Prepare To Enter …

I have been heading to the strip club a lot lately. Most of the time things are sexy, yet timid. I dance for some strangers, make a little money, dance on the pole, and get home in time to make it to six am yoga. Last night was by far the strangest night I have had at the titty bar. If I was going to tell you the blow by blow the story would wind and twist into a strange series of twilight zone episodes.

First, I rush to see a middle aged guy who comes in now and again to see me. He hands me money to talk to him, but not so much that I’m excited to rush. I usually run an hour behind schedule. I’m at the club on time. I feel rushed.

We sit and he reminds me that I promised to answer his questions. He accuses me of fabricating things on my blog. I guess his life is boring. Mine isn’t. I don’t have to make stuff up. “My life is obviously more fun than yours” I tell him, a bit offended that he is essentially calling me a liar. I give him the benefit of the doubt. He is just a silly bitch and clearly can’t grasp the level of perversity I get into. Whatever.

Then he asks me about my family. My personal life. The shit I keep to myself. He has been pressuring me via email and clearly wants to know who I saved from the Christians. What is the relationship I have to the young person I blogged about saving many moos ago. Instead of wasting my time, making up some BS, or even defending my choice to keep it ambiguous I told him straight out “my biological child.” Now it was on the table, no undoing it. I think it is super trashy to talk about your family in a strip club, I didn’t want to but he was basically interrogating me. He told me that it was impossible, continued on with his certainly that I make shit up and I burst into tears.

I left the table, clearly very upset that this wanker came into this titty bar, pushed me for personal information and called me a lying whore. I found the closest darkest spot to stand and cry. I hoped no one would see. Everyone did.

This douche bag tells me he wants to help me. I’m upset. The DJ calls my name and I get on stage. The middle-aged ass wipe puts a dollar on the stage and tells me he is leaving. I crumble up the dollar and throw it in his face. “Fuck you” I say. If he had laid down a hundred dollar bill I would have kept it, but a buck, really? Is a dollar supposed to make up for the fact that you psychically raped me?

I’m dancing on the stage, tears streaming down my face, make up everywhere. Fuck what people think. I have to be on that stage for 20 minutes. I dance the pole, never noticing anyone who might be at the stage. I’m ready to quit. I figure I should go home. I have been nursing a headache all day. I should leave. I go to the dressing room prepared to split, I wipe my face off, give myself a pep talk, get a pep talk from a couple of the dancers, reapply my war paint and head out into the club to make some money. I can’t let one wanker ruin my night. I still have shit to pay for.

I meet up with the pilot and the MD. They are buddies. I have a tiny little leather slapper I carry around this club with me. The MD tells me that the pilot is kinky, hands me a fifty and tells me to take his friend for a slap dance. I grab the pilot by the hand and drag him to the lap dance area. I shove my tits in his face, I slap his thigh, I whisper something about his level of kink in his ear. He assures me he is plenty kinky. I slap his thigh harder, then I slap his dick which is now forming a tent in his pants, he moans, I shove my knee into his crotch, then I knee him hard, he moans louder, his dick is throbbing, he has this huge grin on his face. We go back to the bar, the pilot hands me a hundred and tells me to give his friend, the doctor, the same treatment. The doctor resists, so I whisper in his ear that I’ll be gentle. I take him in the back and proceed to scare the shit out of him. After one song he runs back to the bar. I follow with my silly little slapper like some sort of strip club dominatrix, I slap him on the ass hard before he sits on his barstool. “Buy me a drink” I demand, he does it, I sip my cool beverage and take a load off, glad that the night has picked up.

Making small talk with the MD he uses the word hermaphrodite, I politely tell him that intersexed is the more courteous word, that hermaphrodite is thought to be derogatory and he tells me he doesn’t care, that he will call these freaks what he wants — and he is serious. I’m sitting there sipping a cool Coors 16 ouncer with Joe bigot, medical professional. I can’t get into it with him. I don’t have it in me. I just get up and walk away.

I’m on stage dancing for some young and very cute black boys. They are spending money like it’s going out of style, like they just got their very first pay-checks and headed right to the strip club. I’m shaking my ass and they are throwing money at me. Then one of them says “put your finger in it for me” so I lean in and shove my finger up his nose. It was hilarious. We all laughed and he handed me forty bucks.

I’m wandering around, in a daze, then the smelly guy needs a dance. He lights up every time he sees me. He clearly loves me. But he smells like rotting garbage. Like rotting garbage with cheese and diapers. He is one nasty smelling dude. I smile and flirt with him, take him to the back, take his money, try not to barf on him (I’m still nursing this smell sensitive migraine), I question my good judgment, I spin around and shove my ass in his face so I can point my nose the other way. I’m thrilled when the song is over and the DJ calls my name – “I’ve got to get back to the stage” I say, like I’m disappointed I have to leave him. I smile, bat my lashes, and run for the stage, never so happy to get on a strip club stage in my life. At this point in the night the stage feels like my own personal refugee island. I go there to get away from the drama and smelly strangeness that is happening all around me. Stage island, paradise with a pole.

For this next part you need a little back-story. The dancers at Mardi Gras II are all very nice. They have been polite and supportive, even the night one accused me of stealing a twenty from her (she later apologized), but there is this one girl, this dancer that has been there for-ever and a day. She looks old and tired. She is rumored to suck cock out in the parking lot (and more power to her for doing it – I think that is hot as hell) but this one broad, well she seems to have an axe to grind, she somehow has a problem with me. In all honestly I have given her no reason to dislike me, but I’m over six feet tall in my heels, my hair is long and red, my curves are spectacular, and I look like a god dam movie star. Like I just stepped out of a magazine. She is short and stumpy and missing teeth. She is not competition but I can see how she would think that I was. I call her Tammy the man-eating troll. Not to her face obviously.

I’m flirting it up, looking for dances, getting my hustle on. I see this gorgeous man. He looks like an actor I know in Hollywood. Angular face, dark features, nice build, really handsome. He asks me if I want a drink and I tell him I would rather have the five bucks. I shouldn’t drink any more. He laughs but neglects to hand me the cash. The DJ calls my name. I suggest to this pretty boy that he come to the stage and watch me dance. He says he will, but he doesn’t. I dance alone, I dance for a drunk guy who is texting his wife, I swing around the pole and wonder when this night will be over. I’m fucking done with this shit.

I get off the stage and make my way back to the pretty boy. He looks at me with fear in his eyes and says, “I met your scary friend.” “Who?” I inquire as I really have no friends there but gawd only knows what happened to him. “Behind you” he suggests, I look and it’s Tammy. I look back at him and he all but begs me to save him, “she’s gonna come back for me – please can we go in the VIP room” he asks. We summon the bartender, get the champagne room purchased, and run behind the phony palm trees. We talk, we giggle, then we make out. Straight make out. I’m wet and turned on, we’re dry humping then the lights come on telling us all to get the fuck out of the club. “I’ll meet you at the gas station,” I whisper to him.

I go in the dressing room and Tammy bitches about how she did all the work to get that champagne room, and I just came along and took it. I told her that I had been talking to him before I went on stage. I put on my jeans and drove to the gas station.

When I got to the gas station I saw what I thought was my new friend sitting in an SUV. I parked and walked over to find an elderly man passed out in the drivers seat. I backed away, laughing – nope that’s not him. I looked around and found him. He had seen me approach the old man and we had a good laugh. Then we went to a cheap and conveniently located motel. We got a room, ripped each-others clothes off and had the hottest straight vanilla sex I had ever had.

We took a long steamy shower, we soaped each other up, touched each others beautiful bodies, got good and fucking excited. We jumped in the bed, I rode him, held him down, we rolled around, kissed, and panted, the two of us looking like movie stars in a cheesy on screen sex scene. It was hard to believe just how turned on I was at having sex with a straight white vanilla man.

After he came we talked a little then he got it up again for me, we fucked, like straight people, I came, collapsed, and got dressed. We left the room 90 minutes after we checked in, sheets and condoms everywhere. A little dazed and unsure about where our cars might be we wandered down a hall and I asked him “what’s you name anyway.”

Outside it was four degrees. I gave him my business card. I hope he calls.

6 thoughts on “Prepare To Enter …

  1. He holds him with his skinny hand,
    “There was a ship,” quoth he.
    `Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’
    Eftsoons his hand dropped he.

    He holds him with his glittering eye –
    The Wedding-Guest stood still,
    And listens like a three years’ child:
    The Mariner hath his will.

    The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
    He cannot choose but hear;
    And thus spake on that ancient man,
    The bright-eyed Mariner.

  2. Thanks for sharing! I used to spend my nights at the stripclub when my ex was a DJ. This makes me miss those nights.

  3. Interesting…hoping someone will call…giving them a business card with a website but no phone number…and picture of sexy crazy redheaded bitch with a SDSU address. 😛

  4. Hey. I tried to leave you a note here before. Maybe you got it and deleted it. Had fun, but the card had no number. And now I’ve done so much reading, can believe you had fun with this one extract kinda guy. Happy Holidays (and why did we take the long route out?)

  5. @SV My phone number is on the contact page. I figured you would find it but I guess you got distracted by the adventures on the main page.

    619.884.2376

  6. YES, I AM A WANKER.
    I told you that before we met.
    You were inside my head.
    I thought you understood my sub side, as weak and timid as it is.
    I was trying to work up the courage to submit to you.

    And then you scared the shit out of me.
    With that post about kicking the guy in the balls,
    so hard that he bled.

    I did try to tell you that that I was scared by that story.
    You know how weak and hesitant I am.
    I’M A WANKER.
    I could not believe that story was true, because it frightened me so.

    I closed down.
    I offered you nothing
    and tried to put you on the defensive
    because I was afraid.

    I’m sorry to cause you so much pain.

    I’m glad the rest of your night gave you pleasure.

    And please, finish the fucking dissertation.

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