lapdancing

KATRINA AND NEW ORLEANS: Lap Dancing Our Way to Hell

2005-09-08T10:56:00.004-05:00

NOTE: The following post was ripped off by "free-resource-on line" without crediting

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Do not patronize their site, please.

The devastating hurricane’s name sounds like one of those lap dancers from Eastern Europe. Now that we have experienced this one, they shouldn’t name them after people.

It’s completely common knowledge that New Orleans served as a deep dish whore house for the nation. Las Vegas used to perform that function, but the Mormon’s in Nevada placed distinct limits on sleaze. No such restrictions applied in New Orleans. For decades men went there to screw, especially to connect with black prostitutes. More recently, Mardi Gras became a reason for college coeds to “go wild.” Nineteen year old girls rode in by the bus load for the sole purpose of drinking Hurricanes on Bourbon Street, how ironic, only to eventually puke their guts out in the gutter and parade around with their tops off. Once the string of psychedelically colored beads, made by slave labor in China, was strung around someone’s neck, they understood it as a bacchanalian sign; a license to strip, suck, fuck and become less than human. Every time I visited New Orleans, the place literally reeked of body fluids; fucking and puking. As with Las Vegas, alcohol was the magic ingredient that washed away all inhibitions. Even the ancient Romans knew that trick. New Orleans was the American Rome at its most decadent time. Have another Hurricane glass full of cheap liquor!

So, was this a punishing biblical flood brought to us by God and Katrina? Not by any means, although some people have said so. It’s more like one of the things that will make up George Bush’s legacy to our country. Idiot shills for corporations running government agencies that ignore dire needs, dire warnings. People put in positions of power that lie and cheat their way through public service. All of these things come to mind when we consider how ill prepared the nation has been to meet its severe recent emergencies. Sure New Orleans was one big scene of sin-- gluttony, avarice, corruption, vanity—but don’t blame the flood on god’s vengeance. God sends a cleansing rain to rid the world of sin, not E- Coli saturated brown water filled with toxic chemicals and mutant sludge.

Now that billions of dollars have been allocated to recovery, I wonder how the priorities will be worked out over the coming months. Will they rebuild Larry Flint’s Hustler strip joint and the other lap dancing clubs in and around the old French Quarter before they put in decent low income housing? Will they engineer the traffic flow back to the brothels before fixing and improving mass transportation? Will they recreate the famous eateries and monuments to overindulgence in food and drink before they can guarantee that no one in the city goes to bed hungry? As they say in South Phili—“fogedaboudit!”

Expect to see neat contracts amounting to billions doled out to well connected construction companies, like Haliburton, and Disney style renovators. Expect to find, in the coming months, a brand new Mickey Mouse brothel packed with ghetto booty. All the sleaze, scum, and low life exploitation from the sex trade will be lovingly restored, but in newer, more simulated theme park settings. Expect the poverty of poor black folks and white trash to be replicated as well. Otherwise, who else would the pimps use for the tourist trade? The college coeds going wild were always too unreliable and could barely do one trick a night before ralphing on Bourbon Street. When they say, “New Orleans will be back,” they really mean “Poverty, Pimping, and Prostitution will be back.” Our 50 billion dollars of tax payer money will make it happen. But, don’t expect George Bush and his slime cadre to do anything about making life in our cities more livable.

GOOD CATHOLIC GENE

2005-07-25T13:32:00.000-05:00

My old friend, Gene, was raised a good catholic boy. I respect that. He was the kind of kid who went mentally ill at age eleven when he learned from the other street kids about blow jobs. Gene told me it took him years to recover from the mental image of the act and it was also the first time he faced the horrible, cold unknown of our universe. Later he would get a heavier dose of the latter when we were both in the military, but I never actually understood which trauma was worse for him. Frankly, I don’t think he ever really recovered from his childhood revelation. Pictures of screwing, in the pre- internet days, were always easy to find from “nature” documentaries. Children saw what the daddy lion did to the mommy lion and got the idea right away. But, learning the actual truth about bj’s was a matter belonging to an entirely higher dimension. Blow jobs blew Gene’s mind.

A few years ago, when I was still living in Las Vegas, Gene, now a full grown man, called and said he was coming out for a visit. When he arrived he was primed for casino gambling, just as any other gulled tourist. He had read up on poker and blackjack strategy for weeks. He had his money management scheme all worked out in his head. And, he had researched the best casinos for table games. Meeting him at the airport, and hearing his plans in detail for the first time, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I didn't give two shits for gambling. My life, at the time, centered on the lap dancing clubs. In fact, just a month before Gene’s arrival, I had broken up with a dancer from the Olympic Gardens. She had been surprisingly faithful and she caught me with another woman who also worked there. When it came to dating dancers outside the clubs, I had no will power at all.

I let Gene twist in the wind for a few days losing money steadily while he occasionally wondered what had become of his Las Vegas gambling fantasy. That’s the delusion that all visitors have about Sin City and it’s the hardest hallucination to let go. Yes, gambling visitors to Las Vegas are certifiably insane! Deep down, I mean, at the bottom of their life’s core, they really do believe all the commercials that show those deliriously happy people winning big at black jack or craps. Gambling success is the moment of triumph that Americans covet most. Forget Lance Armstrong and his seven Tour de France victories. Big shit! Screw that sweat! Successes in biking, golf or tennis, are a mere bagatelle compared to lucking out at a table game with the impeccably gorgeous waitresses from the TV commercials at your side (actually they are all chain smoking old ladies who push the money carts through the crowds on the casino floor while farting). Gene, like all the other losers gambling in Vegas, truly believed those vivid advertisements about a paradise on earth where money could be had without actually working for a living.

Near the end of his stay, I popped the question. “Hey, Gene,” I said in my most nonchalant way, “How about skipping gambling for this evening and coming with me, instead, to a nudie bar?” For all I could tell, I might just as well have mentioned a trip to Antarctica; the idea really was that foreign to him. “Nudie bar?????” he replied, with one of those severe grimaces of disgust on his face. “Yeah,” I countered, “you’ll have some fun for a change.” Gene still didn’t get it. He was locked in to his gambling mode and willing to spend the last nickel he had on a chance at winning some real wealth. What could he possibly do at a lapdancing club, he must have wondered. So, I had to spell it out for him. “Look,” I said, “here’s the scoop. At the titty bars there are these incredibly hot women and you can pay them to take their tops off while they sit on your lap and rub against you in time to the music.” Gene’s reaction to my description was very much like the one to the wise eleven year old who clued Gene in when he was a kid about bj’s. Of course, Gene, knew about lapdancing. Give me a break! I don’t have stupid friends. He had seen the TV shows and movies. He had heard other guys talk about it. He even knew that Vegas was crawling with sex industry workers. All of these things, Gene knew and understood. However, Gene, as the good Catholic boy, now lapsed because he no longer believed in a god at all, but that is another story, was not capable of imagining “lapdancing.” His brain short circuited at the very thought of a woman, any woman, made in the image of Mary, mother of Jesus, willing to expose her breasts while riding on top of a strange man, despite the fact that the guy was fully clothed. This lapdancing arrangement was simply something that Gene refused to acknowledge; just as the idea of a blowjob was also too much for his brain to handle.

Desperately seeking to alter his behavior for the better, I told him that I would pay for him and that, if he didn’t like it, I would drop him off at the casino of his choice. That did it, and we were off.

The real challenge I faced was deciding which club to take the virgin. Frankly, I didn’t want him to screw up my chances at scoring, if, by the very slim odds that existed, I managed to get lucky that night. I could, for example, play it safe and take him to one of the really tame clubs on the Strip, like the Olympic Gardens. But, then I realized that my ex would be working there. Although I didn’t want to, at first, I decided to take him to Cheetahs, since it was a fast track club and it was also a place I went where I wasn’t serious about the women, i.e., where I couldn’t take the women seriously. They were too young with nothing really to say and too drug addled. In contrast, I certainly wouldn’t take him to my favorite club, Crazy Horse II, because it would be an embarrassment. Of course, there were other options, but Cheetahs was a good bet for the evening. The heavy chested, young babes, despite all the coke sniffing, would definitely blow the Pontiff’s brain. That was a sight I wanted to witness.

Cheetahs is one large rectangular room. It has a stage running almost the entire length of one wall with three poles that could accommodate that many dancers, if necessary. Against the other wall was the bar which was about as long as the stage. Directly in front of the bar, just after the chairs and a slim aisle, they had placed two thin stages with poles. The VIP room was against the short- sided wall. It was narrow at both ends and long. On the opposite side, at the entrance to the club, there were pool tables and some chairs for dancers to hang out with “special” customers.

Any male wanting to make the most out of a night’s lapdancing experience should understand the role of space or location in a club. Good times depend on it. Most men, in their more typical “dick for brain” mode, simply walk into a nudie bar and sit down at the first available seat. This idiotic move fits the other one of going off with the first available dancer. Yet, psyching out the club’s space ranks with psyching out the women themselves. And, every club is different because their geometry and crowd behavior is different. Whenever I went to Cheetahs, I always sat at the bar. That was because the women were voracious. Just as a school of Piranhas tackle food, they could devour huge quantities of male money every hour. They sifted through the crowd systematically and hit hard. Once they entered this club, like Dante’s fellow travelers, male customers never had much of a chance.

Thinking strategically, which meant in Gene’s case keeping him as far away from the dancers as possible so that he wouldn’t skittishly bolt, I chose two chairs at the far end of the wall almost at the corner with a side view of the stage. When the waitress came over I ordered Gene his favorite beer. I had a shot of tequila with a beer chaser just to take the edge off of the evening. It wasn’t long before my buddy had a big shit eating grin on his face. In fact, he stopped talking to me all together and became mesmerized by the action on the stage. At that point, I figured I had done my good deed for the day and settled in to observe the club scene. I did repeat my offer about paying for a lap dance if Gene wanted one, but he could no longer hear me.

Several dancers stopped by even though we were clearly on the periphery for a reason. I let Gene do the talking and, once he got an opening, like the woman asking him where he was from, he rapidly blurted out his life story. All the years that had past when he couldn’t get a decent woman to listen to his personal experiences and feelings, spilled over in a flood of non- stop self- indulgence. Watching the spectacle I thought that what Gene was doing was also probably typical of many men who visited the clubs. They just wanted a non-threatening woman to talk to. Gene certainly did! The first recipient of his one way therapy session grew a very pained expression on her face. I laughed to myself when I saw it and watched carefully because I knew she would run at the very first opportunity. Sure enough, when Gene paused, just at the juncture in his life between discharge from the Marines and adjusting to civilian life, this dancer literally vanished, as if beamed up by Scotty himself.

A few more dancers came by with almost the same results. It seemed that Gene didn’t much care about not capturing a woman who would stick with him from the beginning to the end of his story, i.e., from birth through adolescence to that very evening. He was happy just to talk to a beautiful babe without possessing a clue that he was actually supposed to ask her to go for a dance. Finally, I had to remind him. I made my offer again. He leaned towards me and whispered that he simply couldn’t do it. “Maybe, if I came back here again and prepared myself, I might be able to go lapdancing, but I can’t do it now.” Then he added out of desperation, “Please don’t put me on the spot. I can’t do it!” Being totally sympathetic, I asked him if he wanted to leave. With immense energy he quickly responded, “Oh, no!!!! I really like it here.” Then, he added, “Let’s just sit for a while. I promise you that the next time we come here, I will have lots of lapdances.” Then he ordered a new round of drinks for us. Significantly, he took the money he had set aside for gambling and was eagerly displaying it now. “Maybe he will go for dances, yet” I thought.

About a half hour later there was a slight commotion to my left, towards the entrance to the club. I didn’t pay it much attention. A few minutes later, one of the beefy, shaved head bouncers came by and told us that we would have to leave that section of the floor. I asked him why. He said that Rod Stewart was in town and he was coming over with his “entourage.” They needed to make room for Rod. Now, revealing the truth, I have a short temper. Almost all the time I keep it well under control and my years of kung fu training help. After leaving the Marines, I also had some therapy for the problem so that I could hold on to a job. Anyway, I instantly got pissed off at this bouncer and the thought of having to disrupt the happy Gene for some asshole has- been singer. Keeping control of my emotions, I devised a strategic rap. I told the bouncer that I was with my buddy who had just been discharged with war wounds from the VA hospital and that we weren’t going to stay very long. I then suggested that we move our chairs even closer in to the corner so that Mr. Stewart and his “entourage” would not be physically constrained by our presence. The bouncer agreed and we moved our chairs.

Even though we were now pushed into the corner, barely able to see the edge of the stage, we were not out of sight of the lovely ladies working that night. Slowly, slowly they dripped by only to be frightened away by the look in Gene’s eyes or, more likely, by his eagerness to chat. As for me, I had to stay close to Gene in case he freaked out, so I didn’t even think about getting dances. Just as well. Cheetahs was not my favorite place for dances. The women bounced on your lap, rubbed their implants on your chest and then held their hands out for cash before they moved on and without trying to chitty- chat. I had hung out at Cheetahs for days and days, when I lived in Vegas, but I always found it to be a cold place.

At about 10:30 there was another, much bigger commotion to my left. Rod Stewart and his entourage had arrived. Rod, himself, took up residence at the opposite end of the row from where we sat. The bouncers had pushed tables together at that end and the waitress had already brought out the first bottles of Crystal even before most of the people had sat down. I saw some skinny guys with Rod who I assumed were in his band. Dressed in suits and lurking slightly back from this bunch were a couple of WWF meat heads, who I took to be the Rod’s body guards. There were also women that had come along for the ride and they sat in between the skinny guys. They were skinny, too, but pretty; more model types than dancers. Finally there was an assortment of rather ordinary looking guys who were with the entourage. I guessed that they might have been roadies, techies, or just “friends of Rob.” In all there were over twenty people stretching from just beyond my left arm to near the entrance of the club with a big sheltered space in the middle where Rob and the champagne sat.

When I turned back to Gene, I couldn’t stop laughing. If people really could pop their eyes out from surprise, then he would have. With a dropped jaw, drool at the edge, bulging, unblinking eyes, and a statue stiff stare, Gene was clearly in another life zone entirely. He was handling the scene well simply because he was obviously catatonic. If I smashed a bottle over his head, I knew then that he would feel absolutely no pain.

The best part of the evening, the legendary part, was yet to come. It commenced about ten minutes after the entourage had settled down. They were swarmed over by lapdancers like flies on shit. The single guys closest to us were the first to leave with the women. They just disappeared. Not very long after that two of the dancers came over to Gene and I. One gorgeous young blond with a well toned butt asked me if I was with Rod. Before Gene could say “no,” and launch into his life story again, I shot back a resounding “yes.” Then I asked the woman for a dance. At that very moment, I sincerely admit that I simply abandoned Gene. The situation was just too good to goof up. I would certainly die for my buddy, but this little bit was something entirely different. It was now every one for themselves. As I followed the nice ass into the VIP room, I told her that she could take as long as she wanted because the entire tab was on Rod. “Of course,” she said. “Who else!” Then she added, “But, can you introduce me afterwards.” “Noooooo problem,” I assured her already completely alive to the evenings prospects.

Back at our chairs, Gene was entertaining two ladies. They sat rapt while he told them his life story. They didn't flee because he was a "friend of Rod's" now. Suddenly Gene realized that Jesus loved him.

Lapdancing: OUT OF CONTROL

2005-07-09T13:10:00.000-05:00

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.

Lapdancing: HOW I GOT TO BE FIT

2005-07-01T12:45:00.000-05:00

Two years ago, on a particularly hot summer day in South Florida, I went to The Ritz, aka, “same old place,” in the late afternoon. I arrived at a little after 6:00 PM and decided to sit at the bar because, that day, I was much more interested in just having a few cold beers than a hot lap dance. Even from this vantage point, I was still able to be stimulated by the parade of boobs and butts both on stage and also circulating around the room. There were only a few dancers working that day, about six or so. It was hard to tell exactly how many, because some women were always tucked away in the lap dancing areas either dancing with customers, smoking, talking with other dancers, or recovering emotionally from a "day at the office."

I settled in at the bar making myself comfortable on a stool and I ordered a shot of tequila with a beer chaser just to get me buzzed out quickly so that I could then relax. I noticed that there were a few women working the place who were regularly picking guys off and taking them up to the lap dancing areas one at a time. There was a woman with lovely long, straight blond hair and a terrific body, just like a Playboy fantasy of a "California girl," who was lap dancing with one guy, and, as soon as she finished and got her money, another man, who had been waiting in the wings, came over, passing the first guy, and she hopped on him. I looked hard but couldn't tell whether this woman had implants, but she sure was making lots of money, a perfect "bunny" fantasy-- wet dream for the working class. For a brief moment, I thought of joining the queue, then snapped out of it with a reminder to myself that I needed to drink cold beer and cut my expenses.

I noticed a brunette who also had her male harem stacked up like planes circling O'Hare. She had huge hanging breasts but it was because she was fat, a real plumper. “No thanks,” I thought to myself, “I’ll pass on that one.” As I observed longer, I became aware of the fact that several of the men were having six, seven, eight or more dances with these women. I mean, that's almost $200. So, some guys came there and spent weekly wages. Anyway, I was standing at the bar and wondering why there were so few dancers in the room at the time, compared with the other night, when the waitress walked by and I decided to ask her about it. She told me that it was slow that day, but that I should stick around because the "night shift" would be coming on at around 7:00. "The night shift?" I asked. "Well, yeah!" she said, "There's a day shift and a night shift and the girls usually just work one or the other." At that time, two years ago, I was relatively new to the lap dance club phenomenon. Questions were always important to ask in order to get oriented.

Every time I went to the clubs, it seemed, I always learned something new during those days. That was one reason why I became a regular at the Ritz—just to go to a place where I felt comfortable and where I knew some of the dancers. According to this waitress, there were definitely set hours for the women to work and the girls had to sign up and pay money to the owner in order to be on the floor for each of the shifts. This kind of regulation of the dancer schedule was done without negotiation and at the discretion of club policy. To be sure, lap dancers had no union, nor any say in orchestrating their hours. Another time one woman told me that, if she left early, the club owner would fire her, but that was at a definitively high powered place in Miami. The Ritz is supposed to be more casual. Still, when it came to controlling the dancers, it was as strict as any other club. Being a lap dancer was like factory work except that you wore a cooler uniform and could drink alcohol and take drugs while on the job. Oh, on second thought, factory workers did the latter things, too. The nice waitress then added. "Stick around until later and you will see many more dancers coming in here."

So, I figured that at 7:00 things might change for the better and, if I were sufficiently lubricated, I might have a dance or two. The time before last when I also came to this club it was at night and the place was jammed with lots of action, so I was confused. At that moment it seemed hard to believe that the same thing would happen that day. While I was trying to figure all this out, a very attractive woman entered the club and walked over to where I was sitting at the bar. She was dressed in street clothes, but I could see that she had a great ass and hefty breasts. Also, she looked very young. To my surprise, she just settled in on the stool next to mine and stared out at the stage. I waited a few minutes looking at her, then looked around to see why she was there, and then looked at her again. She didn't turn towards me, but acted cool, instead. She kept her eyes on the stage. Finally, I couldn't take her silence and I began talking to her. "Hey! You come here to see the women dancers? You like watching women nude?" She laughed out loud at my remark thrusting her head slightly forward. Then she turned to me and said, "No, silly. I actually work her." She sounded so definitive. I smiled back at her, she was so pretty, with a cute face and long reddish blond hair. I found myself falling in love again, damn-it!!! Then she said, "My shift doesn't start until after 7:00, but I came early." She then told me that she worked freelance and that, because she wasn't a regular, the club charged her $50 for each shift. So, although she came early, she didn't want to suit up right away, because she would have to pay them $50 and it was already 6:30. "They would make me pay another $50 after 7:00," she said.

Her name was "Terri," and she told me that it was her "real name" not her stage name. Terri was from a rural town in Alabama. “Alabama, I asked surprised, “What the hell are you doing here?" She laughed very hard in response. "Well my sister is a dancer here and she told me the money is real good." "Who's your sister?" I asked. "Oh, she's in the back somewhere. She's tall and has one tattoo on her breast and another on the back by her shoulder." The waitress came by again and I asked Terri if she wanted a drink. She said, "Oh, sure," and ordered a beer. "Alabama" I said again in amazement, just to keep her amused.

Terri told me that her sister has been a lap dancer for five years. She started at 14 after she ran away from home. "How could she do nude dancing that young?" I asked. "Oh. That's not the only thing she does," she said with a tinge of irony in her voice. "She's really tall and she lied about her age." Terri then said, "And you know what? She spent her whole life lap dancing and she doesn't have jack shit to show for it!" "How come?" I asked. "Well, she takes a lot of drugs. She burns up all her money on things like coke and weed and she gets ripped off by bad boyfriends." I understood what Terri said but couldn't quite imagine it. Her sister had spent all that time, her whole life, as Terri said, working at nude dancing bars and didn't have anything saved or invested. "She must be a real low-life," I said. "Yeah, that's true," Terri said, shaking her head but also laughing softly at my remark. She then looked at me and smiled. I melted. I was out of control again and at the mercy of this teenager who could easily be my daughter. Despite all my precautions and pep-talks, I found myself emotionally charged and in love again.

Reaching out like a drowning man at my one salvation, my strategic goals for controlling the lap dance experience, I told Terri that, when she started working, I wanted to have some dances with her, but I also had to know about her rules. She told me that there would be no touching below the waist allowed, but I could touch her “every place else.” She also said, "No licking or kissing." I immediately came to my senses at that point, surprising myself. I thought, "Gee, I really only want to have sex with her. I'm so turned on." I didn't follow up the conversation by asking further about whether she would bend her rules for more money, because I was no longer sure I actually wanted to have a dance with her. At that moment, I was much more interested in trying to have a relationship with her, as if I had met her someplace else like an ordinary bar or at the mall; someplace out in public. In short, at that point in the conversation, I was already DOOMED, I was lost and under her spell with the one thing that I feared most about being at the clubs—I now had a dick for a brain. “Ok,” I managed to squeak out as I stared at her beautiful face. Then she changed the subject and said that she wanted to lie down for a while before the shift change. I watched her walk away with a beer in her hand towards the couches at the other end of the club. Her booty really filled out her tight jeans. Then I watched her pick a vacant couch and lie down. Now, I was surely lost. I didn't know what to do. I was in love and conflicted. My insistence on trying to control the lap dance encounter had brought me more pain, not less.

A few minutes later a tall, stringy blond woman with a tattoo on her left breast walked over to me at the bar. She introduced herself as Terri's sister, "Star." I could tell right away that Star was totally screwed up. She was burned out, too skinny and her hair was bleached to death. When she spoke, she was ditzy, as if she was already stoned out of her mind. "How can a nice, sweet person like Terri have such a messed up sister?" I wondered. Star said, "Buy me a beer." Just like that. I wanted to tell her to ***** off, but I said, “OK,” with considerable tolerance in my voice just in case Terri might hear about it later. I then said, "You know, I really like your sister. I like her a lot." "Well, why don't you have a lap dance with her?" she asked. "Maybe I will," I answered, "If she behaves herself, emphasis on the 'behaves'." What I meant by that was, of course, if she became flexible about her rules, but the reference was so veiled, Star didn't know what I really meant. Nevertheless, she found the way I said it funny, and she laughed. I started to feel uncomfortable with Star hanging around me, because she looked like such a low life. Thankfully, she bumbled off and went in the back to her sister. I saw her flop down on the same couch where Terri was lying and talk to her. "She's probably dissing me right now," I thought.

It was now after seven and I noticed that both Terri and her sister had disappeared somewhere. Then, I saw Terri exiting from the back dancer's locker room and walking over to me at the bar wearing a day-glow, lime green, itsy bitsy, thong bikini. She looked like a live, erotic doll wrapped up as a present. She just came right over and stood next to me without saying anything. I could tell easily now that she, in fact, had a great pair of bonkers, large for her size figure, but perfectly arced. "Hi, Terri," I said. "You look real sassy," saying "sassy" the way Jim Carey said it in his film, The Mask. She laughed and smiled at me. She then took my hand and led me towards the back area.

Terri was very happy. We went over to a couch way in the corner that could not be seen from the bar area. I sat down and she stood directly in front of me smiling. She had a fabulous body. When the next song started she took off her top right away. I could see that she had white skin with freckles. Her nipples were little pink gems. She danced for a while standing straight up and then, with a smile on her face, she leaned forward placing one breast against my mouth. I kissed it as she quickly pulled back. I then reached behind her and grabbed both her cheeks and pulled her more towards me. She entered the V that I made with my legs and I closed them while embracing her with my thighs. I gave her a big smile; she laughed and said, "Wow. You're really ready for me, aren't you." I held her tight.

Terri was real buff. I asked her if she worked out and she told me that she did aerobics and "some light work with free weights." "Well. You look great," I said. "How about you?" she asked poking her fingers into my pecs. "No. I don't really do much, except swim in the pool at my condo complex." Terri told me that she was 18. "So," I thought, "she actually is a teenager!" She said that she had wanted to do lap dancing like her sister, but didn't want to be like her sister, so she waited until after graduating from high school. "I'm real proud of myself," she said, "I finished high school." Immediately after graduation, she hit the road and finally caught up with her sister in Atlanta. "Why did you decide to do lap dancing?" I asked. She was a long way from home and was such a young, little girl to be out hanging around in these clubs. "Well the money is great," she said. "I can make $300, $400 a night!" I couldn't help it and said, "Wow!" I was impressed. "What do you do with all that cash?" I asked. "I just bought a car. It's brand new. No one my age back home has something like that!", she said proudly. "I'm also saving up to buy a condo in Ft. Lauderdale. I love the beach." "That sounds like a good idea to me," I told her. "So, you don't want to go back home to Alabama?" I asked, just joking around. "I'm never going back there," she chuckled.

Terri was giving me a fabulous lap dance. She moved when I told her to and took different positions so I could play with her body. She turned around with her back facing me and pressed her beautiful, baby-fat butt into my groin. She let me kiss her when I couldn’t help control the urge. I had been nibbling on her neck just below the hairline and I tried to position myself so that I could kiss her on the lips, but she turned away. I liked playing with her hair, it was such a pretty color; blondish red. After the third dance, I told her to keep going and she was so delighted. We started to grind in earnest. She positioned herself directly on my lap. Ever since the beginning of our dances, I was very hard and I remained that way. I held onto her hips pushing her down into me. I thrust my pelvis up and down and she stayed with me. She pushed in and twisted and moved to the left, then to the right, and all the time she kept her body pressed into my lap.

Terri and I had five dances by the time I told her I wanted to quit. Actually by the fourth dance, she had already worked up a sweat and by the fifth her skin, which I had first marveled at because it was so soft yet buffed, was now all clammy and wet from perspiration. So, after five dances, it was time to stop. She collapsed on the couch next to me, huffing and puffing, and said, "I always do that. When I have more than three dances, I always perspire like a sick drunk." I laughed. She said, "Let's not leave for a while. Let's talk." I was thrilled by her comment. "How do you like Florida?" I asked. "Oh. Its just great," she said still panting a little. I told her I didn't know much about Miami, but always liked to go to South Beach. I then found myself turning the conversation towards trying to get to see her outside the club. This was not what I was supposed to do according to the agreement I made with myself that year. I was supposed to think strategically and keep from falling in love. I was supposed to be ruthless and calculating in obtaining exactly the kind of lap dance I wanted, which I certainly did. But, then I was not supposed to obsess, I had promised myself that I was going to let go after the dance, something I could never do before. I was going to be just like the lap dancers themselves, and call it over when it was over after getting what I wanted. I tried hard. I really did. Except with Terri, I had no chance. We were having too much fun. I loved her company. We talked as if we had known each other for a long time. Later I would have many experiences just like that one. Specifically, I would wind up at some club with only a vague desire to get a lap dancing fix for that day. Many times, I satisfied my addiction through the company of an attractive, but very workman like dancer. Occasionally, however, I would walk into a club on no special day with only limited needs in mind and discover an incredibly gorgeous and desirable woman working there that I had never seen before. These special events turned an ordinary occasion into something magical.

Blissfully, once again, I fell in love. I was filled with desire for Terri and would have abandoned all my other attachments right there just to remain with her. I suggested that she consider meeting me in Miami so that we could explore the city together. "Let's get together during the day," I said, "and you can still get to work at night." At first she liked the idea. She said, "Yeah. That would be fun. We could go to the beach and then eat at a Cuban restaurant," she said. I was so thankful for the way she was actively participating now that it was easy and, of course, appropriate to lie to her. I hung around South Beach all the time. Yet, I told her that I had never been there, had heard a great deal about it and that I would love to take her there. Then she suddenly became quiet and said, "Well. Let's talk about it. I need a drink now. Why don't I go to the bathroom and freshen up and then meet you back at the bar for a drink." I told her "fine," and she said I should order her a beer. She then got up. I said, “Hey, you forgot your money!” I took $100 from my pocket and gave it to her. Her smile returned as she stuffed the bills into her purse and she ran off to the bathroom.

I went over to the bar and decided to sit at a table near where we first stood. The chairs at the tables were more comfortable. After a while she returned all squeaky clean with a big smile on her freckled face. Despite her big boobs and full backside, she was still slightly built. Proportioned but petite. Her reddish blond hair glowed in the light. We started making small talk again. Then she said, "You know, I just started doing this, and I need to keep working for a while." "Here it comes," I thought, "the same old line that I've heard so many times before." I just knew what she was going to say and I dreaded hearing her say it after the wonderful time that we just had. Yet, I also knew very well that I deserved to hear her reject me. I had crossed over the line, a line I constructed for myself in order to emotionally survive the lap dance scene. I had vowed not to get psychologically involved with the dancers. I had vowed to be ruthless in my control over the encounter. All my vows were for naught. Terri made me fall in love with her just by being who she was. I was lost, a victim, lap dance road kill. I deserved my fate.

She said that she would love to spend a day with me in Miami, BUT she was going to be very busy for some time trying to make money. "I knew it. I knew it," I thought bitterly. Then Terri added another thought that was truly pure rejection and a response for which I was not prepared. "And, you know, there's also something else. There's a real difference in our ages and I don't think I'm ready for that." Well after I heard what she said, she just might as well have taken a gun out and shot me in the head. She really should have just killed me first before saying anything about "ages." I was so completely devastated that I choked up. I fought hard to keep tears from coming to my eyes. Of course, I realized that I was 38 and she was 18, but it never occurred to me that this would make a difference. How dumb could you get? What was I thinking? Yet, her response blindsided me and I broke apart.

Had I known better, I wouldn't have said anything about the dreaded subject of “age” after that. But, her statement caught me so completely by surprise that I couldn't help being defensive. Unfortunately for me, I then said, "Oh, well I'm really not that old," with a sarcastic tone. In as a matter-of-fact-way as possible she said, "You're about as old as my father, he's 36." Actually I was two years older than her father, but by calling it to my attention, she made it impossible for me to say anything else. I was DOOMED.

I sat there for a while staring at the stage. A great wave of sadness washed over me. I looked down at my beer and realized I was becoming hopelessly depressed. She sensed the change in my mood and took some responsibility for it. "I'm sorry," she told me, "I just have difficulty with the age thing." She said it again and without realizing it, mocked me. I said, "Well I guess I'll never see you again." "Oh. Don't say that. I'll still probably be coming down to this club, if the money is good. Come back and see me." At this point I couldn't help giving in to my emotions. I said, "Well. I'm feeling very sad now. I really enjoyed our dance. Too bad we can't get together in Miami. It would have been fun." She just said, "Yeah," agreeing with me. But, that wasn't what I wanted to hear. "Well. I'm going to leave right now," I said, and I got up and left.

I drove home devastated. I was numb. Entering my condo, I stumbled into my room and flopped down on my bed and jerked around in the throes of agony until I eventually fell asleep. The next day, I recalled the previous night's events. Life had dealt me a low blow to my ego. Just when I had figured out the very best strategy for lap dancing and, in my moment of triumph, when I had strongly taken command of the actual encounter with a dancer of choice before and during the dance, transcending the lap dance situation and all its constraints, Terri's response to my advances proved nearly fatal. I had a thrilling lap dance with her and she satisfied all my wishes, except, perhaps not allowing me to kiss her on the lips. Still, that aside, I had a fabulous time asserting myself. Then my ego was smashed to pieces. The very worst thing any woman that I liked could say to me was said. Had I been called fat, smelly, farty, ugly, unattractive, buggy, and obnoxious, a drag, a jerk, an asshole, or any other explicit adjective, I could have recovered. I had a thick skin for direct insults. Still, I also had a sensitive soul and that's exactly where the barbed spear of her remark about age landed. Terri scored a bull's- eye where it hurt me the most.

In the throes of a deep depression, unable to do any work myself, I sat there the next day crying inside. Life had passed me by. At 38, I was too old. My age was showing. Terri had opened my eyes to a reality that I had chosen to ignore. I wasn't just too old for her, but also for all the other dancers everywhere. Correct that, what Terri had revealed to me by her simple remark was not that I was too old, because that just involves a person's chronological age, but that I looked too old. My core problem was that I looked my age. What a horrible thought that was!!!! Still, it turned out to be an important revelation.

During all that day, a spell of intense humiliation held me in such a tenacious grip that I remained paralyzed, unable to move from my chair, unable even to answer the phone. My depression was too dark, too strong and too physically debilitating for me to respond to the ordinary stimuli of everyday life. I sat there, in the condo kitchen, holding a cup of coffee but not drinking, trying hard not to think about the horrific reality of being 38 years old and looking exactly my age to gorgeous young lap dancers. Then, after a long while, the dark depression in my brain slowly lifted like a lake fog in late morning. I began to focus on my revelation rather than Terri’s rejection.

Thinking about Terri the day after broke my heart because I couldn't bear not seeing her again. Once I made that connection, I acquired some distance from the painful hurt, and I realized that she had given me a challenge. It was simple, in a way. I had to work on my appearance so that I wouldn't look my age! That very day, I devised a plan. The first thing I would do was join a health club. I chose I place not too far from my condo complex. The representative at the club gave me a sales pitch about different options and I could have even shopped around at other places for alternative deals, but I had come there in great need. It was very much like the way I went to the lap dancing clubs. In both cases, I was simply primed to pay. So, because of my new frame of mind, I was in and out of the health club with my one year contract within a half hour.

The second thing I did occurred to me on the drive home after signing up. I looked in the rear view mirror and caught a glimpse of my hair back lit by the car's windows. "Of course, of course," I thought to myself in a moment of satori. My hair was turning gray! "I have friggin gray hair!," I said shaking my head because of my gross stupidity. In my defense, I didn't exactly have gray hair, I just had "graying" hair, gray hairs between hairs that still retained their color. My hair was light brown. If I had black hair, I would possess that salt and pepper look that many people found distinguished, like Richard Gere or Bill Clinton. Because of the light color of my hair, however, I hadn't noticed the increasingly large numbers of individual gray stalks that had been invading my scalp since my early thirties, especially around my temples. Thankfully, the rear view mirror and that curious back light had intervened to show me a revelation. The gray hair invasion, that insidious plot, was now exposed. Before going to my home, I drove immediately to the local pharmacy and bought a box of men's hair dye. I discovered an assortment of brands but they all promised "younger looking hair" in roughly five minutes. "What could be easier," I thought.

That evening I was a happy man again. I was looking forward to a shower before bed when I would use the hair dye. I had purposely bought a light shade. My goal was not to look like I dyed my hair, but to color the gray so subtly that I would recapture the appearance of my youth, or, at least, of my late twenties. The prospect made me very happy. I colored my hair and took the shower. When it was over I looked fine, the insidious gray seemed to be gone and I looked ten years younger, although it was a little hard to tell because by then it was dark and I stood beneath the glare of artificial light. Nevertheless I admired myself in the mirror. "Dyeing my hair could very well be the turning point of my life," I thought.

The next morning, Saturday, I awoke and was very excited. I jumped out of bed and went back into the bathroom to admire last night's work. The stuff had actually worked. My hair was a uniform medium brown with some red overtones. Thankfully, it all looked real. "That little friggin package was right," I thought. I got rid of the offending gray hairs. Now I looked younger. "Screw Terri," I thought, "I'll happily settle for looking 28 or 30." Still I knew that dying my hair was only a partial response to my crisis. I also had to work out. In fact, I had to bust my ass with weights, cardio exercise and diet in order to get myself buffed, and that took time. There were no quick fixes there. I vowed to go to the health club that day and everyday until I actually began to see some results. Terri’s rejection of me became my motivation. I knew she wasn’t being bitchy or cruel, just honest and that was the greatest incentive I had to change my appearance. Still, I vowed that the next time a dancer poked me in the pecs, as Terri had done, she would find them ROCK HARD.

After working out just that first day, I became functionally deluded again. I decided that I would go back to The Ritz that night and catch Terri at work. I would then let her see the new me, or, at least, my new hair, and ask her again about meeting me in Miami. I felt certain that she would notice that I was younger because of my dyed hair, and, also, because we were now friends, she would be in a more receptive frame of mind. Pathetic! What was I thinking???? See how easy it is to be deluded when it comes to dealing with dancers?

I wanted to catch Terri late, because Saturday night was a human zoo at the clubs. People were jammed into the bars, drunks were all around and the girls were making money hand over fist. I knew that I couldn't get a sympathetic hearing from Terri under those circumstances. There would be just too many distractions. Instead, I needed to wait until the club thinned out somewhat, late, towards closing. Then I could speak with her under more leisurely conditions, when she would have also made her nightly quota of bucks and be more relaxed.

At 11:00 PM I rocketed out of the house and headed to the highway that would take me back to the Ritz. Steering carefully, I glanced into the rear view mirror and examined my new hair approvingly. I began to recall the previous time with Terri. I remembered that she told me she came from a completely dysfunctional family. Her parents had her sister when her mother was 16 and her father 17. Her mother had died when she was 10. Her father was an alcoholic who sexually abused her older sister. That was why she ran away from home at 14. Terri said that her father screwed up so badly at jobs when she was young that she was sent by him as a child to be raised by his mother. It was only then, Terri said, that she had a somewhat normal home life. Now I began to understand why my looking as old as her father might have set off some emotional baggage that torpedoed our relationship. "It was the association with her father, rather than my age that did me in," I thought.

She mentioned that the hardest part of living with her grandparents was not being able to rely on them for advice when she got older and started interacting in the high school social scene. She was an uncomfortable and conflicted adolescent and she always got old fashioned and irrelevant advice from her grandmother, even though Terri liked her grandparents as parents. She told me that once she secretly bought some bikini underwear. One day her grandmother rummaged through her room looking for things to wash and found it. Later she confronted Terri with only the best intentions but with a genuine sadness in her voice that could not disguise her fears for Terri's rapid maturation into a woman. After that, all through the later years in high school, Terri told me, she planned that, come graduation, she would leave and get the hell out of Alabama, forever.

I reached the club about 11:30. There was still almost two hours to go before it closed. When I entered I saw immediately that zoo night had hardly abated. The place was packed. There were at least 300 men in the room, maybe even more. The music was incredibly loud as was all the chatter. A thick smog of cigarette smoke obscured my view. In thinking about it, the old writer's cliché came to mind-- it was a scene that "assaulted the senses." The irritating air smacked me in the nose at the entrance. People and beer bottles were everywhere. The noise was unbelievable. Two separate stages were operating with a dancer on each one. Groups of guys were seated all around yelling and hooting as loud as they could. I passed college guys with shaved heads and chin whiskers wearing sweatshirts and baseball caps turned backwards. Most had that vacant stare that comes with too much beer. They hulked around and stumbled like zombie football players at a festive voodoo ritual. It was friggin scary!

I couldn't get near the bar. So much noise and confusion kept me off balance. I chose to hover in the aisle between the bar and some tables. This location required that I dodge people coming and going like waitresses with heavy trays holding beers and assorted drunks as well as half nude dancers. Somehow I managed and tried to blend in. A crowd like that was very forgiving and I had no trouble controlling my small space while I searched for Terri. She seemed nowhere around. I looked at all the lap dancing couches carefully examining each one in turn. No Terri. I observed the dancers as they worked the crowd, no Terri. She wasn't on stage. I concluded that she was:

a) backstage waiting to go on;

b) in the bathroom (where she might remain for hours);

c) at home or gone (the most dreaded option).

Then, as part of the automatic random movements of my head that came from my anxious search procedure, I happened to turn to my left and look down at the tables along one end of the room. And, there she was!!! She was in street clothes. In fact, she was bending down and tying her shoes. Startling me, I noticed that she looked really tiny. She had a bag next to her and she stuffed some things into it with one hand while she positioned her shoe with the other. I walked over to her and stood slightly behind her. I leaned over and said in her ear, "How about a lap dance?" She looked up and saw me. I smiled but it seemed to me that she didn't know how to react at first, although she certainly recognized me right away, and then she smiled too. "Oh. You're too late," she said. "I'm leaving. I'm getting out of here." "Where are you going?" I asked. "Well. You see those two guys over there? They invited me to play pool with them for a while at a place down the road." I was stunned and couldn't say anything. Then she said, "I’ll be back in about a half hour. Why don’t you wait for me until then?" Frankly, I really didn't know what to say. Then, feeling hurt, I told her that I would definitely wait but only for a half hour. If she wasn't back by then, I would leave.

Terri was anxious to go and she got up quickly after putting on her shoe. At that point the two guys waiting for her came over. They stared at me like I was their enemy. "Well, OK. If you're gone, you're gone," she said in what sounded like a cold hearted response. Then she added to my relief, "But I really hope you stay and wait." She had a big smile on her face and I smiled back. I noticed that the two guys were quite young. They seemed even younger than most of the college kids that came to the place. They were skinny and short. One took the bag out of Terri's hand and the other kept staring at me with a strange, disgusted expression. I felt certain he thought, "What the hell does this old guy want???" I watched them disappear. The sight burned me. A torch flared in my chest and my fingers tightened into a death grip. Strange as it sounds, I did wait another half hour and even a bit more, in that smoky, raucous hell, glancing at my watch every few minutes but, of course, Terri never returned. My humiliation at the hands of youth was now complete.

The next day I was not as depressed as I thought I would be. In fact, now that my relationship with Terri was over and I didn't have to think about being attractive to her ever again, I felt considerable relief. Later that day, Sunday, I went to my new health club and worked out just like I had promised myself I would. By the end of my session I had made another decision in my rapidly evolving new life. Being buff was the best way to counter the impression that I was old, especially when it came to judgments made by lap dancers who could feel your body whenever they wanted. Just in the way customers groped and molested them, they felt the men’s bodies and could even poke around to see how firm and athletic they really were. The very best way to make a dancer like giving you a dance, aside from paying her well, was to have a rock hard body that was attractive to young women. Consequently, on that day, I dedicated my future life to building up bulky muscles and slimming down with the help of the weight machines and workout equipment at this wonderful place. With my new hair and, soon to have, new body, I would eventually return to the lap dancing clubs a new, and more attractive man. A real "buff stud," if I had my way. From that moment I worked out with a vengeance. And, that is how I became fit.

Lapdancing: A Day at the "Same Old Place" When NOTHING Happened: June 27, 2005

2005-06-27T21:30:00.000-05:00

These days I mainly live in Southern Florida, outside of Miami. There are lots of lap dancing clubs in the region. I go to the good ones with the spectacular babes when I clearly want to hook up with the women and spend money. But, that isn’t always the case. There are also places that have the more ordinary dancers and ones that have a very relaxed atmosphere most of the time. After a few false tries, I picked one out, The Ritz, and visited it regularly when I just wanted to get out of the Florida heat and do some beer- driven people- watching. The Ritz was a club that came with no expectations. Most of the dancers were not attractive. If you refused a dance with them, they left you alone so that you could kick back and drink and look. I liked that about the place. However, there were also a few truly beautiful women who worked there and, eventually, I got to know them too by getting dances. They preferred working at The Ritz precisely for the same reason I liked going there—it was low key and relaxing. Getting to know the attractive dancers put me in a bind. I wasn’t able to accept a lap dance from any of the other women in anticipation of eventually spending some time with the babes I liked. As a result, I couldn’t relax at the Ritz completely. I never liked to hang out at a club and refuse dancer after dancer. I needed to be rescued by some outrageously gorgeous looker. That didn’t always happen. It didn’t happen today. In fact, nothing happened.

I got to the Ritz at about 2:00 because I needed to get out of the heat and wanted the kind of ice cold beer that I couldn’t get out of my own refrigerator at home. There was only one other customer in the place at that time. I guessed that the lunch hour crowd had evaporated, if there really even was one. This guy was black and had taken a seat tucked away further back than mine near the far wall. At first I thought I was the only one in the bar. There seemed to be a couple of girls over by the kitchen hanging out at the pool table. They were totally unremarkable. There was a group of about four girls who were congregating at the front of the bar in an open area with stools and they were having a good time joking around. I could see a few wearing thong bikinis and one had an appealing butt.

There were also two black women who were sitting on the side near the bar. They looked very bored. I wondered why the African- American “sistas” weren't hustling the black dude. Maybe they had already tried. A small proportion of the dancers at the South Florida clubs were African- American, but the businesses made sure to limit their number. Most of the time these women were from the States, but, often they were from some Caribbean country and were nothing like Americans. They had English or French accents and seemed middle class and educated. I rarely saw white men, in racist South Florida, going off to lap dance with black dancers, although they did get table dances from them. Usually they were around for the convenience of the African- American males, and the whole arrangement seemed weird to me. There was only one black dancer at the Ritz who I knew the management allowed to work there consistently. When I usually saw her in the afternoon, it was in the back lap dancing area where she always had her head between some guy's knees, so I was only familiar with the back of her neck.

There was a woman on stage that was really young and she was a terrible dancer. She was the kind who tapped to the beat. That turned me off. As I sat there the door kept opening and more girls kept coming in for the late afternoon shift. I had never seen this place so crowded with women. But, the big problem was that they kept their street clothes on. I noticed that a few looked phenomenally sexy. Their muscular dancer asses filled out their jeans just in the way they were intended. Most of the women I had seen at supermarkets or malls that wore jeans had terrible flat behinds with wide hips, or, big fat cabooses that strained the denim material to its point of rupture. The ladies at the club that afternoon appeared awesome—better looking in their clothes, compared to other women, than with them off when it was no longer possible to fantasize about their bodies.

All the freshly arrived dancers were congregating at the open area in the front. It looked like they were having some kind of reunion. They were talking excitedly to each other. Maybe they had been on a vacation and had just returned. I really didn't recognize most of them. One I had seen before, but the others were new to me. Then I noticed that they were all speaking Spanish. While several continued to blabber away in Spanish, the others in street clothes went in the back to change. After a while one dancer working the floor came towards me. She had her lap towel with her. She asked if she could sit down. I told her that I wasn't interested in a dance at the moment. She was one of the girls I had been with before. Her name was “Cindi.” She had impressed me as being smart because she could carry on a conversation. I wasn't in the mood to hook up with a woman right then, so I had to refuse her and she went away looking disappointed. I had been going to the clubs long enough to know that Cindi wouldn’t take it personally and that next time around, she would be just as nice as before. That day and I probably should have let Cindi sit down instead of chasing her away. I regretted my decision later.

There was another girl on the floor who I had never seen before, and she was more attractive to me. She had natural red hair and white, white skin. She was short, but had a fleshy, well shaped backside and a small bosom with a large cup size. It's the cup size that makes up for smallish breasts and many women built like this red head, including her, were very lovely. The red head walked over to me and I smiled, but she may have seen me reject Cindi so she took a sharp detour around my table and went over to the African- American man further into the bar instead. I watched her sit down and start talking.

During the afternoons, when these places were not very crowded, I noticed many times that the women would not ask you directly to dance with them, since if you said "no," they had few other men to ask. Instead, as a common practice, they would sit down at your table and hustle you first by engaging in conversation. Of course, this precludes the fact that the women knew how to be conversationalists. They didn't have to be particularly smart; they just needed some energy and a lively interest in life. Cindi, the dancer I had refused that day, was an entertaining talker. One of the other things I noticed about the clubs was that most of the babes would stick to customers of their own kind for conversation, such as the low life, coke heads I had seen who preferred sitting with bikers or guys who worked for lawn services with those dim eyes and excessively sunburned bodies. The black women usually stayed with the black male customers, because it was racist Florida. Some dancers only liked to talk to young guys; some to older men; some exclusively chatted up businessmen, and so on. The clubs also differed in regard to their atmosphere for talk. Some clubs were strictly business, while at others, you could find many dancers willing to have drinks when offered and willing to spend some time with you. I liked The Ritz because it had babes like Cindi who could carry on an entertaining conversation over beer and shots.

The red head was hustling the black guy by sitting at his table. I was curious about their conversation, but couldn't hear anything. I was also jealous, because I was sitting alone, after having rebuffed Cindi that day. The red head was also attractive to me. A few times I had seen guys who were aggressive customers go over to a table where a lap dancer was hustling some other guy and ask her for a dance. I thought about doing this, something I had never done before, but I couldn't, especially since the place was practically empty. So, I just sat there and began to feel miserable.

Then Cindi was called on stage for her routine. When she mounted the stairs with her characteristic energy, it occurred to me that, had I known she was going to be up next, I would have let her sit with me. This way I could have gotten rid of here without effort. As she did her first number, I noticed that the red head had risen and was now doing a table dance for the black guy. The table dance is a very benign event. It cost half of the lap dance charge, usually $10. The dancer stays at your table and either works you at your chair, or, if there is a special mini- platform for table dancing, mounts the platform and becomes more visible. This club had dance spaces next to most of the tables. The red head was on one platform. Usually in a table dance the women take off their bras during the first song and then their bottoms during the second, if it goes that far. When they get your permission to continue, they act more and more seductively getting in real close, bending over so that you can smell their perfume, or pushing their cheeks almost into your face. But, men were not allowed to touch. That was the key rule of the table dance that made it token in comparison to the real lap dance.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched the red head, while I also did my best to pay attention Cindi on stage. Bucking tradition, she took all her clothes off during the first dance. By the second she was way in close with the African- American dude, scraping her blanched white butt against his face. During the third dance, Cindi on stage did her best to keep my attention. She crawled over to me and made a comment about how I looked bored. An interaction of this kind could only happen in a mostly empty club. The remark was also meant to put me on the defensive and it worked. I denied the fact. I also smiled and arched my eyebrows as if I was really being entertained. I always vowed that I would never act like a jerk with the women on stage and I kept my behavior low key. In the past I had seen unfortunate men become provoked into the most outlandish acts by dancers that targeted them from the stage. I never wanted that to happen to me.

The third dance ended and the Cindi looked disappointed for the second time that afternoon, because I hadn't climbed up on stage or offered her money in other ways. Meanwhile, the black guy told the red head to stop. She sat down but stayed at his table for more conversation. I watched some more dancers walk in and joke around with the others that were standing up front in their street clothes. It was quite a scene; there were even a few more men in the bar now.

The next dancer was a woman I had seen before. She had a terrific fanny, but no tetas. She redeemed herself by being a fabulous dancer. I was certain she had done gymnastics as a child. She did spectacular dives and splits, twirled around the pole and performed other entertaining athletic moves. When this dancer came within ear shot to my table, I asked her if she were a gymnast. She stopped her routine, bent over the edge of the stage and answered, "I used to do gymnastics in high school." Then she gave me a big smile and danced away. Had she been a babe attractive to me, I would have felt phenomenal at that point in the afternoon. Unfortunately, she was just not my type. Out of the corner of my left eye, I noticed that the black guy and the red head had stood up and were now walking toward the back lap dancing section. She had scored!

While this was going on another woman approached me. I had seen her before too. She had black hair, looked Italian, and had a fabulous behind that was perfectly proportioned. Unfortunately, she had these ridiculous implants. They looked like two huge cantaloupes grafted onto her chest. Pumped with silicone, they bulged out in a semi- circle. No real breasts were ever like that. They don't hang right, boobs have to droop a little. It was more fun to play with them that way. Even the red head that was now probably banging away at the black dude in the back room had nicer breasts because of her cup size. I liked the sultry looking woman now on stage, but couldn't get past my dislike for her funny implants to desire her. When she came up to me after her dance and asked the inevitable question, I had to say no.

There were two other dancers now situated behind me near the kitchen that were chitty- chatting. They looked like typical Florida blonds, except something was definitely askew in both their faces and bodies. Then I noticed that they were speaking some Slavic language. Maybe they were exposed to too much radiation or inbreeding. Whatever the reason, they just didn’t look right. So, as I scoped the place out that afternoon, I marveled at the girls up front busy blabbing away in Spanish, the two silent black girls at the bar and this freaky duo who were engaged in an animated conversation in something like Russian or Slovakish. "Has the 'same old place' gone cosmopolitan?" I thought. Anyway, I liked it.

I was just getting in the mood to enjoy myself when the next dancer came on. She was unattractive, a stringy, skinny blond, and she was also a bad dancer. Whenever the ugly women took to the stage I lost interest in being at these clubs almost immediately. It got hard just to sit there, because I really couldn't watch her for long without losing all desire and surrendering to deep despair. I kept waiting for something exciting to happen, for someone very attractive to show up who would blow me away. In the back of my mind I kept monitoring the place for a sign of some fabulous looking dancer who had just arrived to work, but in vein. Then the place began to fill up with the late afternoon crowd. There were these guys from Ft. Lauderdale with the baseball caps on backwards, wearing T-shirts and diamond studs in their ears, who were noisy the instant they entered. Businessmen in white shirts and suits had arrived, too. A few smoked cigars and stunk up the place. Another group that had shown up at the time looked like service or repair men. They wore jumper suits with the logos of appliance dealers. These men had their names embroidered on their outfits. Just about every one was called "Chris” or “John" There were even a few oldsters who had crawled into the place by this time. They were always a quiet bunch who kept to themselves and were thankful for the smallest possible pleasures doled out by the dancers, when they came their way. Usually the old men just came for the cheap food. I became claustrophobic. Somehow positive energy had seeped out of my body by that point in the day from sitting in the near empty space.

Whenever the clubs filled up like that I noticed that the scene took on a kind of energy all its own. There was an ebb and flow to the noise and excitement. Hoots periodically punctuated the routines on stage. Men jumped up eagerly to have dollars removed from their mouths by dancer bozangas. More men were egged on by others to do the same thing. I had seen some women play off the energy of the crowd by taunting and goading the men. One of the regulars at the Ritz, Tara, who hadn’t arrived yet that day, was the best dancer at whipping the horde into a howling frenzy of excitement leaving the energy level of the room high. Other women, in contrast, had a dampening effect and there could be a momentary lull in the noise when they failed to excite the mob. An ugly, rotten dancer could calm the crowd down almost to deathly silence.

There is also an ebb and flow to the crowd. Men csme and went. They arrived in bunches, bringing noise and excitement with them and then suddenly they disappeared. Things quieted down again. That afternoon, the bar had become too crowded and too noisy for me. Then some of the men left their seats, approached dancers and went off to the booths. The whole table of guys with the baseball caps went behind me to play pool and parked themselves in the back. The energy level began to drop. Some men left the bar; others chose partners and disappeared for a lap dance. Just as quickly as the place had filled up, it now began a great exhale of its contents. I was staring at empty tables again. It was about 6:00 PM. There were just a few men around now, mainly the old guys finishing their food. Instead of whooping and hollering, the Ft. Lauderdale gang had become sedated by pool and beer. Several took turns talking on their cell phones completely oblivious to their surroundings. After all that noise, the room now became quiet. Then, one of the Spanish women took to the stage. She was too fat. Slabs of flesh wobbled as she moved through her routine. At that precise point, I lost my taste for female nudity. There was no longer a reason to remain at The Ritz. I got up and began to walk out. At the door I paused and looked back. None of the women left in the room were attractive. All the pretty ones had been dragged off by either "John" the repairman, or, some suited insurance salesman. The fat of the woman on the stage glistened in the floodlights. As I left I passed through the lobby of the club. One dancer was standing in her thong bikini talking on the pay phone. I heard her speaking Ukrainian, or something like that, and as I walked to my car, I thought about how I had blown the afternoon by piss poor timing. Afternoons at the clubs can be fantastic, but I had clearly arrived too early. It’s imperative to drop in after the bar scene had gathered momentum. That day, I came when the negative energy of the start up still pervaded the space. By the time things began to cook, I was already exhausted from waiting and picking and fantasizing. Too early is no good. And, too late is no good either. However, by repeating visits, I learned all about getting my timing just right.

Lapdancing: Last Night—June 24, 2005

2005-06-25T16:56:00.000-05:00

I went to Cheetahs in Las Vegas last night for the first time in over a year. It’s not my favorite place there, Crazy Horse Too is, but the club saturates you with astonishing looking women (see www.lapdanceguide.com for reviews of Vegas clubs). Too bad they are so predatory. After my divorce I moved to Vegas for a few years and became a regular at Cheetahs as well as the CHT. Having been absent so long, I endured a particular kind of experience that can only occur after frequenting a bar for an extended period and then disappearing completely for an equally extended period. The incident can teach more about the relativity of space and time, or at least duration, than can all the books on Albert Einstein.

Many more years ago, I first learned about this cosmic phenomenon while an undergraduate attending the University of Minnesota. I had come out to the northern Midwest from back east because I couldn’t afford college and they had given me a football scholarship. Being such a screw up, I dropped out after two years, but stuck around anyway because the farmers’ daughters loved sex and the bars had cheap beer. My favorite place was called, The Mixers, and it was just at the edge of the campus and quite near the local Minneapolis version of the Bowery. In other words, it had cheap beer and the kind of urban decay that the middle class college kids found “exciting.” I became a regular at the Mixers, and, on any given night, I could equally wind up out on the sidewalk at closing time deranged and pissing drunk, or, slipping out with a big boobed, blond hotty for some nighttime recreation. In short, it was always well worth the visit.

After consciously avoiding making anything worthwhile of myself until I was 24, and after thinking about doing something with my life for at least two and a half years prior to that, I woke up one day and left town. It wasn’t until several years later, after landing a job in Los Angeles, that I decided to return for a visit. On the date I arrived I went to the Mixers at about 7:00 PM, when I knew it wouldn’t be crowded with horny college kids, but when the regulars were there. Sure enough, my old friends were firmly ensconced at the exact same table, drinking the exact same drinks, as they did when I, too, was part of the group. As I approached them, one recognized me and said, “Hey, Seeker, how’s it going?” “Haven’t seen you lately.” Then another dove into the alcohol addled conversation. “Yea. Must have been about a month or two.” Then, the entire table shook their heads in agreement as if this second guy had said something incredibly profound. After that cosmic high point of observation, every one took their turns guessing at how long I had been gone. One said, “no, it must be about 3 weeks.” Another-- “the deuce you say, it has to be at least a few months!” Another—“get lost, man, the Seeker hasn’t been around since Larry Sullivan had his motorcycle accident. It’s got to be at least 6 weeks.” After the furor of virtual time travel, or time “guessing,” more likely, by the regulars, I said, “Hey guys, I’ve actually been gone for three friggin years!” “Whoah!” went the chorus. After that, I just sat down and got drunk. It wasn’t until a day later that I realized I had been privy to a special kind of experience that illuminated the very mystery of time itself.

Last night the same thing happened at Cheetahs. After a year’s absence, the dancers could be divided into three groups. The first were ones who I had never met before. It was refreshing to talk to them. The second were ones that had just started working there about the same year when I had decided to leave Vegas. Most of the women remembered me. The ones that did came up and said, “Hey, you’ve been out of town,” etc. etc., and then each one guessed how long it had been just like my Minnesota Mixers compadres. I picked up on some juicy gossip like why one dancer, Kennedy, wasn’t there any more—“She became a total coke head,” said her onetime friend, “and she was so messed up that she got fired.” Or, “Hey, they’re watching us very closely now because they are afraid the place will be busted. So, more women are doing things outside the club in order to make money.” I was pleased to remind these happy women that I had been gone for a year. That seemed to impress them and, consequently, we had some fun.

The third group, actually just two dancers, were ones that had been working there from the first day I had visited the club. They were already burnt out years ago. One of them, a women who had had a bad boob job about six years before that, and who now had two saggy bags that she had to carry around with her, speculated through her coke haze, “How long has it been? At least about three or four weeks.”

Now every one knows that certain, special drugs can destroy our commonly perceived order of time. They teach us, albeit in a treacherous way, that cosmic duration is completely relative. For an easier exposure to this phenomenal insight into the structure of the universe, simply hang out as a regular among drunks or dope heads at your local strip club and then disappear for a year or two. Unlike fleeing from your wife or children, it won’t matter to the dancers one little bit, and, as I have been saying, they will experience your absence in a way best explained by Mr. Einstein.

Lapdancing: Getting Started-- Part One

2005-06-17T16:05:00.000-05:00

When men go to lap dancing clubs they are already primed to be suckered in to the fantasy of simulated sex. They would never buy a car in the same way. Do people go into an auto showroom, pick out the first car they see, and buy it without the slightest hesitation at the very moment a salesperson approaches them? Most of us do at least some preparation ahead of time and know the kind of car and model they want. A few people even do extensive research and compare brands, models, extras and the like, before going into a dealership. The more work you do before an important purchase, the greater your chances of being happy with it. Of course, there may very well be people who purchase a home or a car without doing more than being offered a first choice. But, these people are clue- less and they deserve to be fleeced by the seller. When it comes to visiting lap dancing clubs, if you don’t prepare beforehand, don’t expect any sympathy when you are left dissatisfied, frustrated, horny, and with an empty wallet.

I can’t tell you how many times I have been hanging around at a club watching the scene, when some guy walks in, sits down, and before he even gets the chance to order a beer, one of the aggressive dancers comes up to him and the next thing I see is his back as he is being led, like the stupid jackass that he is, into the dance area. Now he is doomed. Now he will never know how many better, or more attractive women there are at the club, how many better experiences he could have had or how many dancers he could have met for some future visit.

Once I was at the Crazy Horse in Chicago (see later entry for a review) spending some time during the day (see a later entry for day vs. night for a good time). On that occasion I was mainly interested in drinking cold beer and getting out of the heat, because it was July and the humidity was close to 100%. This businessman walks in all scrubbed clean, wearing a nice suit and just plain mesmerized. He didn’t even try to sit down. At this particular club there was an aggressive dancer named “Summer” (see later entry for a story about another Summer). She fit the model for what most dumb guys new to lap dancing clubs look for. She was tall, had fake boobs and, of course, dyed blond hair. Summer was a tall Pamela Anderson. Have you ever looked closely at Pamela Anderson’s face? She has a pig nose, big forehead and beady eyes. Why was she a sex symbol? Simple. She had fake blond hair and fake big boobs. Aren’t guys stupid?

So, Summer goes right up to this yuppie and, without any chit- chat, asks him to go for a lap dance. Of course, he said “yes,” and disappeared with her into the “VIP” room (see later entries for VIP room stories). About a half hour later the jerk stumbles out with a shit eating grin on his face and exits into the blazing mid day Chicago sun. For all he knew, the Crazy Horse had no cold beer, no funny, entertaining, warm, friendly and talkative dancers. Yet, it did. He missed the real experience because he went for the dyed hair and fake boobs. Fantasy trumps reality every time. But, the reality of the clubs is infinitely more incredible than anyone without the minutes to invest in understanding the dancers and the lap dance experience can ever know.

Lapdancing: LOVE AND KANSAS-- Part One

2005-06-13T14:47:00.001-05:00

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.