dance into a computer. he takes the money and then at the end of the night he will give me thirty for the forty collected. this is fair, however, mr. manager is never nearby so there’s a whole tracking down process required for every dance secured. i find this stressful.

as we sit down to begin the dance he says “i have other needs” and i think oh shit, he’s going to want me touch his penis. he continues “i want to treat you like a girlfriend. i just want to touch you, no dancing”. okay, i nod. i go to straddle his laps and he leans forward and wraps his arms around my legs and starts lifting me. at first i think he’s moving to throw me over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. instead he puts me into his lap, like a baby.

and he touches my stomach and my back. he presses his lips over my chest. and into my neck. i hug him and he says “that’s what i need”.

i gesture to take off my bra. he asks if it is okay. i say it is.

at the end of the dance, i tell him i would like to keep going. he hands me another forty dollars. there is no manager around so i put it in my purse and keep it all.

he hugs me like a baby for another whole song. continuing to kiss and touch me above my waistline.

at the end of our time together, as i’m dressing, i tell him he shouldn’t worry about being shy. he’s goodlooking. wellspoken. many a woman would love to be with you. despite his awkward lunging and harried kisses, he is, a fine human being and i mean what i tell him. he looks down. he says he doesn’t know about that.

politely we part and he takes his leave.

 

little lights and things

October 2, 2010

speaking of light, there was a trapezoid of it coming through the drawn curtains of the strip club and landing over my moving parts. my thigh.  sliding up my chest. then back down my shoulder to where i couldn’t see it, though i could trust that he could, to the outer lip of my sex. “so this is the famous pussy?” he asked looking down and the beam of sunlight swung closer until i laughed and closed my legs. that’s too much light.

sixty and i spent our first champagne room surrounded by a forest of fake plants so dense we hadn’t originally been able to find the couch. the second champagne room was at his familial club m. and the afternoon was shining through the gaps of dark curtains.

sixty reads my blog and now holds the title of first blog reader stripped for. the day after i met sixty i met mr. r who holds the title of second blog reader i’ve stripped for. mr. r is a master of timing. he decided to write me to casually suggest that if i was in his area, he’d be interested in seeing me. i happened to be in his state at the moment i received his mail. from there on out it was just a matter of logistics for me to get in his lap. and from there we both lost track of the songs.

mr. r had only time for a lunch break lap dance so we left with a hug and plans to cross over each other again.

i danced for some randoms and learned about the difference between saag paneer and palak paneer from three indian men who shared their pitcher of bud light with me. i didn’t entertain the BDSM conversation with mr. i’m-a-regular when i realized he wasn’t going to pay me for talking about being tied up.

then sixty came back for day two.

i became interested in sixty when i realized he was one of the only customers who kept a blog about his experiences at the club. when he pulled his blog off the world wide web, i wrote him a short email saying he would be missed. from there we corresponded infrequently but sweetly, sharing book titles and hashing out that post he contributed to about the art of lap dance reception. during that time he gave me perhaps one of the greater compliments of my life: “you are the thinking man’s stripper,” he wrote.

when he walked in the club i knew it but i still said “and what’s your name?” we both sat at the bar for a minute integrating our internet selves with the sitting skin and flesh. he said i looked near opposite what he had imagined of me from my little-to-none physical self description on the blog. i struggled to listen to what he said as my brain worked on smooshing the data points i had collected from him via type  to his moving face. we set our hands on each other legs at different points to say “hi” and “it’s okay” and “we know each other”.

the next day, i steal printer paper from the dressing room and with cramped hands we write with keno pencils in the dark lounge full of hip hop and candlelight. he writes about a chapel and i write about a shiva’s arms. then i give him my handwriting and he gives me his.

the manager comes around to see if i’m going to dance for sixty or get on stage and so we go sit under the puzzle peice of light and i am thankful i’m not on the bar getting naked for close to nobody.

club m. and its sister club are good case studies for how strict rules get the least enforced. therefore no one noticed or blinked when i walked out of the club with sixty at the end of my shift. from there, well, i followed him to…

a diner.

a trucker’s diner with slices of five layer chocolate cake, stacks of smucker jams, yellow mustard and those squishy diner seats that make me always think of pulling an all nighter eating fried food and doodling on the scalloped paper place mats.

i ate like i had only been snacking on gold fish crackers for the last seven hours and sixty drank coffee with his food. i talked about my dad and he talked about his dead friend. he talked about his daughters and his work and his most recent ATF.  i told him i wanted to be a trucker and then a trucker nearby turned around and we all three talked about trucking.

then we wrote again. and no matter what we put down we read everything we had written to each other. every bit. the shit and the pearls and we didn’t say “good job” or “thank you” or “you could work on x. y, or z”.

then we had pie and i could only eat half of mine and so i played with the other half till i had a plate of mush and floating berries and maybe sixty was grossed out and maybe he wasn’t but i felt liked despite my table manners and glad for it. this is what it feels like to be friends, i think.

when i left the diner, i turned the wrong way first and then i turned the right way and then i drove and drove and drove until i found a friendly parking lot. i awoke to rain and pulled my truck curtains down and watched the dripping leaves and ticked off the moments, the small radius of details, that keep me alive.

the misters

August 17, 2010

he was normal looking. regular pants and a solid colored t-shirt. white and tall. good shape. brown hair. his face was crunched up and i wasn’t sure he was nice. “may i sit by you?” i ask “sure, but i’m not going to promise you a dance.” “you don’t have to promise me anything.” and then i start asking regular nice-to-meet-you questions. “why are you here tonight?” “for some mindless entertainment” he answers. i smile to myself, wrong girl. “i can understand that, i find strip clubs very relaxing really. nice way to unwind. just watch naked women.” so where are you from? why are you here, in this town? his face is less crunched and i can see he is nice despite his bluntness. he is asking me questions back which is always helpful for rapport building. he writes. i write. “everybody says they write,” he says. “well, i manage two blogs,” i answer “does that count?” “i don’t know, do you think it does? you get to decide what counts” “then it does,” i say. he has written a book, which i suppose really counts and he is here as part of his work. his work is involved with environmental politics. this is very interesting for me and i stop putting on the hustle and we have a very dynamic conversation. i ask lots of questions and answer all of his. i tell him the truth about where i went to school and what i studied. i tell him about the my radical economics book and write down the name of it for him to read. he may be the first really really interesting person i’ve met since i left home this time around. “you know, i’ve been to many of these places and i’ve never…” “met anyone like me?” “yes. i’ve never been suggest a book to read at a club. usually, the girls only want to talk about themselves. me. me. me.” “well, i don’t think that’s limited to strippers. men are also terrible at asking questions and being curious about others” and this turns into a conversation about the dominant paradigms of our society. abruptly he asks “are you traveling around writing about men and how stupid and crass they are?” “no. i don’t hate men. i like my job. i’ve never been raped or molested. i’m here because i choose to be here. there are plenty of women who do hate men and i can understand why but that’s not my scene.”

my stripper clock is ticking and i offer him a dance and he says he doesn’t like dances and i roll my eyes say he should pay me for the conversation so he puts ten dollars in my garter. how do you price conversation? i know that it should be priced at the opportunity cost – the amount of dances i could have done. but that’s not what i mean. i mean truly how can you put a price tag on conversation?

he thinks i am smart and interesting. “that’s nice enough i say, but it doesn’t necessarily help me because it’s either unwanted by the men i talk to or, for people exactly like you, you’ve stopped seeing me as a sexual creature. you wont even get a dance from me.” “actually, i haven’t stopped thinking of you as a sexual creature for one moment. my next question is going to be, will you sleep with me?” i raise my eyebrows and start laughing “and if you say no, my next question will be how much?”. still laughing i respond “i’ve been propositioned many times but you definitely win the prize for being straightforward.” later i realize it wasn’t the directness of his request, it was the lack of shame that made it different. there was nothing dirty or dark or under the table about his desire for me. nonetheless, without saying no, i said no. but i did write down the name of his book. as i get on stage i see him hand in hand with another girl heading to the room with couches.

this club has table dances, couch dances and champagne rooms. couch dances are lap dances. champagne rooms are paid for by chunks of fifteen minute blocks. and table dances are a dollar for about forty-five seconds. i hate table dances. mathematically they enrage me; forty five seconds is fifteen seconds away from approximately one third of a song. if i get twenty dollars a song for a couch dance that would mean that forty seconds is worth about five dollars. not. one. dollar. i also learn quickly enough that people who want table dances do not view it as a teaser for a couch dance. it is not the means to a champagne room. it’s the end of the road. so i quickly stop offering them though i still end up doing them by request. and it’s crappy because i hate them. and then i get one dollar and walk off.

do you want a lap dance? and then he turns his chair thinking i mean table dance. “no, i mean a real dance” i say. sometimes they say yes. sometimes they say no and i give them a crappy little table dance. this one says yes. this one is wearing a wife beater and is young. i have a thing for wife beaters. i know it’s trashy but there’s something about wife beaters that reminds me of the bad boys at my highschool who held the allure of everything i wasn’t. we go into the couch room and i tell him he’s cute and i like dancing for cute boys and i do. and he bites his lip and looks at me with hungry brown eyes. i want him. i can tell i’ve grown up though, because wanting him doesn’t mean i will try to have him. it wont mean that i will pretend he’s something other than he is or i am. cute boys in wife beaters with long beautiful arms no longer represent what i’m not. their badness is just another style. one that turns me on no doubt. but that’s it. this night is painfully slow and when i come out of the couch room mr. long arms is staring at me, wanting me. i search the room and there are no other potentials so i figure i’ll go feel sexy. i walk over, “i think you have a crush on me.” he smiles “i do” and i sit on his lap and he holds me with his long arm and squeezed the fat in between my thigh and my ass under the table and i like it. i trace spirals and leaves and imaginary creatures on his shoulder. “you blame the crush only on me. do you get crushes on guys in here?” i nod. “do you have a crush on me?” i nod. we don’t really talk that much. he squeezes me and i trace him. his friend comes over and he has won seventeen dollars on a gambling machine. “come try your luck, man” he says to his friend. “i am” says the friend and behind my shoulder he points at me. i am the last girl on stage and when i end dancing the club ends. he sits in front of me putting out dollars and then the music stops and i lean forward and say “i have to go, now. it was lovely meeting you.” “are you sure you don’t want to come party with us?” he asks. party, i think. i don’t party. what is partying really? it’s just bad boy speak for ‘let me tap that ass’. i shake my head. no. “this is a one night only crush,” i say. odds are against you when you gamble on me but i can tell he must have known that and he watches me with his big dark eyes as i open the door that says “employees only” and i turn and wave. later, i will touch myself and think about fucking him while he looks at me biting his lip. this is how i want him.

mr. environmental politics comes back the second night. he walks in and double takes on me because i’m in a different outfit. i walk up and greet him and address him by his last name. shocked he says “you looked me up?” “of course, i do my homework” i say “i read part of an article you wrote” “and you even say my last name correctly.” i shrug. it seems like a rather easy to pronounce last name. “so why did you come back? more mindless entertainment?” “do you consider yourself mindless?” oh, so he came back for me. i ask him how his work went and we talk. i am not trying to hustle him. i guess it’s fair to say that if i lose my identity as a mindless dancer for him, he also loses his identity as a lap. i don’t mind the lost money. this is my life and he interests me. i like his conversation. how do you put a price on conversation? we talk like friends. he tells me how the girl he danced with the night before offended him. he asks where i slept last night, a hotel. “no” “where, then?” “that’s a secret.” “did you go home with someone last night?” “no, i slept alone.” “you didn’t sleep with someone and you didn’t sleep in a hotel. did you camp?” “yes” “did you find a good campground” i sigh “okay, whatever, i’ll tell you. i slept in the parking lot of days inn”. he’s halfway surprised. “you could have slept at my place for free.” “it seems that i could have slept at your place and made money.” he apologizes for being blunt last night. really, i could sleep in his bed and he’d sleep on the couch. he has a suite. a bed and a shower is so good, he tells me. it is good i say but i’ve paid for a place tonight. he offers to take me to his speaking engagement tomorrow in the town over. an adventure. i turn down a lot of adventures. i wonder if my stripper intuition is strong enough to start saying yes when i want to. i am leaving this state, though. tomorrow. so, no.

i think i will give him something. my blog address. my real name. something to say, i like you and i want to share more with you. but he ducks out during my stage. no goodbye. i guess that’s the way he wants me.

how to get a lap dance: the art of receiving

August 3, 2010

i’m far away from any strip clubs running wild in the mountains. with that said, i’ve written up a little thought-food regarding the receiving of lap dances. mr. sixty, an avid strip club goer, ex-blogger on the subject, and wonderful writer sent me a couple of his own thoughts. bear in mind we wrote up our suggestions without conversation but nonetheless reached very similar conclusions. i may have blathered a bit so if you’re the type who goes for short and sweet, scroll down to see sixty’s ten points for staying classy on the couch.

how to get a lap dance: the art of receiving – written by a girl who strips

there’s a lot more talk floating around in the world about how to give a lap dance then there is on how to get one. as a serial lap dance giver i’m convinced that the art of receiving a lap dance needs to be further explored. i believe that the recipient’s final feelings towards any given lap dance hinges equally upon the giver’s talent as on their own skills of reception.

i also have a strong hunch that good lap dance recipients are good lovers. this has yet to be proven because it would require me fucking a whole lot of my customers but nonetheless, i think my stripper intuition is right on this one. in general, energy is either increased between two people or stolen by one or both of the parties. as a lap dance recipient or as a lover the goal is to co-create energy with your partner. it’s a back and forth activity of building pleasure.

i am much more interested in delving into the subtleties of being good at getting a lap dance than i am in rehashing the obvious rules of the game. but since many many men are still working out the basics, i suppose they are worth repeating:

1. follow the rules of the club – at worst your dancer or you will get in trouble for breaking the rules of the club. it’s simple really, if you get kicked out, you wont be getting an enjoyable lap dance. at best you’ll have to suffer the embarrassment of being talked to like a little kid by one of the bouncers; there’s really no better way to ruin a hot lap dance than being scolded by another man.

as an addendum to rule number 1, don’t ask to break the rules or repeatedly complain about them. your dancer has been  cajoled and pressured all night long to do things she’d rather not and spent a good deal of time listening to whining men. by starting your interaction off with her in such a manner you’ve already set the tone for being an energy sucker.

2. know the cost of a dance and have the money to pay for it - duh. self explanatory. if you can’t or don’t pony up, you’ll leave feeling either ashamed, humiliated or like an ass hole none of which lead to feelings of pleasure, fulfillment, connection, etc.

3. don’t lick, grab, grope, bite, kiss (note: this rule does not apply to lovers) – just remember how many tongues have slobbered on my nipples tonight and then think through whether you want to put your mouth there. from coughing strippers who sucked on my tits for a dollar to that kinda shady guy in the corner, you’re swapping germs on my breasts.

now i don’t mind soft little peck kisses on my neck and body as i slide by but please don’t kiss my mouth or try to use tongue.

biting hurts. stop.

grabbing and groping is pretty much umbrellaed by rule #1 since most clubs don’t allow it. in places where you can touch, i suggest you practice holding rather than grabbing or groping.  you can hold a dancer’s ass cheeks, breasts, or whole body in a much less aggressive way. with the permission of your dancer you may also work on caressing, rubbing, and other pleasure-inducing forms of touch.

unless invited by your dancer, never touch a dancer’s genitals or ass crack. also expect to never be invited to do so.

4. be relatively well groomed (this does apply to lovers) – you want me to get close to you? then ensure that my getting close to you is an event that does not leave me feeling dirty or disgusted. check that you didn’t accidentally dribble pee on your pants in the bathroom and that you don’t reek of liquor, sweat or other unpleasant odors.

5. money, money, money - yes you are in a strip club, which is a business not your bedroom. money talks here and if you tip a girl for a dance you like, it will not go unnoticed.

okay. square one covered.

now for the finesse of receiving a lap dance. again, remember, the main principle is to create energy. you are a participant in the lap dance not just a passive bonor. you have the opportunity  to increase the good-feelings of a shared sexual experience. the concept underlying the principle of creating energy is that a dancer who feels appreciated, sexy, happy, respected and paid is going to give a better lap dance that in turn is going to make you feel appreciated, sexy, happy and respected which is worth paying for.

the lead up - we all know first impressions matter and your initial interaction sets the mood for your lap dance. so, please, don’t waste my time. yes, it is a job and time is money. no, i don’t like talking about you as a money machine but if you spend a bunch of time talking without paying me, i’m sorry but we’ll have to end the conversation and if that makes you feel used, then compensate me for my time.

if you don’t have money for a lap dance, please just tell me. you’re not going to hurt my feelings by letting me know up front that you will not be buying a dance. if you’re not into me and might be buying a dance from another girl, just tell me. i spend a good portion of my night getting rejected, i’ve learned to deal with it. if you want to be kind, don’t waste my time. need a little more guidance? if you’re very very sure that you wont buy a dance from me say something like, “hey, listen, you’re very beautiful and i would love to talk to you but i respect that you’ve got a job to do as well and so i want to tell you up front i’m not going to be buying a dance”. if you’ve got a couple bucks slide it on over for stage dances and/or conversation time but don’t lead me on by making me think i’ve got a shot when i don’t. remember, i am not a free therapist or your potential girlfriend.

just a little note on this subject, i will spend time with non-dance buyers if they make me feel really good about myself and are being honest with me about their goals of the night. i wont spend a tremendous amount of time with them but when i’m vibing good with them, i’ll use them as my flirt-fuel to get ego boosts throughout the night, raise my endorphins and keep sexified.

if you are going to buy a dance (which you really should, they’re so much fun), let me know your expectations ahead of time. ask the prices if you don’t know and the rules of the club. tell me what you like and don’t like and i’ll be that much more ahead of the pleasure game. do you like it rough or slow? are you a tit man or ass man? would you like me to talk dirty with you? rub your shoulders? tell me!

above and beyond grooming - the more comfortable i am, the better i dance. so, even though your five o clock shadow makes you look kinda hunky, i’m not going to rub my bare breasts repeatedly across your face because i end up with little mini-scratches that ache all the next day. and even though i’m a blue jeans kinda gal, softer fabric pants will have me pressed up into your lap harder. if you smell delicious, i’ll keep my face closer to you. if your hair isn’t a greasy mess, i’ll run my fingers across your neck and scalp.

the eye contact issue - to do or not to do, that is the question. let me say that i am reading you and your desires by your eyes. if you look at my tits, i’m going to focus on my tits. if you focus on my pussy, i’m going to play with it. if you focus on my eyes, i’m going to look back into yours. if you’re wanting some human connection feeling, that’s where i’ll turn my attention and i’ll probably dance you in the same way i fuck, which should make the whole world feel like it’s suspended for a time as we’re looking at each other. all in all, eyes say a lot, so use them, which gets me to the other side of things…

the dead fish syndrome - you know what a dead fish handshake is? well those exist in the lap dance world, too. dead fish recipients stare into some abyss and in general are just a pile of unresponsive flesh. often times these are customers who are so loaded on drugs and alcohol, it’s a wonder they made it here at all. however, some dead fish are fully sober individuals, who, just sit there looking off into the distance or down at their belly button. i don’t know why but it’s weird and i usually don’t do great lap dances because, hey, they aren’t looking anyways. i’d assume they aren’t into me but dead fish will often get another dance and they say yes like it’s a second thought. oh sure, keep going. it’s weird. don’t do that.

moving and maneuvering - on the other side of the spectrum from dead fish we have the live fish recipient whose likely a handsy one and hell bent on moving me to his own tune by thrusting his hips and boxing me in with his upper arms or legs. firstly, i understand you want to hump me. but seriously, overeager jouncing laps just ruin my rhythm. subtle hip circles and a slight lifting of the pelvis is just fine but any of your movement that seriously impedes my movement or requires that i hold on to something for balance is not appreciated. and i truly believe that it will result in a less sexified dance for you. i will give you some good grinding in my own time. if you’re enthusiastically bouncing your crotch, i simply wont be able to do my thing.

talking and chatting - the other live fish is the talker who spends the entire dance asking questions. this is perfectly acceptable and i’m more than happy to get money in exchange for answering your questions. but you should know that if you spend the entire time asking about my weekend or telling me about your wife’s hang up about her breasts, neither of us will be focusing on the more silent conversation going on between our bodies.

dialogue - this is the beating heart of a lap dance. this is the golden key to the art of reception. this is where the buck stops and we find out what we’re made of as two people pressed up against each other. those who dialogue well in these close up situations will naturally be better lovers. in short, tell me what you like, tell me what you like, tell me what you like.

there are lots of ways to tell me. you don’t have to use your words, though those are welcome also. tell me with your breath. use deep breaths and quick breaths to communicate your inner heat. tell me with soft moans. tell me with the quickening of your pulse. tell me with your eyes. tell me with your clenched fists or outstretched fingers. tell me with your bitten lip and raised eyebrow. tell me with your goofy smile of pleasure. your closed eyes. that look of awe that crosses over your face.

there are lots of things to tell me and they all are an expression of appreciation. you can tell me what you like about me. this makes me feel sexy and confident and maybe turned on which will make me writhe a little better and hold myself more sensually in your lap. tell me i have great breasts, beautiful nipples, a stunning cunt. let me know you like the way i move, the way i smell, the texture of my skin.

connected to what you like about me tell me what you like for you. the way i gasp into your ear or rub your shoulders. do you prefer my hips moving in circles or up or down? do you like when i touch myself or slide down the front of you? do you love when i bounce my ass or squeeze my nipples, tell me.

good dancers and good lovers will respond to knowing what you like by doing what you like.

buy your dances in a row – if you think you might buy two or more dances in a night from one girl, i suggest buying them in a row. right off the bat, this is more efficient for me as your dancer. i  get dressed and undressed one less time by dancing through. however, the bigger reasoning for this suggestion is that as a general rule dances get hotter the longer they go. as we both vibe longer, our breath and sexy feelings start mixing up with each other and i’m much more able to read what you like and adapt my moves to you and have a higher likelihood of getting wet myself. additionally, as dance time lengthens i get more creative with my moves as i try to mix it up. i have an inner mental list of things i do and i start pulling out some of the more tricky and hotter ones as time moves on.

also, different clubs have different lap dance spaces. some table dances are done in the front room and require some technically difficult balancing that seriously impedes closeness. if the option is there, pay a little more for the back room where the dancer has a couch to straddle you over and can take off her shoes and get real flexible.

kink and fetish – so you have a thing. feet. getting beat up. calling me a whore-slut-bitch. that’s cool, i can deal with all that. just tell me. it’s my experience that most dancers like fetishists because the terms are clear and laid out early. we get propositioned all night long so don’t feel embarrassed to whisper what you want. it’s nice to tip extra for out-of-the-box activities and role playing as it requires an extra level of focus and/or disassociation on our part but in general, you aren’t the first one and you wont be the last and there’s nothing to feel bad about it if you ask politely.

a final word on pheremones - not all strippers are created the same. all the customers and all the dancers are still biological beings emitting all sorts of hormones and smells and slight variations of sex juice. you might find me physically attractive and/or a scintillating conversationalist but there’s a chance that you and your dancer will just not have matching sexy vibes. this happens. be kind and find another.

i would like to add that in exchange for being a good lap dance recipient you should expect a great lap dance. if your dancer is trashed, distant, looking bored, rude, smelly, emotionally needy, avoiding eye contact and/or an energetic vampire, don’t buy more dances. pay for your interaction and then don’t dwell on it. go find a girl who can share a cupful of connection with you in a way that feels good to you.

the end.

Ten tips for staying classy on the couch -written by a guy
1.      Smile.  You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself, right junior?

2.      Use eye contact. This is hugely important for the dancer to do, of course, but guys are well advised to do it too.  Don’t just stare at her body parts.  Eyes can flirt, and flirting always increases the frisson.

3.      Easy on the body spray or cologne.  A little goes a long way.

4.      Start slow and behave yourself. Watch and listen carefully for invitations.  During the first song especially, take her lead regarding “privileged access.”  Later, if things are going well, initiate your own creative but respectful advances and see how they’re received.  Respect firmly established rules.  (I’m not so much referring to club rules.  Her rules.)

5.      Keep it in your pants. Come on – do I really have to say that?

6.      Massage is a tricky thing.  If you’re a “pleaser” type and you’ve got good, sure hands, see how she responds to some light stroking up and down her spine or maybe even some firmer kneading of her trapezius muscles or lats. (I recently was with one dancer who just loved getting deep-tissue massage of her fabulous derriere — the harder and stronger the better.)  But be careful: if your technique sucks, she’ll wish you hadn’t started (painfully awkward); and if you’re really good, she’ll most likely melt like butter and forget all about entertaining you.

7.      Don’t pinch or mash the boobies.  Likewise, no sucking nipples unless she has given you her enthusiastic permission to do so.

8.      Give feedback frequently. Accentuate the positive: compliment her and tell her what’s turning you on. Among other things, this is a mutual learning process.

9.        Your clothes should act as a soft, inviting playing field for the young lady. Soft fabrics (not jeans or cords).  No studded belts or buckles with sharp edges.

10.     Show gratitude.  Say thank you and mean it, even if the dance was mediocre. If she exceeded expectations, tip her extra.  She’ll remember you for it.  Good begets better.

july 28th

July 29, 2010

the club is actionless for the first three hours so i read my radical economics book. i’m really jazzed by it and i think sitting in a dressing room with five other naked women waiting to commodify our bodies is the perfect vantage point for mulling it through.

i cut an apple into bite sized pieces with my switch blade and eat oatmeal that i brought in a tin.

another girl bends away from the mirror and spreads her butt cheeks to check her ass hole.

i think i need to write a stripper economics post soon. it’s fascinating stuff.

my stages are hanging right around the five dollar mark.

i go talk to a guy who, by all status quo standards, is quite good looking. he’s wearing a tight shirt that boys often wear to the beach, even though we are far away from any ocean.

“hi” says i. “do you come here often, it seem that some of the girls know you and -”

“yeah. that girl’s real name is carol, that one’s real name is sasha, and the one with the pierced nipples is christina. yeah, i know them all. if i don’t know your name, you probably aren’t cool.”

“hmmm. well you don’t know my name.”

“well you’re new. give me 20 minutes”.

of course, i didn’t tell him my name nor did i sit with him for 20 minutes. especially after he said “do i look like i need to be here?” and lectured me on how to sell dances and how he spends money when he wants to.

there was literally no one else in the club so i just said, i give good lap dances, yaddah yaddah, if you decide you want one, i’d love to give you one.

“yeah, well a lot of girls would love to grind on my cock and get 20 dollars. there are girls here who wont even give me lap dances anymore because they get so turned on. you see, i know i’m hot and awesome”

“funny, me too.”

blech.

people who don’t strip think that giving lap dances to crusty old men is the cringey part of this job. incorrect. i have never been wholly disgusted by a customer based on looks alone. i’ve gotten wet in the laps of men twice my age with not -so-great hygiene but my vagina is curdled and my heart hard against this cocky little prick of a man who looks like an all star college student and smells like soap and cologne.

i didn’t talk to him again and i watched him not ever buy a lap dance from any of his stripper best friends. his kink is getting off on thinking he is lord of the strip club. i focus on my compassion for his life.

meanwhile, the night was just not resonating. i kept getting turned down by too few customers. paycheck’s in the mail type of guys. i remembered i was supposed to be happy despite getting shut down so i went and hid in the dressing room and ate curry and kale and watched the clock until it was past midnight and i knew it was a fresh day.

some guy low balled me on the champagne room and we negotiate for awhile until finally i said okay and sold low to ensure that i’d at least make $100 tonight. as we walked back, he said, “you’re not going to leave me with blue balls, right?”. oh. damn. “ummm, that’ll be up to you.”

i really am still not sure what to do with these situations.

he went to the bathroom first where i assumed he must have taken drugs because he spent the first twenty minutes with his eyes half closed and far away. at first he kept mumbling for me to grab his dick and rub this way or that way. i didn’t grab his dick but i did rub this way or that way. for less time than he wanted. but then he finally quieted and at one point, i thought he had od’d and the dance was over but his cock was still hard so i figured that must not be the case and so i kept dancing. i felt alone in the neon decorated room but i kept moving.

he roused some minutes later and talked about getting off and i said something about doing my best and there are rules and hidden cameras.

after a couple more minutes he said, loud and clear with his eyes open “okay, we’re done”

“we’re done?”

“yep. easy right?”

“ummm, okay”

i hadn’t see or felt him noticeably cum but i started to put my clothes on, glad to be done either way. he was completely alert and referenced our earlier conversation in a coherent and knowledgeable way. weird. i rubbed his back a little and then we walked out and he stayed for the first half of my stage and left.

weird.

the boundaries in helping someone get off are weird. i don’t mind if it just happens because i give a stellar lap dance but i don’t really like concentrating on making it happen. i could use advice on this.

i had a good stage with a bunch of bachelor partiers and walked with $188.


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