by Joanna Angel
“So what do I do, just walk up to them?” I asked.
“Yeah! Sit down next to them, talk to them, you gotta feel it out. Sometimes I just get straight to the point and ask if they want a dance right away. Sometimes I sit down and bullshit for a bit before I ask.”
“But what if they say no? Then what?” I said.
She laughed. “Sometimes they’re gonna say no. Some days, they all say no. Some days, they all say yes.” This felt like some kind of strange team-building exercise they’d have you do at a corporate office to make everyone get along with each other. And really, what better way to get along with someone than to rub on their crotch?
“That guy over there, see? He’s looking at you!” Brandi pointed to a younger gentleman in the corner of the club. He looked like he was in his early thirties, with freshly cut short blond hair, a short-sleeve plaid polo, and dark pants.
“I don’t think he’s looking at me,” I said. “He’s looking at you!”
“Nah, that’s all you. I can tell. The younger guys never like me!” She laughed. It was impressive that she knew her demographic. I had a lot to learn.
To see Naomi give a lap dance, turn to page 52.
To see Brandi give a lap dance, turn to page 58.
It was apparently my actual job here to make the first move. This was something I had very little experience with, even when I had full confirmation from friends that a certain person was into me. Here I had nothing but a glance to go by, and I’m still 99 percent sure the guy wasn’t even looking at me.
He didn’t have quite the same confidence in his strip club etiquette as the other men in the club. He kept folding and unfolding his arms, and crossing and uncrossing his legs, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do here. This entire set-up was designed that way, though. If you weren’t sitting by the stage, and you weren’t purchasing a carrot juice, and you weren’t getting a lap dance, well then you were in some kind of strip club purgatory, waiting for someone to whisk you away into stripper heaven, or hell. Whichever you preferred, and whichever you could afford.
I sat down next to him in a dark corner of the strip club where TJ’s lighting didn’t reach. It was as if he was trying to hide, though if he really wanted to hide then he wouldn’t have come to a public strip club in the first place.
“Hi!” I said, with a cheerful inflection to my voice, trying to counteract his awkwardness. The pink sparkles helped with the peppiness. I automatically appeared at least 30 percent happier just by wearing the dress.
“Well, hello there,” he replied. “I saw you on stage. You . . . looked really sexy up there.”
“Aww, thanks!” I grinned. I wasn’t sure what the proper segue into a crotch riding request was. Do I talk about the weather? Do I talk about what I watched on Netflix last night? Or do I go in a different direction and tell him how horny I am . . . or something? All three seemed like the wrong choice.
“What’s your name?” I blurted. That seemed like a safe place to go.
“Charlie. Or Charles, or Charlie . . . my friends call me Charlie. So, call me Charlie!” This was a smart move on my part after all. Asking him his name opened up an easy lane for conversation, where I could investigate the groundbreaking story of how Charles became Charlie. Plus, somehow just saying his name instantly made him seem more comfortable. He had a clean-shaven face, hazel eyes, and he smelled like a fresh scent of Old Spice.
There was something soothing and familiar about his face. Wait. It was very familiar.
“Well Charlie, where are you from?” I asked.
“I’m from Westchester, but I live in Manhattan. I mean, no one here is really from here, right?” He chuckled.
Well shit. He certainly was familiar. I’m from Westchester, and this was Charlie Silversteen. He went to my high school. He was a junior when I was a freshman, and he was known throughout the school as pretty much the greatest person to ever grace the planet. Captain of the football team, and the debate team, and he scored the role of Sweeny Todd in the high school musical. He dated my childhood best friend, Jill, who officially graduated to way-too-cool-to-be-my-best-friend after she started dating him, which led to an unexpectedly lonely freshman year. Charlie and Jill got married shortly after high school, he went to Yale, and . . . I guess the rest is history.
And now, here we were, sitting in the dark corner of a strip club, making small talk that could potentially lead to a dry humping.
“Well I’m . . . Naomi G. Nice to meet you!” I said. I said it with as much confidence as I possibly could, cursing myself for using my actual first name. He didn’t question it. He had no idea that I was an abandoned friend of his wife’s. And since I hadn’t spoken to Jill in over ten years, our statute of limitations for friendship was definitely over. As far as I was concerned, I had every right to solicit crotch rubbing money from her husband (if they were even still married).
I felt a unique chemistry with him. His clean scent was infectious, and his nervousness was endearing. If current-day Naomi G could go back in time and tell freshman year Naomi with cystic acne and thick glasses (sitting alone at the lunch table, longing for her lost friend Jill) that this would be happening in her future, she wouldn’t believe it. She would also be curious as to why someone in a short, sparkly dress and no underwear was wandering around the cafeteria.
“Would you like a private dance?” I asked.
“I’d like that,” he said.
I knew he was going to say yes. I could just feel it. I could smell his attraction to me, stronger than his Old Spice. And I mean, of course I was attracted to him. THIS WAS CHARLIE SILVERSTEEN. Hell, if my mother knew that I was giving Charlie a lap dance, she’d forgive me being a stripper instantly.
Brandi was close by—I could see her a few feet down from me on the same red cushion bench that Charlie and I were on. She was dry humping away on a significantly older guy. I took a quick glance around and saw several of the other dancers grinding on different customers, so I quickly took note of what was going on and adapted to my situation.
“Well okay! Let’s do it!” I said. I mean, why waste any time? I saw that the other girls were engaging in this act naked. So I stood up, while Charlie remained sitting. I held his eyes and slid my dress off. I licked my lips, and he slid his pelvis down just a little, and I found my own way to straddle him and press up against his pants. This was interesting!
I bent my knees and lunged my exposed pussy onto his fully covered and fully clothed dick. I could see the importance now of wearing clean pants in here. (I actually noticed that the other girls had some kind of cloth in between their vaginas and the guys’ pants. I had a mental list of “stripper things to get” and I added this to the list.) I touched his face and I breathed into his ear. I could feel his chest rising and hear him breathing too. Were we supposed to just dry hump in silence? Well, I know it wasn’t silent, there was loud music playing, but were we supposed to speak? Or just breathe? I asked a generic question to put a feeler out there.
“How does that feel—do you like that?” I could feel the small poke in his pants slowly growing to a large poke in his pants. I was victorious. That had to be a surefire sign that I was dry humping appropriately.
“That feels so fucking good,” he said. Yeah duh. I knew it did!
I pushed up against him and put my lips right next to his. We were both breathing in each other’s faces. I could feel his cock getting harder and harder, and I pressed my pussy up against it. It felt so strong, like it might just burst through his pants . . . and quite honestly, I wouldn’t mind if it did. Ooops. Sorry Jill! Fortunately, Charlie’s Ivy League education afforded him some expensive pants, and his penis was not going to break this quality fabric.
“Am I . . . bad?” he asked. I wasn’t entirely sure where this was going. Was this a rhetorical question?
“No? I don’t think so,” I said. His boner toned down like two decibels. So apparently this was the wrong answer. I had to get the boner back to full force
, so I backtracked.
“Yes, Charlie, you’re bad!” I said. I felt his cock throbbing its way back to full boner mode.
“I’m married. She’d kill me if she knew I was here,” he said. It took all of my might not to say, “Oh yeah, she definitely would.”
“You’re a bad boy, Charlie,” I said instead.
“What are you gonna do to punish me?” he asked. I was still furiously dry humping away. His pants felt like a cloth condom on top of his fully erect cock. I continued to ride him, and then . . . well, I smacked him across the face. He did say he wanted to be punished! He looked shocked, but happy. He smiled a giant smile, and he grabbed onto the side of my ass and jackhammered his cock into me as much as he possibly could. I smacked him again, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but he dry humped the shit out of me. I was bouncing up and down in the air, and it was amazing and beautiful that this kind of behavior was actually acceptable in public. Or, well . . . here.
He stopped for a moment and collected his breath. I smacked him harder across the face.
“Don’t stop. Or . . . I’ll tell your wife!” Ohhh. Now this was a blackmail dry hump. This was getting exciting. He started again, and I wasn’t sure if I regretted egging him on like this. He was going full force, and he had quite the stamina. He had been captain of the football team, after all.
I have to admit, his boner was hitting the exact right spot on my clit, and I was getting turned on. “That’s right, Charlie, just like that.” I could feel him tensing up, and I gave him one extra hard smack for good measure. He shook, he got an adorable and scared look in his eyes, and . . . I felt a warm puddle explode inside of his pants. I got off of him and sat next to him, breathing heavily. I felt like we needed a cigarette or something.
“Are you okay?” I meant this with sincerity, because I was smacking him pretty hard, and now he was sitting inside of a puddle of his own jizz.
“Oh yeah, that was great. You’re great. Thank you.” He handed me sixty dollars. I remembered Brandi telling me this was a twenty-dollar operation, so I guessed this was some kind of tip for the bells and whistles. He got up and headed toward the bathroom. I folded the three twenty-dollar bills around my garter, and I felt a true sense of pride. The crumpled dollar bills stuffed inside my fanny pack felt so elementary right now. I had moved on to bigger bills, and I displayed them proudly on my thigh.
To go back and see Brandi give a lap dance, turn to page 58.
To continue with Naomi in this fantasy, turn to page 67.
“I swear, he IS NOT looking at me.” A few moments ago, it was a sixty/forty toss-up of who he was looking at (favoring Brandi, regardless of this guy’s age), but at this moment, he wasn’t looking at anyone. He was staring down at the floor. If tits and ass weren’t your thing, this establishment had a plethora of colorful shiny lights, and a large legitimate disco ball hanging from the ceiling. However, one thing this place did not have was a nice floor. It was a faded retro ‘70s paisley pattern, interrupted with decades of dried chewed up gum and . . . who knows what else. With all the tits and ass and shiny objects, why was this guy looking at the floor?
“Alright, suit yourself. He looks young, confused, AND he’s got a Tom Ford jacket on. For future reference, that’s like a fucking unicorn in here. You should never pass that up!” She strutted away, with her ass perfectly swaying side to side. Was she doing that intentionally? Or did her ass just do that? I was behind her, so if this was intentional, then I suppose it was a treat just for me, and I was appreciative of this gift of ass I was being given.
I followed the ass. Not just because I was mesmerized by its juiciness and enamored with the little dimples on each cheek. I was also a stripper in training, trying to learn the best way to give a proper lap dance.
Brandi approached the young man, who was still staring at the floor. I found a close corner that TJ the DJ’s lights couldn’t reach and sat there, observing. The guy was blond and looked like he was in his early thirties. Close to my age, but a completely different species. I doubt this guy ever drank PBR out of a can, or lived in a railroad apartment. In fact, I doubt he even knew what a railroad apartment was.
He was sitting on a long, red-cushioned bench that lined the perimeter of the club. I barely had time to blink, and Brandi was already towering over him, standing in between his legs (which had definitely been closed a moment ago), with her chest up against his face. How did she get in between his closed legs so quickly? And HOW THE HELL WAS HE STILL LOOKING AT THE FLOOR!
“Hey babe. What’s going on?” she said to the top of his head. Finally, he looked up, right into her breasts.
“Oh, hey. Sorry. Hi. I’m good. I don’t want a dance,” he fumbled. Wow. I was shocked. Is that legal? All she did was say hello! Could he at least thank her for putting breasts on his head? Did a jacket from Tom Ford give you the right to reject someone while staring directly into their nipples?
She smiled, combed her fingers through his hair, and kissed him on the cheek. She didn’t seem phased by the rejection. I could see in her body language that she took this as a challenge, instead of a failure.
“Well sweetie, you came here for something. If you don’t want a dance . . . what DO you want?” He froze like a deer in headlights. Side note, I don’t know why I ever say that because I don’t own a car and I’ve never seen a deer, but you get the point. His “deer in headlights” expression was similar to my response to TJ the DJ when he asked what kind of music I wanted to dance to. Both this guy and I came to the strip club very unprepared to answer obvious questions we should really have known . . . and we both needed Brandi to guide us to the answers with her breasts in our faces.
She softened her approach by sitting next to him and putting her hand on his leg. Her original stance was one that said “I’m going to eat you alive,” but now it kinda seemed like they were going steady. His leg had been twitching uncomfortably, and her touch seemed to calm his nerves. TJ’s lighting scheme changed, and what looked like a spinning rainbow-bright soccer ball on the ceiling illuminated his face. Now that his head was up, the breasts were out of the way, and the party lights were on, I could see that he was pretty handsome, with piercing blue eyes and a clean-shaven face, not to mention a chiseled jawline. He had a charming and familiar face. Actually, it was very familiar. Wait a second.
“Where are you from?” Brandi asked.
“I’m from Westchester.” I was worried he would say that. I was also from Westchester. Well, that’s where I grew up. I had no connection to that city anymore, other than it being a place I brought my laundry to when I was guilted into visiting my parents. Being from Westchester is even less cool than working in Times Square. And that’s saying a lot.
“Well, my name is Brandi! What’s your name?” She transitioned from her slightly more formal sitting-next-to-him pose into a more loungey position and draped her thick legs over his. They were basically snuggling.
“I’m Charlie. Hello!” he replied.
I definitely knew who this was. Charlie Silversteen. He went to my high school (well, I guess it was more like our high school), and he was a junior when I was a freshman. He dated my friend Jill, who wasn’t really much of a friend of mine after she started dating him. Charlie had led an exciting life as a junior on the football team, with parties and proms and a driver’s license to entertain Jill with. My mediocre stash of comics, and the occasional handful of cigarettes I could steal from my dad’s drawer, could not hold a candle to the world of excitement Charlie had to offer, and Jill and I had drifted apart. Charlie and Jill eventually got married. My mother insisted on filling me in on their lives whenever I spoke to her, and I always had to remind her that Jill and I hadn’t spoken in over a decade, and Charlie and I were never friends.
“That’s a cute name,” Brandi said. I always thought so myself. It was a fucking adorable name. But it’s doubtful she had the same genuine passion about his name that I did. I have a feeling she would have loved the name even if
it was, like, Clarence or something.
“Well Charlie, what are you in the mood for? You didn’t come all the way from Westchester just to sit here . . . you came to have some fun! So let’s have some fun!” She giggled and moved her hands up his body until she was rubbing his shoulders. He instantly seemed more calm. Charlie was able to throw touchdowns on the field in front of everyone in Westchester and then dump a cooler of Gatorade on his teammates’ heads, so why couldn’t he utter a sentence or even look up from the ground in a strip club? I wasn’t sure what kind of statement this made about society, or Charlie, but there was an underlying message there.
And then, well . . . things got a lot more interesting.
“Look,” he said, “I’m . . . there’s something that turns me on, and I told my wife once and she got mad at me. She told me to never talk about it again. But I can’t keep it in. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“What is it? You can tell me ANYTHING,” Brandi purred.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Yes, of course, sweetie,” she said. I could sense her maternal instincts. Knowing how to calm down a pent-up horny man is a lot like knowing how to calm down a crying baby.
“Okay, so . . . once . . . a long time ago . . . years ago . . . I was, you know, going down on my wife. She was actually my girlfriend at the time. And you know, I was really going crazy down there, and she lost control, and I don’t know what happened. She, you know—”
“She . . . had an orgasm? That’s the goal, right?” Brandi laughed.
“Well, yeah, that but . . . she, um . . . she peed. We were a little drunk, you know. I don’t know . . . she started peeing, or maybe it was squirting? But it went in my mouth, and I really liked it. When she figured out what was going on, she stopped. She got really embarrassed even though I told her it was okay! And she got mad at me. And now she won’t let me go down on her anymore. I just want to taste it again.”