The Lap Dance Ch. 01

Writer's note: This is the first of a several-part series. Expect Pt. 2 soon enough.

*

Stephanie had always been curious about strip clubs. She knew what happened inside such establishments from second-hand sources and movies but wanted to see the action herself.

She also wondered about something else: What was it about throwing dollar bills at ladies that ranked as so stimulating for men? If it aroused them so much, would the sight of half-naked women do the same for her?

She worked by day at a publisher's office and, at night, enjoyed the bar scene and evenings with friends. Born in Sao Paolo, Brazil, Stephanie was a knockout, even by lofty South American standards. She was well sculpted: smooth and lengthy legs and slender arms to match her stomach. Her long, dark brown hair accented her blue eyes and curved lips. A hint of lipstick made their odd but sexy shape standout like a neon sign. Her breasts were just above what she deemed the average size, between a C and a D. Her booty, though, had more trunk space than an SUV. Men gawked anytime she wore jeans or a short skirt. They could not begin to imagine how massive it was.

She loved jewelry and often chose outfits that would look good with her favorite pearl necklace. As 20-something Brazilians went, she was the embodiment of perfection, or the next closest thing.

So, one November night, she decided to undertake her first nude joint exploration. She listed the help of a male friend in the know about the area's best clubs.

Stephanie settled on an upscale one called "The Palace." It resided just west of downtown and promised, given the admission price, spectacular entertainment.

She debated for 30 minutes what she should wear. She decided on a pink-beige, cotton, spaghetti strap top that allowed her to flash some intoxicating cleavage, a low-cut, cotton pink skirt and black high-heels with straps. Her pink silk panties felt soft against her vagina and the tightness of her matching bra accentuated the aforementioned cleavage.

Stephanie did not consider that she had dressed as a stripper might. Whatever. She was not going to stay long. She sure as hell planned to ignore the expected advances from the cash-flaunting men.

The other dilemma was more difficult to resolve. Should she venture to the club solo, in a group, or with a trusted male friend? Going with a close acquaintance would ease the awkwardness of her first time and provide a comfort zone in case nerves became a factor. After an hour of deliberation and several calls to friends, she opted to ditch the idea of a comfort zone. She would go alone and deal with whatever happened as an adult.

Stephanie pulled up to "The Palace." It was as easy to find as the directions suggested. To ensure optimal safety, she forked up the tip money required for valet parking.

She then reached into her wallet and pulled out her ID and the entrance fee, $20. That's expensive, she thought. Whatever.

She was not even sure women went to these places alone. The 40-something lady at the front desk snatched the $20 and directed Stephanie to a door down the hall.

"Enter that way," the woman said. Stephanie thought the delivery bordered on cold and rude.

She stood there for a moment, not sure if she wanted to take the plunge. She contemplated asking for her $20 back and speeding home.

"Is there something wrong?" the woman asked, in a manner that suggested she was more interested in processing the small line that had formed than this nervous customer's well being.

Stephanie stammered, "Uh, do woman ever come here by themselves?"

"Not much," the woman responded, "but it does happen. You are not the first." That last line soothed her. At least she was not the first young female to enter a strip joint. The first Brazilian woman? Maybe. That question did not matter.

Stephanie gathered a burst of courage and walked toward the fancy door. She could hear a popular rap song blaring through it and shaking the walls. "I can make your bedrock," the lyrics said. Typical. And, she thought, I like this typical club music.

She grabbed the brass handle and flung open the door. The scene inside did not shock her. The movies she had watched were not inaccurate in their depiction of these places. The granite countertops at the main bar, though, were a nice touch that confirmed an upscale image. The main room featured three stages, and a gyrating, topless pole dancer occupied each of them. The joint was booming and bustling. She scanned the patron area for an empty table and happened to spot one adjacent to the main stage.

Perfect, she thought. She would view strippers up close and snag a front-row seat to the mad, male money toss. This, she was certain, would tell her what all the strip club fuss was about.

She plopped herself down in the cozy red leather chair and set her designer purse on the circular glass table. The next event was not foreign to her. Bars and nightclubs do expect customers to spend some money. A skinny waitress wearing a tight ensemble with a mid drift and plenty of cleavage and leg accentuation barked in her direction, "you want something to drink?" The employee's tone made it obvious that was not a request. The woman could have just said, "Buy something or leave."

That would have been more proper and palatable. She expected a fleecing, which made the $7, watered-down club soda and cranberry vodka easier to stomach. Each sip confirmed to her lips and mind that frugality was not a virtue here. Forget economy, she thought.

Just then the obnoxious emcee of sorts announced the next dancer. "Lola," he said, with the kind of smarmy, sordid tonal quality that suggested a deadbeat dad with a backlog of missed child support payments. Were all creatures at strip clubs so pitiable?

She peered beyond the loudspeaker covering part of his face and noticed his disastrous Hawaiian shirt that looked like it had not been washed in weeks. It was more unfortunate than flamboyant. The man's ill-advised beard made him a candidate for a Geico commercial.

She guessed he was 40-something after noticing a few wrinkles near his jaw and chin. Yeah, she told herself, total deadbeat dad.

The young, black dancer elicited similar cynicism and judgments from Stephanie's mind, which was now operating at warp speed. Who comes up with these stage names, she wondered? Why?

She almost wanted to stand up, yell and bet every man in the place—and there were many—this poor girl's name was not Lola. Yet, a group of eager dudes oozing testosterone overloads bought the scam of a package—hook, line and sinker—nonetheless.

Lola was slender, too slender. Her black, curly hair almost covered her beaten, defeated eyes. Her misshapen legs somehow did not detract from her performance, which seemed textbook to a curious woman with only the Hollywood, adult film industry idea of what that meant. Lola spent most of a four-minute Kanye West joint teasing the crowd with booty shakes and pole gymnastics. It came across as well acted but seemed so soulless.

Yet, these dudes, as Stephanie called them, flocked to the stage with Benjamins in hand. One by one each dipped into cash reserves to get Lola to gyrate in his direction. The act felt scripted and left Stephanie disappointed.

Lola tossed her bra to the back of the stage when the second song commenced, revealing her average breasts to the salivating masses. An act that should have been exciting turned to tedious in an instant. The striptease, of course, sent even more men to the stage for a several buck, 15-second show.

Ugh, she thought. Why not just eat $25 and avoid the embarrassment? She was beginning to wonder, less than 20 minutes into her excursion, if she should have done that. Make that $33. She corrected herself after ordering another poorly made club soda and cranberry vodka. If this was a drink "special," how did the regular ones taste?

She expected more from an upscale place than just posh furniture and dim, hipster lighting. This one had not delivered anything else yet. Lola's set conclusion was anticlimactic, and she had already constructed how the next hour would go.

Let me see, she thought. Starr comes next. Then Delilah. Then Lakeisha. Then the token Asian girl. She surveyed the patrons and attempted to attach stories to them.

She suspected lots of deadbeat dads, a few accountants, a lawyer or two, recovering alcoholics and a corporate boss or two. She assumed the boisterous group across the way was a bachelor party. Ugh. So predictable.

Stephanie was a bit upset when Starr did not follow Lola on the main stage. This woman, using the name Randi (or was it Randy?), was a southern belle with mammoth breasts. They practically popped out of the two-piece, American flag laden ensemble. Randi was cute, if not stereotypical.

A Jason Aldean monster hit served as the backdrop to another impressive dance show. Stephanie decided it was less disappointing and disgraceful to see men toss money Randi's way. Stephanie almost understood it.

One of her favorite tracks—Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats"—followed. Would this strip performance ruin that song? She hoped not. The lyrics applied to any man who dared abandon her trust. "I dug my keys in to the side..." coincided with Randi flinging her bra toward the loser emcee.

It didn't make it that far, but Stephanie imagined that was as close as the guy would ever get to any action. Good for him.

Randi was even generous enough to put her panties in each man's face to afford each the illusion of eating pussy.

Stephanie took the opportunity to examine Randi's vagina, even if she only flashed it. There was not much to see.

This was a step up from Lola but far from erotic or a tell-all encounter.

She still did not understand the men's' collective lust and the sheer willingness to dump hundreds at one establishment. She feared she might do that if she kept ordering low-quality, high-priced cocktails. Rum and coke seemed a suitable solution. That was a mere $5. "Hooray for bargains," she said in a sarcastic whisper.

The waitresses' snappy, almost irritated check ups became acceptable routines. That smile, though, was so disingenuous. What forced that 30-something, attractive female to work here? How could she enjoy, even tolerate it?

It did not take long for Stephanie to notice, as soon as Randi's set finished, that many men had noticed her. That spelled trouble. She had traveled that unenviable road before with a previous boyfriend. To avoid another trip, she vowed to leave after two more performances. She figured that would give her the accurate read she desired.

Well, Delilah was not next, but it might as well have been Delilah. The emcee finally identified himself as Luis—yeah, right—and implored customers to tip waitresses and bartenders and "give some love" to Erica (or was it Ericka?). Who cares, anyway?

Her breasts were well rounded with nipples. Her pale skin suggested she was born to interracial parents. Interesting, she thought. Yet, Stephanie still failed to feel that charge of excitement. This club was not doing it for her. Nor did Ericka's choice of two jarring, electronic numbers.

Ugh, again. "Even death metal beats the shit out of this," she said with another whisper. The inaccessible, violent music represented an ugly departure from the house, trance and pop-laden blasts that occupied portions of her iPod.

The misfortune of this scene prompted a scowl then a frown. Mission, like, so not accomplished, she thought. What a disaster.

She deflected overtures from a few men to join their tables. "No thanks," seemed direct but polite enough.

An impulse—the same one that inspired her to purchase so many shoes and chic outfits—drove her next move. That voice said, "Pay the tab and get out of here."

So Stephanie summoned the waitress and produced a credit card before the busy woman could walk away. She wanted to split pronto. She headed for the restroom first before canvassing a quick exit.

Then, "Laetitia" commanded the stage.

This changed everything.

Stephanie's world and the way the room looked differed now. This time, she did not guess three different possible spellings of the stripper's name or invent a hackneyed back-story. She was entranced.

Laetitia rendered the music, Luis and the sex-starved male patrons insignificant. She compensated for the shabby atmosphere and overpriced drinks. The crabby waitress was irrelevant.

Stephanie froze and forgot she was blocking the entrance door. An irritated man brushed her aside after uttering an exasperated, "excuse me!" She did not notice enough to care.

The world—and everything in it—now revolved around this gorgeous woman prancing and gliding around the pole and across the stage. Laetitia's movements were poetic and arresting. Long blonde, dyed hair accented her curvaceous body and symmetrical face. A set of green, oval eyes beckoned. Her closed mouth allowed her to transmit a devastating smile.

DD breasts, a puny, protruding belly and legs fit for an art exhibit made Laetitia perhaps the most beautiful creature Stephanie had ever seen.

As she studied these features, the shocking reality slammed her like an oncoming vehicle. Oh my God, she thought. I am attracted to someone of the same sex. She wondered if she had ever reacted this way to another woman's mere appearance. Sure, in college, she had smooched a friend after a monetary dare. She pretended to enjoy that kiss then.

This was something else. She had morphed in several minutes from a distraught, single woman heading for the exit after a shrug-worthy hour to a hostage in Laetitia's scripted game. If this was how other men felt, well, she got it now.

The alien sensation consumed her, almost to the point of paralysis. Stephanie had to remind herself to breathe. A drop of perspiration bounced on her left arm. Oh my God, she thought. Now, I am beginning to sweat.

Perhaps Stephanie should not have ever glanced back at the stage. Laetitia, by now, had noticed Stephanie staring at her. This dazed girl in the back trying to leave could not move a muscle. She did stand out in the male-dominated room.

Instinct became the lone available recourse. Maybe it was a second exaggerated leg kick. Maybe it was an extended hugging of the pole. Something caused Stephanie to walk in the direction of the stage, instead of through that menacing door.

As she approached Laetitia, another observation made her equal parts excited and terrified. No men had lined the stage yet. Laetitia was all hers if she wanted. But what did she want, and what should she do?

Instinct, again, orchestrated a coup in Stephanie's mind, leaving behind a number of inhibitions and reason. She later could not remember reaching into her purse for dollar bills, but she knew she had done so. That part would remain a blur.

These two women were now fixated on one another. Laetitia nodded playfully in Stephanie's direction and unleashed a smile that almost killed upon impact.

Stephanie reciprocated by sheepishly returning a smile accompanied by $5. She had seen men give other dancers a few bucks. She knew Laetitia, even 15 seconds worth, justified the cost of a rum and coke.

The events that transpired after that danced between eternity and maddening brevity. It did not feel at all like 15 seconds, nor did it last long enough. She soon forgot about her sour experiences minutes earlier and lost herself in this moment.

Laetitia backed away long enough to remove her bra with blue sequins. She did not, however, throw it in Luis's sorry direction. Instead, it landed near the foot of the stage, near Stephanie.

She again reminded herself to breathe. The moment those perfect, exquisite breasts emerged, hyperventilation became a concern.

Laetitia's breathtaking body rivaled that of any queen, beauty pageant contestant or popular actress. It was intoxicating.

The cruel, arousing waltz with time started with a simple shake and shimmy. Laetitia used her hips and fingers, coated in ruby red nail polish, to make her breasts bounce.

Then, the most spectacular game of seduction those dudes had ever seen unfolded. Stephanie moved as close as possible to the stage without mounting it. She rested her quivering arms on its edge while gazing up at her $5 prize.

Laetitia used her hands to stroke Stephanie's damp face. The sudden touch was both startling and comforting. Another murderous smile followed. Stephanie almost wished Laetitia would stop doing that.

Then came the panty sniffing opportunity. The difference this time: Laetitia remained in that position a few seconds longer than the other women had, so as to press her lower body further into Stephanie's face. The stunned woman did not know how to react to this wrinkle. She used her nose to detect a Chanel No. 5 scent. She spent the rest of those seconds trying to inhale whatever other aromas she could.

Stephanie had never dealt with a woman's vaginal area near her face, even if covered by blue-sequined panties. Before she could process that thought, Laetitia turned for the inevitable series of booty moves. She slid up and down, up and down. Soon, Stephanie discovered she was grazing Laetitia's gorgeous butt with her left hand. Her right hand had graduated to the left breast.

She wondered if any contact was even allowed here. Would a security guard show up at any moment to escort her from the premises? She retracted her hands in embarrassment and offered an apologetic glance. The response was just as confusing as this attraction.

Laetitia's expression suggested disappointment that Stephanie had stopped.

The dancer backed away again, performed a few spins and then dipped low to shove her breasts in Stephanie's face. She figured strippers never allowed their tits to come within a foot of a gawking male customer. Yet, Laetitia had not left even an inch. The two body parts—Stephanie's lips and Laetitia's tits—appeared destined for collision.

They were right there. How could Stephanie not grab a taste? She subdued her tongue and just let her lips make brief contact. She heard the soft smack and saw a sexy string of saliva emerge.

She tasted an assortment of delicious flavors—from natural skin to a strong, sweet appletini. She resisted the urge to slip in some tongue. A sample would have to do for now.

She admired the grace with which Laetitia navigated the stage and the various customer dance positions. In this instance, though, Stephanie did not feel like a customer. The pleasures of the encounter transported her from reality to some other planet in some other universe.

Laetitia leaned over and whispered a daunting question into Stephanie's ear: "What's your name, beautiful?"

"S-s-s-tephanie," she stammered, not even thinking long enough to concoct a fake name.

Nothing prepared her for what came next. Laetitia moved in closer. Stephanie worried for a moment they might bump heads, not digesting the intent. Laetitia's lower lip met Stephanie's upper lip. Then, Laetitia's upper lip caressed Stephanie's lower lip. The surrounding room fell motionless during this three-second event that may have amounted to a peck more than a kiss.

Just before parting, Laetitia managed to sneak in a splash of tongue. Stephanie tasted coconut and Grey Goose.

"Thank you Stephanie," she said with a playful laugh. Those three words packed the power of those initial smiles. Oh my God, Stephanie thought. Just breathe. Compose yourself.

As Laetitia moved away to attend to another male client waving his money, the gravity of the situation assaulted Stephanie. She almost drowned in the sea of "woops" and applause. More than 25 men seated near the front were staring at her with lustful, satisfied eyes. She had just put on an unintentional show for them.

She could not decide if that aroused or infuriated her.