So summer hit, and it's was time for a strip club. Ain't truly summer until you've splurged on yourself. Given yourself the illusion that you're the Grand Puba of this great religion we call Capitalism.
And what better temple to the All Might Dollar is there, but the Strip Club. Casinos, they're for old ladies-- with menthol rub behind their ears and menthol ciggys in their mouths-- who still think chance favors the virtuous. The mall is for fat gluttons who slurp down sugary drinks as they load bag after bag with anything but actual memories. No give me tone bodies for my buck. A haven to the cause of somal perfection. And this place has a plethora of them.
I'd shy away from the Manhattan gentlemen's clubs for the couple of decades that I've ventured into the City. I figured the prices were as bloated as the commerce in other areas. Tourist scam. But this place is off the beaten path, so it might actually reside in the realm of common sense. So I tried it out. Fortune favors the bold.
I don't venture into strip clubs during the weekends. They tend to be packed to the gills with other men. That's a bit too ancient Roman for me, if you snag my drift. If I'm not celebrating the retirement of a fellow Y-chromie's peter to the domestic life, I don't want to be reminded that other guys exist during an erotic moment. So the "space" I got in here on a Monday night was glorious. Headed to the bar for a whiskey and immediately caught the eye of a thick Latin shorty sitting there. The bartender didn't know his business to well, maybe he was new. She was the "business", and wasn't new to what she knew about it. The ice in my scotch hadn't decided to melt yet by the time we were heading over to the lap dance area.
Her Spanish accent was as thick and rich as hot homemade flan. Nowhere else in the world could someone explaining the prices of something make you feel "eager" down to your loins. We by-passed the socializing and drinking chairs, and she motioned for me to sit in the public lap dance area. She stripped of her dress and, Feliz Navidad!! Rules: no touching. But then she put my hands on her hips at one point. Those perfect, perfect, perfect perfect..... to call them mere breasts do them no justice. Candies lips. Round apple bottom. Skin buttery enough to give you cholesterol. And those stodgy Puritan forefathers in the back of your mind saying that anything that feels this good has to be bad for you. But I cock a smile at the old green slavedrivers, still cracking the whip five days a week. And I pass her $20 for the song, with a couple dollars extra tip. She liked that, but was bummed when I didn't order another song.
I like to pace myself when I'm in a joint like this. I'm the master of Capitalism, and the captain of this industry. So I order another drink and head over to the small stage. This is my one complaint about this place. Hence the removed star. Where is the pole? Gotta have a pole. They didn't. Some of the girls looked a bit sluggish up there, but once I started letting the dollar flow, the creativity sparked. Next thing I know rhythmic simulated lesbian acts entertained my eye. Eventually I headed back to the young lady I had the pleasure of "meeting" before. I ordered her a drink, and she joined me in the drinking area. Something palpable nestled between us that was more than Hallmark could handle, and just as commercial. She mentioned the private rooms again. I mentioned that I work for a living. Frankness thrives in a place like this, and she settled down on the point. We watched the stage, she's drinking her drink and rubbing my thighs. Puba.
"I really want you baby" and she disrobes right there. Gives me another dance. Now this is the moment of truth. I "don't" argue that that was not negotiated. I "don't" even ask if that was a freebie. You want freebies: casino/mall. I reach in my pocket had over another $20 with a two dollar tip and say "Thank You". She smiles. Like really smiles. Sits and watches the stage, drink in hand. "I want my friend and me to dance for you baby". She calls her name. Her friend doesn't seem to hear her. That's annoys her, so she yells louder. Then the set on stage ends, and she brings her friend over. We head up to the lap dance area, and I'm in a jungle of flesh. This time touching is encouraged from the start.
And that, my friends, is what you are paying for. An image, an experience so vivid, that it is easily welled up from the subconscious every time the earning of those Presidential bores gets too mundane and irritating. I reached the end of my stash, so I settled in for one last solo dance with the first girl. TIP: dancers like loyalty. Just for the night. Even other dancers, who are irritated when they can't pry you away, respect the loyalty. Buy'em a drink and offer next time, but stick to one a night. The bouncer in charge of the floor was impressed by the manner in which I conducted myself. I'm now a VIP card holder. read more