I got my first lap dance the other night. I think.
Regular readers will remember Naughty Minx — the super-sexy leggy fetish model that gave me a hot wax backrub at work one day. Last week she scored a few passes to a local historic and expensive "high class" strip club, and eager to see the inside of a real strip club and do some research, I volunteered myself and my faithful research assistant, Sexy Hornboy from the Extra Action Marching Band. You see, dear readers, while I am a trained sex educator, there are still many things I have not tried in the wide world of sex — I’ve never had a lap dance, been to a strip club, a sex party, seen a dominatrix, had a threesome (or moresome), had public sex… the list goes on. Since I have a book to research, and Minx and Hornboy are eager to help, I have to don the lab coat and rubber gloves, and get out in the field.
At first it was just Minx and I, having Thai food and feeling really nervous about the whole thing, but then we decided to call Hornboy for backup — and because he’d been to a strip club before, at least ten more times than we had. We needed guidance! And a cute boy made us an attractive trio. So off we went, trouble times three, walking down Polk Street on an unusually warm and clear San Francisco fall night, past the tranny hookers of all colors and sizes, to the big brass and glass doors of the club. Amidst a chattering flock of suited Japanese businessmen, we surrendered our passes, had our hands stamped, and wandered in, wide-eyed and laughing to each other at what tourists we were, even though we are each pretty well-versed in the ways of sex.
The club was carpeted and clean, with a maze of halls and little rooms whose purpose was unknown to me but whose subtext was clear — dirty things happened in nooks and crannies, on couches, chairs, and to our surprise, beds (with functional sinks and bowls of condoms). We went into a large, dark main room with a stage, two brass poles, and theater seating all around. We examined the chairs for ickiness before we sat, and Minx and I whispered to each other that we should’ve checked the floor before we set our purses down. A thin, surgically augmented dancer came out on stage, already nude, and danced. I was clearly already with the hottest woman in the whole club — I kept stealing glances at sexy tattooed and bespectacled Minx to remind myself. There was a male-female couple up near the stage, and the dancer paid special attention to her — and to my surprise, the dancer lifted the woman’s shirt and sucked her breasts. I thought there was no contact at strip clubs, save for lap dances, but boy, was I about to be proved mistaken, as least at this establishment.
After watching more dancers come out, naked and disconnected, sans any kind of actual stripteasing, I began to really understand the resurgence of burlesque. I also got the distinct feeling that we three were actually space aliens from another planet, as opposed to the earthlings populating the stages and seats. A sudden flash mob of Japanese businessmen sucked us into their midst, into a weird backroom with thin booths that had individual curtains, opening up to (and surrounding) a stage. Unfortunately all three of us couldn’t fit into one (wotta dream, though), so Minx and I squished in together, mmmm, that was nice. Two blondes came out and did a little fake girl-girl pussylicking, then proceeded to work each booth, disappearing for what looked like bodyrubbing and hand or blow jobs — and though I put money out on the floor and the women saw it, they ignored us and started on the other side of the room.
Minx and I got the hint — and when Minx brattily started dancing and grinding on me, the blondes lost their audience, on our side of the room, at least. Soon bored, the three of us left and went back to the stage area, which was now filled with mingling men and dancers. Minx swore one of them was Gwynneth Paltrow. The high-heeled, topless women worked the crowd, making offers to men, and we were uncomfortably ignored by most of the women, many of who wouldn’t look us in the eye. Because our spaceship was waiting outside. One beautiful brunette was very excited by us, and she offered something very expensive that I didn’t fully understand that sounded very much like sex in a backroom, and like frightened little bunnies, we all retreated to the stage, dingy seats, and guys with jackets on their laps. Ah, safety. Minx and Hornboy are definitely fantasy material, but money and backrooms and sex workers on a first date scared the wet lacy g-string right off me.
Out on the stage came four women, and one got so excited when she saw us she barely did her routine before jumping off the stage and landing in my lap, grabbing my boobs and pulling me into her chest. It was the beginning of what was to be our nonconsensual relationship. She grabbed my head and pushed my face between her tits — of steel. My nose hit her breastbone — bonk! She smashed her boobs together around my face — bonk, bonk! Hard, everything was hard. My nose hurt. I didn’t know what to do — there was no pleasant squishiness, like when you nuzzle a pair of soft, yummy boobies. Suddenly I was covered in perfume, ack. The woman and her blonde coworker summoned us into the other room, with another stage and several padded tables surrounded by chairs. We sat at a table near the stage, (which was on hydraulics and I thought was pretty neato) and after a song the same two women came over to our table, led mostly by the hard-boob lady, who was actually enthusiastic and cute. They threw a blanket over the table, got up on it, and performed cunnilingus for about one minute, with the blonde in my lap and the other with her legs spread in my face and her left high heel hooked around Hornboy’s neck. I was beginning to appreciate subtlety in all its forms. This wasn’t it.
We threw fives on the table in appreciation of their false lesbianism, which only seemed to encourage them. Would giving them more money make me horny? They got off the table and made the rounds, each of them grinding their bare pussies on our legs and crotches, feeling us up and massaging our pussies (and cock) through our pants, deepening our nonconsensual relationship. The hard-boob lady kept putting my hands on her hard hard boobs and squeezing, and as much as I love tits (I really love tits), I felt like I had no idea what to do with her flesh-covered immovable objects. I mean, I knew that fake boobs were hard, but I didn’t know they were like a silicone dildo under the skin. Wow, my first fake boobs really floored me. Then the song ended, and they stopped, started counting money and chatting with us. The hard-boob lady sat on my lap while she counted, and the blonde remarked how weird it was to dance for women, how she didn’t know what to do, that men were "so easy," and that she felt embarrassed dancing for women. How nice. Now our nonconsensual relationship was dysfunctional. When they left, the room emptied and we were sitting there all alone not knowing exactly what to say to each other… "Did she touch your crotch?" "Yeah. It was weird." Minx and I still wanted a real lap dance, but felt like we got a weird experience instead. I wished I had been the one touching Minx’s and Hornboy’s crotches. But I was way to bugged out to say something like that… So we all did what any normal space alien would do after a trip into human weirdland — we fled to Lush, a bar on Polk St. that has awesome cocktails. We drank strange mixtures, flirted, decompressed, and talked about what we’d hoped to have happen, and we decided that we need to visit a real strip club, somewhere outside of San Francisco.
I know, what was I expecting? I fully expected fake boobs, women at work, men behaving badly and strange vibes. In fact, the men never behaved badly, that I could tell. I wasn’t expecting a porn movie and all the cliches, right in my face. I certainly wasn’t expecting a magical experience, but the scene in From Dusk ‘Till Dawn, right before Selma Hayek turns into a vampire would’ve been nice — and I would’ve been really turned on if the dancers did turn into vampires. But that’s just it — there was no irony, no humor, and certainly no mystery or (even sexier) any hint of erotic danger. No bad music to make you feel cheesy in a good and raunchy way, no words spoken below a shout, and no sense of depth or eroticism from anyone. I got totally turned on trying to imagine what was under Minx’s clothing, and nearly fell off my barstool imagining what I might be able to do with Minx and Hornboy. But that would have to wait for our next date — going to a sex club, the Power Exchange.
