My voice had just run out. I couldn’t wait to tuck myself in away from the shit cold I’d just gotten. Well, plans are just made to be thrown away, I guess.
This friend of mine, Amelia, popped by to drop some weed and proposed I’d join her for the evening’s adventure. She was on her way to a striptease club to meet a chick who had a pole dancing ‘project’. I didn’t get much of the info cause she basically had none either, but I was kinda thrilled by the thought anyway as a) I’d never been to a strip club before and b) i was interested in documenting said ‘project’. I couldn’t really contain the new found excitement, so i just grabbed a bag that could and off we went.
“I’d never been to a striptease club before”
Here we are, in a petite fucking living room sized club. A bump in the floor stands for a stage, as we can tell by the dancing pole in the center, and there’s also some couches all around. A fat, grindy guy welcomes us in, you know, the kind that looks like he had johnny on the rocks instead of mother’s milk. That’s the guy. A sinister wind of calm blowing from his face, his eyes hazy, his glare sleazy as fuck, but I’m not really sure I can or cannot connect this to alcohol consumption. Anyways.
Inside, two chicks stand for a crowd. One is the ‘project’ initiator, the looks of a tired corporate employee still lingering on the real person beneath, and the manager of the club, round like a jawbreaker but as warm and serene as the guy who welcomed us in. Amelia’s other girlfriends seem to be running late so the corporate chick gives us a quick briefing.
Turns out she and a friend had visited a striptease club a while back and got really disappointed at the slumbery twerks of two rather idiot dancers. So they jumped right onto the stage and started rocking the pole to shatters. Now, she doesn’t mention who of the staff or patrons were the first to leave the club in panic. Hell, I know I would’ve screamed ‘fire!’ and scrammed, but what really upset her she says to be her friends’ reaction to the story and the judgmental attitudes she’d received as feedback.
All my questions regarding the project are as dead as my larynx. I don’t get a chance to ask what the final purpose of her project is or how it’s gonna work, if she’ll dance for us or not. All I get to gather is this little bit of info – six amateurs and six professional dancers will be going head to head in a dance off, one at a time, of course, for lack of living room space. Each of them is to pick her own tune and dancing style. Sounds legit so far and I’m fairly willing to give it a go myself. I’ve always dreamed of, if not having sex to, at least dancing to Prince’s ‘Darling Nikki’.
Meanwhile, the girls from the club show up. The manager lets us in on the fact that the girls also provide day time erotic services to those looking for a relaxing massage. She gives Amelia and me a tour. I have to admit the place is a fairly decent joint compared to the other erotic massage bombs I’ve been to strictly for sex purposes. Then I asked if I could pop by some time to film some girls and she hesitates. I show her some erotic footage of my own and she almost gets scheduled herself for a video.
Amelia’s friends show up, this group of pretentious hipsters that make the dancers look like cheap skanks but that seem weird dikes next to them by comparison. One of them, stoned to pieces, gets to the stage to do her own spiritual rendition of a sexy dance. Slow, oozy moves fill the stage, her head leans back to the esoteric tune, even the light seems to dim to this mystical atmosphere. Damn.
Then comes another hipster chick, drunk like a fish this one. I recognize her as my nail technician’s daughter. I wonder if her mom knows what she’s up to, but i quit the thought soon enough. My mom sure as hell doesn’t know what I am up to day by day. Her dance is weird, but at least she puts some steam into it, so much so that she ends up falling off the stage. Nobody seems to bat an eye. ‘She falls way too often’, Amelia whispers in my ear and I’m somewhat relieved by the news.
With one gracious leap, the manager of the place conquers the stage. Her waist packed with jingly coins, her top off, she signals the DJ (i know, right?) to play her some oily middle-eastern tunes and that’s that. She pulls an ass and belly wiggle that leaves us all impressed.
Soon enough, the professionals take the stage. A short, pretty chick is first. She’s blonde and has a damn perfect body that almost makes my mouth water. Another, a fairly round one with questionable dance moves leaves us all almost yawning and there she is. Andrea. At a first sight, she seems a bit too curvy for my taste. Then she starts swinging her everything around and, I’ll be damned, I completely get why she needs some muscle to keep her thing going. Honestly, now, I’ve rarely seen moves like this girl pulled. Sure, I haven’t been a regular in night clubs, but I’ve seen enough sexy films to call it education and this girl was one of the damn bestest.
I notice her pretty face and it stuns me how beautiful she can be. I get the name from the manager and with a few proper words I get permission to video her for a couple of seconds.
The grand finale, the feedback session, takes place outside in a smoking circle. The corporate chick, asked by the pretentious flat chests about the logical and artistic implications of the ‘project’, explains that this sort of club is nothing but a temple for men. She’d once met a formidable guy that had spent several fortunes on strippers. He let her in on the fact that the really cool and funny chicks are those that aren’t hot and perky. Of course she completely agreed to that.
Ugly chicks are more open to meet someone, emotionally and intellectually. And they provide the male with a decent conversation, patience, understanding, emotional rapport, and the like. Pole dancing, on the other hand, apart from being a sensual sway to please the eye, brings forth personal desires, thoughts, repressed actions.
Fuck it, I don’t know how much you, the reader, get from skimming this semi-spiritual-slash-self-help babble. I’m just transcribing the conversation I took part in. Personally, I’d just advise her to get fucking laid. She might just have a revelation. Around this point, I just start feeling like a cold, boring whore. My thoughts on the poor corporate soul are horrible! Even worse is the effort I’m making to keep them from turning to speech. The nail chick’s daughter is fascinated by the luscious bodies of the professionals, Amelia feels like she’s in the right place for unexpected desires, I’m just resenting my sore throat.
I don’t know what the corporate skank is thinking. With a simple exercise of imagination, I could easily picture her head being possessed by the pure spirit of the holy Nothing. Just like how the club is a temple. Just like how when you go to church you ask God your questions and he fails to reply.
Two more lesbos show up. This lesbian thing is starting to push my buttons. There’s been at least two years since my last gay experience. So imagine my gay cravings have gone rather dry before tonight. Now I just wanna stick my tongue down Andrea’s throat and call these last two pieces of ass to a juicy threesome. The corporate chick gets a bit overwhelmed with her own discourse so the girls hand her some weed. The manager gets so excited she takes to the stage one last time.
The fat bouncer guy seems to love the night’s novelty acts. I stray back home no take-out pussy and the professionals get back to work to please the one customer that entered the joint. An old sleazy bastard. Regular stuff. I just hope he doesn’t pick pretty Andrea, is all.