Lapdancing: LOVE AND KANSAS-- Part One

LOVE AND KANSAS

Part One

Women make lap dancing work by suckering men into believing that they are in love with them. They sell this fantasy, not their bodies. The men, of course, are all too eager to be tricked and they soon, like all fools, are parted from their money. Most of the time this is hard earned cash, too, that was meant to pay bills, buy stuff for kids, groceries for a family, even money that was owed a bank or an ex- wife. None of this matters when a wily dancer weaves her web of false emotions and traps some weak guy drawn to her by his own desires. If the dancer has done her job, and most of them do it very well, the unlucky fly/man is completely convinced that she really likes him. He’s absolutely sure that, perhaps, for the first time in his life, he has a main chance to hook up with an exciting woman possessing a beautiful body and all the sexuality he ever dreamed of after years of ordinary love-making. Now he has finally connected with the kind of “sex kitten” that he had been reading about and making fantasy love to from men’s magazines since his first wet dream in Junior High School. He’s caught, hooked, roped in, snared, captured, taken, seized, snookered, and hopelessly lost. When this same fly/man finally does wake up to the fact that his favorite dancer doesn’t give a shit about him and was only doing her job making money in the way that she is supposed to, it’s usually too late for him to salvage much of his financial life. Dick- for- Brains is now hopelessly in debt. Whoever depended on the cash he made at work is now after him and he will pay a heavy price. That’s the way it goes. Men simply don’t get the point. Lap dancing is dangerous. Mucho Peligroso, Senior Horny!!!!

The horrible reality, however, is that it’s just not possible to avoid falling in love with the dancers. Some of them are so spectacular, so incredible as women, that even the best prepared male, even someone with vast experience in the ways of predatory females, who has been around them so long that there are absolutely no illusions about the money making primacy of the entire damned business, can still be tripped up by desire and be swept away. Virgil’s sign for Hell is appropriate for the universe created by these clubs. “Abandon hope, all who enter here.” A years worth of learning hard lessons about being victimized by fantasies, several years worth, even a lifetime’s worth, can be just swept away like nothing, like a little straw on a black top highway before a Texas tornado in the span of a single second from an encounter with the right woman. The femme fatale. Very fatale. In my case, at least, I didn’t fall in love very often, but when I did, it always ended badly.

One time I had been a regular at one of those glitzy, tourist oriented private dancing bars, the kind that advertise themselves as “gentlemen’s clubs” only to stimulate even more delusional thinking among the male customers. For a while I liked the place despite its phony ambience and its cigar smoking, golf playing clientele because there was a lot of action at the bar. I would go there just to stand in a comfortable spot near the bartender while the aggressive women at this place, some of whom were unbelievably gorgeous, would parade by and occasionally stop and chat. It was a thrill for a while, but also dangerous. At this place the women took the men down for hundreds of dollars. I had to go there for drinks and voyeurism only. I had to keep my dick well tucked into my pants.

After some months of frequenting this club I grew tired of it. I decided that at that point, I really wanted to experience a different and raunchier, less glitzy, less yuppified environment. There were always other clubs around and, whenever, I needed information about them, I always asked the dancers. Because they worked at the clubs, they knew everything about them and possessed very accurate, very precise information too. I asked one of the dancers I knew where I could find a less fancy place that was also fun. She said there was really only one other place in my area to go to that was both raunchier and more fun and it was called Private Dancers. She told me that it was hard to find because it was situated in an empty, partly industrial area under an elevated highway. She said that I had to take this highway and get off at the exit just before it went up the overpass, then follow the service road around until I was under the traffic and I would find it. I followed her directions and was first put off by the desolate area where I was driving, but then I found the place. The traffic from the highway rumbled noisily overhead. It was huge with a big parking lot filled with cars. No Lexuses or Beamers. I could see several semi-trailers among the autos in the lot.

Inside the place was exactly as I had hoped. No frills. A simple stage without fake smoke, flashing lots or other stupid effects. The women wore stripper outfits but none had the kind of fancy, expensive Las Vegas touches like the other place. It was just straight ahead boobs and butts, taking your clothes off, waving your ass around and back down off the stage to make money. There was no table dancing at this club. All the action took place in the side and back areas behind smoky glass. From the first time I went to Private Dancers, I became a regular and never went anywhere else, at least for a while. I wasn’t interested, at the time, in trying to get "extras," although I heard that at this club stuff like that was happening. I just liked the in- your- face atmosphere which gave the men half a chance because the bare walls and simple stage weren't engineered to stimulate a delusional atmosphere like the more up-scale “gentlemen’s” clubs. These women were always fully capable of prodding the men into the most fatal fantasies themselves.

One night at this club I was entrenched at the bar simply content to let the entire night slip away while watching the plentiful action around the room. I was working on my fourth beer at the time and was feeling pretty loose. Blindsiding me on the right a beautiful woman appeared. She said her name was Kansas. She was comparatively tall, with a great face, blue eyes and brownish/blond hair. She was on the thin side but had a great shape. She was very pretty but that isn’t my point. When she spoke to me and at that same time, when I felt her next to me, when I connected with her presence, it was exactly like someone had rammed a high tension wire up my ass. Electricity exploded all over me, coursing along my nerves, tingling my scalp, sparking the tips of my fingers, numbing my sense of hearing and switching my gut into a turbulent spin cycle. For an instant, I couldn’t catch my breath. In that nanosecond of pyrotechnical wizardry brought on by her face and her presence, I fell totally in love in the cosmic sense.

Now being in love obviously means many things to many people. There are different kinds of encounters and everyone has had them at one time or another. Over the years I had had my share too. But, that kind of love, even love "at first sight," is not how I would describe my meeting with Kansas. I was in love with Kansas, but in my case, above everything else that went along with that deeply felt emotion, including all the common symptoms of love that we all suffer from once we are so afflicted, was one thing that I had never experienced before. When I was in her presence, when she was next to me, I was completely, totally in ecstasy. I could have devoted my entire life using drugs and religion to get to that same point. Back then, for me, it only took her presence to propel me into a physical and mental state where I felt that every cell in my body was alive and happy, where I was completely swept away by the excitement of losing myself totally, of feeling my consciousness melt away into another state of life itself. This was a cosmic connection of immense scale and depth. I didn’t have to do anything with Kansas. Just having her next to me was enough for me to have the most delirious time of my life.

Being in love with Kansas reminded me of that corny, oblique and horribly cliched expression “you complete me.” Meeting Kansas made me feel like I had been ripped in two at the moment of my birth, or, more probably way before my birth, whatever I was, whatever it meant to be a living organism on this planet with a soul, I entered this world with part of myself missing. I think now, in retrospect, that division has more to do with the soul than the body. So, a part of me, of my soul, of the soul that had been given to me, to be correct, was split, that soul was ripped in two. All my life I had been searching for something and when I met Kansas I realized that it wasn’t a thing that I had been looking for, it was the missing part of the essence that made me alive, it wasn’t a part of me, it was in both of us, I had one half, or one part, because it felt more like something that had at one time before my birth been willfully ripped apart, and she had the other part, and when she came into my presence, I could feel that other part that I had craved all my life being in her. She provided the cosmic connection, she alone healed this horrible wound that I suffered at the moment of my birth so that I felt that awesome energy from my being coming together and having its full circuits restored. That’s what it felt like when I was with Kansas. It's not just love, it was like achieving a different level of life.

Now the horrible part. As for Kansas, I was just another customer. She felt nothing. Sure she liked me. But, she liked a lot of her customers. Actually, she didn’t think very much about us as people at all. Men, to her, were just wallets. She needed to make money. She went to work at the club just to make money. She didn’t view the customers as “men” to like or dislike, as potential anythings. Her customers were just guys who helped her pay her bills. Maybe I could even say, without deluding myself, that she liked me after a time, but in her own way. Maybe I was something more to her than any other man that she did business with at the club. But, that extra bit, that thin straw, was nothing. The awful, terrible part of my experience with Kansas was the realization that she didn’t feel the cosmic connection, the pure, essential reunion of souls that I felt. Kansas didn’t feel me coming into her life in that deep down way that she came into mine. To this day, I still feel the same way about her, even though several years have past since I saw her last, and, for sure, she thinks about me not at all.