by Joanna Angel
“A what?” I replied.
“A lap dance,” he repeated.
“Excuse me, I dance on a stage. Not on people’s laps. Maybe they do that sort of thing at your trashy hole-in-the-wall clubs in Pennsylvania, but this is in Times Square—it’s very classy, and Cardi B used to work there.”
“No she didn’t. She worked at Lace. And the dancers definitely do lap dances there, I know because I’ve gotten several . . . not from Cardi B.” I had forgotten that I completely made up the fact that Cardi B worked at Club 42—I’d gotten so excited about my own lie that I’d forgotten it wasn’t true.
“I thought you didn’t go to strip clubs when you were home?” I replied, with a little more edge in my voice.
Ha! Now he was the one caught in a lie. He looked unsure of what to say. “Well they had a really good steak dinner. So that was different.”
This still didn’t entirely get him off the hook, but I accepted his answer.
He pulled his phone out of his pants and quickly found Club 42’s website, which clearly stated in large letters on the homepage that there were “Two-for-one lap dance specials” every Friday. Today was a Thursday, so not only did this mean I would have to give a lap dance tomorrow— this most certainly meant I would have to give two.
“Did you think you’d be dancing on stage the entire shift? What did you think you’d be doing when you weren’t on stage?” he said.
“I don’t know . . . getting ready to go on stage again?”
He laughed. “No, that’s not how it works.” I was starting to wonder when Rob would flip this conversation and admit that he was actually a stripper, because he seemed to know a suspicious amount about the logistics of stripping.
“You basically . . . get on my lap, and you give me your own special dance! Every girl’s got her own way of doing it. In most clubs, the guys have to keep their hands behind their backs, or to their sides, so you gotta move your body around and, you know, get things going.” He started to get visibly excited as he said this. He was definitely a lap dance connoisseur. How strange that just moments ago, he had his entire cock inside of me, and now the thought of me dancing on his lap with his hands behind his back was turning him on.
“Well, alright! Sounds like fun. I guess I better get some practice in,” I admitted.
Rob grabbed his boxers and put them on. Before I could even finish my sentence, he was sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands beside him, already in his assumed lap dance position. I jumped on him and straddled him. I moved my body around a little, but was more or less ready to just rip his boxers off and have sex with him again. It seemed more efficient than doing this whole lap dance thing.
“Hey! You gotta slow down! And you need to put on an outfit,” he said.
“Oh! Okay . . . we’re like, really doing this aren’t we?” I replied.
“Yes. I want the full lap dance experience. Don’t you have some high heels? Or some lacy panties? Or something?”
Okay. He may have been the expert on strippers, but I refused to take any fashion advice from him. This was exciting, though, because not so long ago I had purchased a beautiful La Perla lace teddy that I found on a discount designer app, and I never knew when I’d have the occasion to put it on. I also had a pair of designer stiletto heels sitting in my closet that I never wore because they were far too uncomfortable to walk more than a few feet in. I’d tried wearing them once on an evening I knew I’d be Uber-ing to my destination, and I literally couldn’t even make it through my kitchen. But it was safe to assume I could probably wear them while sitting in someone’s lap, on a bed, in my room.
I pulled the teddy out from my drawer. I knew exactly where it was—I gazed at it often just to admire it. It was lacy and cream colored, and completely open down the middle, just barely covering the nipples on the sides. It was so dainty and feminine and beautiful, I instantly felt sexier the second I slipped it on.
I grabbed the heels and put them on my freshly pedicured feet. These high heels really tested the endurance of the arches of my feet. This had to have been good practice for being a stripper, right? I stood up in front of Rob, now with a brand new persona.
“Would you like a lap dance, sir?” I felt like this classy lingerie paired nicely with a classy pronoun like “sir.” Even though I was speaking to a man with stained boxers and bed head.
“Yes, yes I would. I’ve been waiting for you,” he replied, his voice low. He even said it with a twinge of a British accent. But only a slight one. The word “sir” somehow set that off. We were clearly role-playing in a very upscale strip club here, which was possibly in the UK.
Rob picked his phone back up and cued up a song. I knew it from the first few chords—it was “She Rides” by Danzig. A classic stripper song, so classic that even I knew that ... and I knew very little about strippers. And after just seconds of the song, I knew exactly why. The beat of the song told my body what to do.
I shimmied toward him while still standing on the ground. I slid my hands up and down his thighs. Then I turned around and brought my ruffled ass right between his legs, grinding it to the beat of the music against his cock. I was getting the hang of this now. Surprisingly, I even liked it! It was like a dry hump and a slow dance mixed into one. I could feel his cock growing inside of his boxers, and I liked the sensation of his growing excitement against my fancy lingerie.
He arched against me. “Yeah, you got this!” Yeah. I fucking did.
I jumped up on him and straddled him, with my knees locked around his thighs, bouncing against the thin fabric that held his eager cock in place, and I rubbed his tattooed chest as I slowly grinded against his steadily growing boner. He started to thrust toward me while I pushed my pelvis back into him . . . but I was in lingerie, and he was in boxers. It was so sexy how dirty we could get without actually doing anything dirty. We weren’t kissing, and we weren’t fucking. This wasn’t oral sex, this wasn’t foreplay. This tease wasn’t on the typical “baseball field” we all learned about in middle school—it wasn’t any base.
I followed my instincts and did what the music told me to do. I unhooked the buckle on the back of my neck and let the two sides of the teddy fall to my waist. My breasts hung out. He licked his lips, which told me how badly he wanted to lick my nipples, and even though I had absolutely no qualms with him licking my nipples, I had to abide by the rules of the strip club bedroom. I mean, really, imagine how embarrassing it would be if I got fired from here.
I decided to tease him by pinching my own nipples, while continuing to grind on his cock.
“I bet you wanna touch them, don’t you?” I whispered.
“Oh yeah, I really do. Mmmm. Lemme see you lick them,” he said.
I stretched my tongue out of my mouth and lifted my breast as close to my tongue as possible, and I licked my own nipple as he sat there writhing with jealousy, his mouth parted. I got off his lap, stood on my floor, turned around, bent over, and slowly slid off the teddy, showing off my ass as I took it off. He kept his hands on the bed and gripped the sheets. I could see how hard he had to restrain himself, and it was such a turn-on. I was tempted to just give in—take his hands and put them all over me— but I also enjoyed watching him resist.
The teddy came off, and I was now in nothing but incredibly uncomfortable pointy heels. I strutted over and straddled him again, but now I was rubbing my bare pussy right up against his boxers. I could feel him rock hard against my lips. I held onto his neck and pushed myself into him. The fabric between us, tempting and restraining us, amplified his desire, and he started to moan. I licked my lips and breathed heavy breaths of passion inches from his face. Danzig continued to serenade us with the perfect song to grind on someone to. The song shifted tempos a little for the . . . I think this part was the bridge? I wanted to do something drastic for this part. It called for something exciting.
I had to think fast. I knew the bridge didn’t last for that long. I locked my legs around his waist and did some k
ind of gymnastic move, throwing my torso upside down. I arched backward, with my legs secure around his hips and my head near the ground. I put my arms back and morphed into, like, a handstand. I had a plan here, I swear. I was going to move my legs around his neck, and get his head as close to my pussy as possible. It was a test to see how well he could restrain himself, and if he would give in and lick it. I was secretly hoping he would. I put the plan into action, and I raised my legs in the air. I kicked my legs around and then—
“OUCH! WHAT THE FUCK!” Rob yelled and jumped back, which made me completely lose balance and fall to the floor. I got up, and Rob was yelling in pain. His face was scratched and bleeding profusely. Holy shit—I’d kicked him with my heels.
“OH MY GOD, I’M SO SORRY!” I said. “God damnit!” I turned on the overhead lights so I could inspect the wound. There was a very deep scratch on his face. The blood was dark and thick. These heels truly were dangerous. “She Rides” ended, and another Danzig song I didn’t know came on. With all the blood on his face and me naked in heels, we sort of looked like a hot Danzig music video. But unfortunately this was not stage blood, and something real had to be done about it.
I threw my deadly shoes off and I grabbed him. He definitely didn’t have a boner anymore.
“Come on, we gotta wash this. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I kept repeating.
“Fucking Christ, what did you do?”
I didn’t want to answer the question because I didn’t really have an answer to the question. I rushed him out of the bedroom and took him into my bathroom. On the way to the bathroom we passed my roommate, Jessie, who was smoking weed on the couch. I was completely naked and he was in boxers with blood on his face. Jessie looked up and did a double take.
“Um . . . what the hell are you guys doing in there?” she said. I didn’t answer. I pushed Rob into the bathroom, sat him on the toilet, and furiously opened the medicine cabinet, trying to find anything that would make sense to use. I took out the Neosporin and the rubbing alcohol. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing—I wasn’t a nurse any more than I was a stripper. I took a washcloth and tried to run it under hot water, but it took at least five minutes for hot water to come on in this goddamn apartment. Was it even supposed to be hot? Was it supposed to be cold? I had no idea! I settled for lukewarm, because that’s what was coming out of the sink. I washed the blood off his face, and it just kept bleeding. I washed it again as he continued to wince in pain. I doused the washcloth in rubbing alcohol, and I put that directly on his cut. He screamed.
“FUCK! OUCH THAT HURT!” he cried out.
“I know, but it’s hurting in a good way! I think that means it’s getting better!” I said, with absolutely no idea what I was talking about.
He looked incredibly frustrated, and he got up and pushed me out of the way.
“I’m getting out of here. I’m going to the emergency room before this gets infected. I have to go on tour soon, I can’t risk this shit.”
“Do you want me to go with—”
He slammed the door before I could finish the question. I was alone on my toilet with half a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a travel-sized tube of Neosporin.
I heard Rob walk out my front door. It was safe to say he wouldn’t be wanting another lap dance.
This morning I’d burned someone with coffee, and this evening I’d stabbed someone in the face. I was a disaster, and a liability. I was dangerous, but not any kind of sexy.
In a flash of a few metal chords, my relationship with Rob and my career as a stripper had both ended . . . which was impressive, since they’d both barely started. I wasn’t sure what to do next, but I knew I should find some occupation that didn’t involve hot beverages or high heels. Perhaps I should go work in an office somewhere, in a very private cubicle, at a bare desk with no sharp objects anywhere on it, and nothing but a water cooler near me (with only the light blue lever for cold water, of course). It was time to hang up my barista apron and my lingerie, and figure out what was next for me in life.
THE END
To go back and see Naomi give Rob a striptease, turn to page 246.
My alarm went off at 8:30 a.m. I woke up next to Rob, curled up as the little spoon. It’s a good sign to be able to successfully spoon with someone for the duration of the night. I admired his muscles and his array of unfinished tattoos, taking a moment to creepily stare at him as he slept. I lifted the covers and saw a raging morning boner. I wanted to stick that beautiful large thing somewhere inside me, but I had some serious stripping to do.
Rob’s enthusiasm for this career path made me want to be the world’s greatest stripper, though I wasn’t entirely sure if the world has a designated best stripper? Did people vote on that sort of thing? I needed to get ready for work, but I also realized I had no idea how to get ready for work. What should I even bring with me?
I pulled out a black mini-duffel bag from my closet and stared at it blankly. What bags do strippers even bring to work? Do they bring suitcases? Do they bring backpacks? Is this like a one carry-on allowed type of situation? These were all things Tony hadn’t bothered to explain to me, and I had no one I could call to ask about this problem. The internet was no help either. I mean, I did a Google search on strippers while sitting in bed early this morning, and a whole bunch of images came up—but none of them described how big or small the suitcases were that they took to work. As I stood in the corner of my room staring at the empty duffel, Rob woke up. He stretched and grinned at me.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Well, I’m trying to decide what the hell to take to work!” I said.
I know this was a foolish thing to admit to him, but I’d officially learned that Rob knew more about strippers than I did.
“Well, bring like . . . your makeup and stuff.”
“Oh yeah! Okay. Good idea.” This was easy because my small collection of makeup lived inside of a compact travel bag anyway. Not because I was some jet setter or anything, but because when you live in New York, you live by buying small supplies and putting everything inside of travel bags to conserve space wherever you can. I put my makeup in the bag, and then threw in that same burlesque outfit, since it went over so well at the strip club bedroom. He watched me collect this outfit and nodded in approval. This was a good idea, according to the local expert.
I stared blankly at my shoe collection of flats and incredibly modest heels, before turning to Rob for help.
“Um, what shoes should I bring?”
“You shouldn’t bring any of those.” He laughed. “Where’s your club again? Times Square?” He casually scratched his exposed thigh, which was peeking out from the sheets.
“Yeah, on 42nd,” I replied.
“Oh there’s plenty of stores in that area that sell the kind of shoes you need, and they’re all open twenty-four hours.” He winked.
To see what happens if Naomi and Rob go to a store together, turn to page 263.
To see what happens if Naomi stops in one of the stores on her way to work, turn to page 308.
“Come with me?” I asked. Rob didn’t strike me as the kind of guy you go shopping with, but this was a different kind of shopping. While I had passed these kinds of open-twenty-four-hour stores many times, I’d never been in one. But from the window, I could tell they wouldn’t be anything like Bloomingdales.
We took a subway to another subway, which took us to Times Square, and we walked into the first shop we saw as soon as we got off the train. Neon blue lights in the window spelled out the word “Exotic.” I wasn’t sure if this was the name of the store or . . . just a sign celebrating all things exotic. Either way, I was fine with it. I just needed some shoes to strip in, like any good film school graduate.
We walked inside. The store was small, but I’d call it “efficient.” With just a quick glance, I saw a selection of lube, dildos, vibrators, pornographic movies, stripper heels, lingerie, and a handful of role-playing costumes and shiny bikinis. It was nice to
know that if you’re in a pinch and you really need to be a French maid or a Catholic schoolgirl at three in the morning, this store could help.
Rob picked up a pair of basic clear stripper heels. I don’t know why I just called them basic—all the shoes I’d ever owned were more basic than these—but it was basic compared to the other shoes here. A pair next to it had a titanium heel that looked like a gun, one pair had fake goldfish swimming inside the clear base of the shoe inside of blue liquid (well . . . I hope they were fake), and one had a design of a giant marijuana leaf on it. So in that regard, this six-inch clear heel that Rob had selected was, in fact, basic, and possibly . . . classy?
“What about these?” he said triumphantly, holding up the clear heel. I was mostly just relieved that he hadn’t picked the marijuana leaf shoes, because that could have been a deal breaker in this relationship. I don’t have anything against marijuana, unless it’s painted on shoes.
I was about to agree to the clear heel selection, but then I noticed a knee-high PVC boot that really caught my eye. Classy and basic were my MO for my wardrobe in real life, but maybe I didn’t want to be basic and classy in the strip club. Maybe I wanted to look like a badass. I grabbed the boots.
“I like THESE better,” I said. Rob seemed surprised.
“Well, if you’re gonna get those . . . you gotta get something like this,” he replied, pointing at a mannequin dressed in a matching black PVC skirt and top, a leather choker with a giant dangling O-ring on it, and leather gloves.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll take all of it!”
“Really?” He seemed caught off guard by all of this. I had no idea why he would assume that a girl who normally wears vintage dresses and moccasins wouldn’t want to occasionally dress like a member of Judas Priest.
“Yes, really!” I said.
“Well, you should really try it on first.” He stood there with a goofy smile on his face. He definitely wanted to see this on me. I also definitely wanted him to see this on me, but also, for practical purposes, it was a good idea to try putting this on and taking it off, since that was about 80 percent of my new career.