Lap Dancing

--

I first had a lap dance when I was eighteen.

All I knew of sexual feelings were the feelings I experienced reading
porn magazines, which really turned me on. I loved looking at naked
female flesh, seeing the sinuous, seductive curves of their bodies
captured on paper.

I'd been to strip clubs before, of course. I'd bought private table
dances, where the girl would dance naked in front of you alone for a fee
of five dollars per song. Touching wasn't allowed, and I never tried to
touch the girls. Some of them would tease closely, moving their breasts
to within millimeters of my eyes or lips, but my restraint held.

Private Eyes was different. Private Eyes was a large strip club
located out of town, one that I couldn't get to until after I was old
enough to drive. There were many more girls there than in the small club
I had gone to as a teenager. Further away from the prying eyes of the
public, more action was happening. Private dances here were something
special. Girls would actually brush up against you and you could feel
their soft, warm bodies rubbing against your thighs. Some would blow in
your ear, or even lick it.

Not all girls did this, but those that didn't soon found themselves
running out of customers. The girls who did found themselves with so
many customers that they started to hike their prices. Five-dollar
dances became $10, then rose to $20.

At that price you would expect a special dance indeed, and you would
find it. One day I saw something I hadn't believed possible. A stripper
was enconsed in a man's lap and her breast was in his mouth.

Never in my life had I seen such a sight. I could not take my eyes off
that fortunate man. In that moment the decision was made. I had to have
it too. I could not live without experiencing that pleasure. All
hesitation left me; eye and mind and soul was totally centred on that
one objective.

I waited and waited for the stripper until her customer finally finished
with her, paid, and left. I buttonholed her..can I have a dance? Of
course, she said, she just had to go to the washroom first. (I later
realized she did that to wash off each man's saliva).

A few minutes later she came and crawled into my lap. During the song,
she pulled off her clothes and my hands were over her. I felt the warm
smoothness of her buttocks, the gentle smoothness of soft female flesh.

And then, finally, her breast was before me, and I gingerly sucked on
it. I could hardly believe it was really happening. I was actually
sucking a real woman's breast! It felt wonderful, like an elixir, like
an expression of joy and closeness I had hardly thought possible.

I didn't want it to end, but I only had twenty dollars with me and had
to stop after that song. But from then on I was hooked. I came back to
the club an average of once every two or three weeks for the next four
years. Only a minority of the girls actually permitted customers to suck
their breasts, but I remembered who these were and made sure I hired
them as much as possible. These were usually not the best looking girls,
but I didn't care. All of the strippers were attractive, to varying
degrees, and more than anything else I wanted a girl who would let me
place those sacred mammary glands into my mouth.

Girls varied in their friendliness. Some were no a pleasure at all,
delivering lap dances in which they ground into my pelvis so hard it
hurt, or wiggled around vigorously in a way that turned me off
considerably. My favorite girls were the gentle ones, the friendly
ones, who went slowly and caressingly, in a way that, if it wasn't
actually love, provided a close enough imitation.

I still remember Vanessa. She went further than any other girl; not only
did she let me suck her breasts freely but even undid my shirt buttons
and nibbled at my chest. The first time she did this, entirely without
prompting from me (and charging no additional fee) it brought tears to
my eyes, and I could only stroke her hair and savor the pleasure of her
tongue on my chest, sometimes leaning forward to kiss her forehead.

A lap dance typically lasts only five minutes, and I could seldom afford
more than two, or, at the most, three. Those scant minutes were the
greatest source of pleasure in my life. There was no feeling comparable
to the mix of gratitude, affection, sensual delight, and sexual arousal
I felt in the arms of a friendly, gentle lap dancer such as Vanessa, or
others like her. Lap dancers were the only women I could put my arms
around, the only women I could touch, feel, caress, fondle.

Here were women who didn't mind my desire for them, indeed expected it.
If they saw a bulge in my pants it only made them smile; if a large wet
stain suddenly appeared they didn't mind. Some, in fact, expected the
customer to ejaculate in their arms and seemed surprised if I didn't. I
usually preferred not to actually ejaculate there, largely because
sitting in a couch with my pants still on isn't the most comfortable way
to ejaculate, although often the arousal got the better of me and I did
climax there in the club.

There is nothing like the female body, nothing like the soft gentleness
it provides. I hungered for it when I was apart, deeply longed for the
solace, the warmth, the intimacy I felt in the girls' arms. It was
paradise, heaven, an escape from stress and pain and worry, a place
where I could finally relax and unwind in gentleness and comfort.

Inside the arms of a young naked woman there is no thought of escape and
no thought of departure. There is just the warm comfort of her body, the
scent of her perfume and her cigarettes, the sweet curvy lips, the
inviting softness of her breasts. I could forget the stresses of
university, the arguments and combats of my home, the drudgery of
everyday life. Here was my paradise, my personal taste of heaven in the
arms of Aphrodite.

As Bertrand Russell put it, it provided "an ecstasy so great that I
would want to sacrifice the rest of my life for a few hours of this
joy." I could never stay away from the clubs for long; no manner of
stern resolution to kick the habit would work. It was irresistible.

When a club was crowded - that was something else. In clubs without
booths, you could see, albeit dimly, dancers performing on customers,
sometimes over two dozen in a single club. The effect was mesmerizing. I
remember one visit on a Saturday night to a crowded big-city strip club.
Naked young women were slowly moving up and down on customers' laps.
Everywhere I turned I saw beautiful, seductive female bodies. For a
passionate 19-year-old man, it was an almost spiritual experience. The
air was filled with the smell of perfume, drinks, and cigarette smoke;
my ears raced to the pulse of dance music. But the girls, always the
girls, their bodies entrancing me with their unearthly beauty, the coy
expressions on their faces, the little circles they moved their hips in,
just inches from their customers' faces.

I would see a girl dance for a man, place her arms around him, feel his
hands on her breasts and her buttocks, blow into his ear, surround him
with her body. She would finish, he would pay her, and within minutes
she would be doing the same to another man. On a busy weekend night she
might do over a dozen men in a single evening. Somehow the idea of the
beautiful woman treating man after man to the pleasures of her body
turned me on enormously.

To me the stripper was larger than life. She was a goddess, a Venus, a
creature who merely by removing a few strips of cloth could become the
fountainhead of all that seemed precious in the world.

In the Bible they would have called the strip club a house of
wickedness, a den of iniquity. It was a house of pleasure, where men
felt the pleasure of women's bodies and women felt the pleasure of men's
money.

Camille Paglia once said a strip club is a temple where men go to
worship women's bodies. For me, at least, that statement is true. The
nude female became to me not just the symbol, but the epitome of
pleasure. There was no joy in life comparable to the joys a woman could
provide, merely by letting me drink in the richness of her flesh by
sight, smell, touch, and taste.

Was what I was doing right? I wondered. And yet the girls were often so
cheerful in their work. Some could be friendly, warm, and talkative.
Sometimes girls would swap jokes with other dancers or customers even
while giving a lap dance. More than once I would be observing another
lap dance - while the man buried his face in her breasts, she would look
up and wink at me.

Those days are long gone now, of course.  Laws have changed, clubs have
closed, girls have retreated, and I have moved on.  But I don't forget
the memory of the first touch, the scintillating magic that so
mesmerized my youthful mind.

--

Comments welcome at tdpz1974@yahoo.com.