Planning strategically before going to the clubs is the best way to improve your chances of having an enjoyable lap dance experience. Knowing yourself, especially your weaknesses, is also important. Some guys drink too much, some jump at a dance when asked instead of waiting things out, some get suckered in by ugly implants just because they are huge, and, you name it. Do you know your own personal demons? If not, you aren’t prepared to meet the voracious money grubbers waiting just the other side of the club door.
Early on, when I first started frequenting titty bars, I encountered a serious problem because I could not resist the temptation of going off with a beautiful woman for a dance, I should say “dances,” and, once I did that, I spent all the money on me, no matter how much I had at the time. Resisting that kind of breakdown required strict control. Knowing my weakness, I vowed never to bring more than I was willing to spend on any given night. This was a defense mechanism I learned by resisting financial ruin during my years living in Las Vegas and gambling at the casinos. The same strategy applied at lap dancing clubs.
Last night I blew it big time. For some stupid reason I took too much money with me; more money than I could afford to spend. I had a vague idea about hooking up with a dancer for after hours sex, but, in reality, I just felt like flashing a big roll around while I concentrated on getting a good alcoholic buzz. It’s not every night that I decide to drink heavily, but last night was the exception. In the back of my mind I also wanted to be able to take advantage of whatever unexpected encounters might arise. Cruising the clubs was the best way to maximize those chances. It was also my downfall.
I started out the evening at the “same old club,” aka, The Ritz. This was a poor choice that just got compounded as the night zipped along. The Ritz is my local club; it’s the place I go to on most nights when I just want to unwind, have a few beers and chat up my favorite dancers and waitresses. Last evening I planned on having a marathon night by club hopping in search of a “special” dancer that would curl my toes and get me off. In retrospect, I should have just gone for the big time clubs in the Miami area, instead.
My visit to the Ritz started out just fine. I had a few beers, had a good conversation with my favorite waitress and joked with dancers who were my friends. I had become relaxed and ready for dealing with the fast track places on my mental list. Then, across the room, I saw “Eva,” a dancer I had connected with outside the club for a few months one year ago. I hadn’t seen her since our trysts. Eva was Czech. She had a drop dead figure, natural blond hair and big blue eyes. She always looked tanned, healthy and athletic. Once she told me that she played water polo while growing up. After a few extra- curricular meetings, during which she gave me a workout that kept me wanting more, she allowed me to meet her at her place, instead of motels. I recalled, then, how much I liked spending time with her. She was very smart, had graduated university back home, spoke five languages fluently—Czech, Slovakish, German, French and English—and several others, like Spanish and Italian, just enough to get along. During the days we had some great times in her leased Jeep Sahara barreling through the Everglades or just watching the sunset behind Ft. Lauderdale, after riding up and down near the ocean. At that moment I recalled that Eva went back home to Prague about a year ago to visit her family, and that was why I hadn’t seen her for so long.
At the same time I noticed her, she noticed me and came right over to my table. We hugged and she joined me for drinks. Of course, I realized I was now a dead man. There was no possible rescue slated for my future after being reunited with that gorgeous woman. “Dead man walking,” I thought, or, at least, “Dead man sitting with extra bucks in his pocket and getting drunk in front of knock out lap dancer.” What do you do when all hope is lost? You “go with the flow.” Certainly, it did not take long before Eva popped the question and I was being led sheepishly back into the modest VIP room of the Ritz. I wanted it. Having not seen Eva for about a year, I needed to re-connect with her, because we did have some good times together. I got my wish and I also jump started my slide towards out of control spending that night.
Eva and I had three dances together. Starting with the first she did some excellent grinding with her crotch on mine and I became rock hard. I stopped at three because there was no way to take things further. Wishing to resume our relationship, I was about to ask her if we could meet again outside the club, when she stood up, got dressed fast and informed me coldly that she had to move on because she needed to make money. I sat in our little booth dumbstruck. She added that she couldn’t spend time with me just chatting and then she was off. “What brought on such cruelty?” I wondered.
Back at my seat I ordered another beer. On my extreme left I could see Eva talking with a table of businessmen who had just stepped into the club. She was definitely entertaining them. I became supremely jealous. “What a bitch!” I thought. Then I was distracted by other nice looking dancers circulating around the room. It wasn’t hard to shift my attention.
Much later, after a few more beers, I was still sitting in the same spot and my plans for club hopping were on hold. I began to see things a little bit Eva’s way by pushing my hurt ego off to the side. She had just come back from the Czech Republic after a year’s absence and she needed to make American bucks fast. She wasn’t being cruel to me as much as she was just acting like a smart lap dancer. She anticipated that we would still be friends even after breaking off our brief encounter, trusting that I would forgive her because of the wonderful times we had before she left. Despite these insights, in my view, she was still mean. She could have explained herself better instead of leaving me to add up two and two after drinking a good six pack worth of beers with one tequila chaser that evening. “Maybe it’s because of her English as a second language problem,” I thought, giving her the full benefit of my empathy. Then I thought, “Well, screw her, anyway!” And, that was the very end of our relationship, as far as I was concerned.
From the very beginning of my lap dancing experiences, I hated that kind of cold, calculated parting that some women used to move from one customer to the next in search of quick bucks. It never left me feeling good after a dance, and, why should it? The better dancers, the ones with repeat customers, always had a way of letting you down slowly, gently, before rocketing off to plumb the wallets of other men. It was part of the total experience and the smart ones knew that, because they knew men. Eva might have a problem expressing herself in English, but, really, she wasn’t attuned to the male ego. For that reason, she would always be an exciting dancer, a great lay, but a bad businesswoman.
It took some time before I left the Ritz last night. I stuck to my table drinking for a gentle buzz to eradicate my pain. Another dancer caught my attention. She was tall, even Julie Newmar- statuesque, had dyed blond hair, big boobs and a beautiful, muscular butt. Without noticing a change in my thinking, and, despite my great strategic plan for the evening, I was now primed for another dance. I tried to get this beauty to notice me, but she didn’t. Instead, she sat down at a table directly in front of mine. Now my ego was being bruised in a different way. What torments it was possible to suffer at lap dancing clubs! As she sat talking, I noticed that she had unusually broad shoulders for a woman. “Maybe she is a body builder,” I thought, in a generous mood all of a sudden. Then she got up and went behind the DJ booth which was a sign that she would be on stage next. After being introduced, she attacked the pole and popped up and down the stage with athletic moves. I noticed more things about her. The shoulders still bothered me. They were TOO broad. She had no hips. Her ass was TOO muscular. When she took off her bra, I could tell that her implants lay highly exaggerated on her chest. “OK, OK,” I thought, “I get it!” This was not the first time I witnessed a dancer who previously was a guy that underwent a Danish operation. There was one other time. In both cases, the man/woman looked like a body builder with tits. I think it was the NO HIPS that really gave it all away. At this thought, I got up and left the place as fast as I could for a change of environment.
The next and, in reality, last club that I visited that night was one of the best in the Miami area, the “Cabaret,” or, “Tootsie’s Cabaret.” Tootsie’s is a large, glitzy club chocked full of dancers (this is not a review, but see www.lapdanceguide.com). Most of the women were relatively young, so they were good looking, even if they were slowly going to seed from drugs, or alcohol, or poor choices in men. The Cabaret was a great place to observe, but a piss poor one for a truly memorable lap dance. Why? Because there was just too much action, too much money changing hands. Still, when I was in the mood, and last night I was definitely in the mood, there were more than a handful of women from whom I enjoyed getting dances.
Every single club requires a different strategy in order to maximize your chances of hooking up with a fabulous dancer. One strategic aspect involves location or positioning. At the Cabaret I always sat at the bar. Over the years I discovered that in this club it was the best way to view the parade of women. Also, they often stopped at the bar so you could chat them up. Last night I arrived at the crest of the coupling; a poor choice of time to visit this fast track place. Still, I made the best of it by squeezing into position at the bar and ordered a beer. Within minutes several women already had stopped by asking if I wanted to visit the VIP room with them. It was tough for me to refuse their invitations, because they were all beautiful.
I resumed my drinking pace and settled into a good groove of observing and imbibing. The alcoholic buzz that I craved kicked in. Then I had one of my “ Sha- Wing!” moments. Standing in front of me was a truly gorgeous babe. Her name was Kimberly and she was stunning—long blond hair, athletic hard body, big boobs, fleshy butt, and a beautiful, beautiful face. Kim was a spectacle all by herself. I got aroused just by having her near me, in front of me, touching my knee, as I sat on the bar stool, with her bare thigh. Of course, you know the outcome of this pairing. In fact, I asked her to go in the back for dances even before she had a chance to ask me! Of course, as well, our session was purely for my benefit. I was not so deluded to think that she had any interest in me at all except as her “next customer,” despite the little, truly little, things that she said which were technically engineered to turn me on. Kim was a man- killer. In the movie, The Matrix, there were these hunter/killer tentacled things that flitted around inner space looking for the magno ships from Zion. If you were unlucky enough to run into them, you were dead meat. I ran into Kimberly that night, and I was lap dance road kill, once again.
I emerged from the VIP room with a light wallet. Only my strong realization that, après Kim, I would need to drink many alcoholic beverages at the bar in order to recover from our separation, helped prevent me from spending every last penny I had on me, not to mention signing my house and car over to her just for a few more dances. I went back and took a seat. My brain was fully buzzed by the juice of lap dance stimulation. Basically, I didn’t know where the hell I was, who I was, where I was born, where I was living at the time, etc, --- every man that has ever connected with an object of desire at a club knows the state I was in at the time. I got a nice cold beer from the bartender and tried to return to reality. When I started my evening, I had $600 in my pants, and a quick check of my finances told me I had $80 left. For that reckless time-- last night, that is-- it was still too much money for me to take home, even though it was actually hundreds of dollars more than I could afford to spend.
My beer was just about finished when another woman came over to me. This one wasn’t a hunter/killer, she was an ordinary mortal. She sat down on the vacant stool next to me and said “Hi.” Her name was Blaise. She needed a drink. I asked her what she wanted and she said “Smirnoff Ice, with a glass full of ice.” I ordered her set up and Ice. When it came she drank a long swig and folded back into a slumped posture, as if she was deadly tired. “What’s happening with you?” I asked. Taking me by complete surprise, she instantly began babbling. Beer drinking to excess, as I had done all that night, wasn’t my problem, either. I simply could not follow what she was saying, although it did strike me that she was telling me something about her night working at the club. Taking a stab at an appropriate response, not that it probably mattered to Blaise, I said, “That’s really tough.” The magic words seemed to work and off, again, she went ripping into a one way conversation. She only paused to take slugs of her drink and, soon, I had to order her another. I was now below $60; basically running on empty, pure money fumes, when it comes to being at a “gentleman’s club.”
Blaise was a sad person and I eventually adopted a brotherly response to the fractured tale she was telling. I learned, for example, that she started dancing straight out of high school, that she never got into the coke scene, that she loved to drink (she was an alcoholic, I guessed rightly), that she had little to show for her years of dancing, and, that she was having a really bad night because one of the other dancers had set her off and she started drinking seriously much too early in the evening. Throughout her babbling, it was the story about the other dancer that I could not interpret. Anyway, she certainly was tipsy by the time she collapsed on the seat next to me.
Blaise appealed to me for money. It was approaching 10:00 PM and she needed to pay her floor fee to the manager, otherwise, they wouldn’t let her come back to the club for a week. “Fifty bucks,” she said, when I asked her how much. I couldn’t resist. I gave her the money. Down to “seeds and stems,” I thought. She happily popped off her stool and told me that she would be right back. Impressively, she still had the presence of mind to ask me to watch her drink. An insidious, totally reprehensible aspect of working as a dancer, was the way some low life men slipped “date rape” drugs into the drinks of the women when they were a bit stoned and distracted. I knew several female friends, over the years, that had to take trips to the emergency room while working at the clubs. Others hit by this crime passed out in the VIP room and got robbed. At least Blaise proved she was a pro. Despite her drinking, she knew enough to have me watch her drink, and, this meant that she also trusted me. I realized then that I could probably connect with her outside the club another time, because she was bonding to me. When she came back, she reinforced my assumption by positioning herself in front of me, leaning forward and hugging me. She lingered and allowed me to caress her side. She had a nice body. She smelled good, too. Then, she kissed me on the cheek and sat back down.
After a bit, Blaise said that she had to go on stage. She asked me to watch her drink again and I said, “Yes,” and stayed, because now I could see her in action. Unfortunately, the heavy slurping had taken its toll. She acted uncoordinated. Then she yelled at some guy at the foot of the stage. Another customer yelled “Boooo!.” “This is much too painful to watch,” I thought. At that point, I wanted to leave and was resigned to calling my expensive night over, finito, genug, passé. Still, I had promised to watch her drink and I would do just that. “Damn it,” I thought. Being in the military had turned me into a big boy scout when it came to women, even if I still loved beating up guys in bar fights. Her dances on stage were just something I had to endure. When the agonizing spectacle was over and Blaise returned to her drink, I told her that I had to leave. Meekly, she said, “OK,” and I knew she was disappointed, even though her hanging out with me meant that she wasn’t making any money—a real “no, no” from the perspective of professional dancers. Then she said, “Why don’t you give me your number?” That surprised me. I actually wanted to say, “No,” but I didn’t. I knew we had connected and I guessed that, during the next days, she would still remember me fondly. She certainly was nice looking. So, I gave her my number. She entered it into her cell phone register. It took what seemed to me to be several hours. “No, not three, two, nine. Three, nine, two!” And, so on.
When I eventually got the hell out of Tootsie’s, I had four dollars and fifty cents out of six hundred bucks left in my pocket.
