VIP Titty-Bar Treatment

I lived in St. Louis in the late 80s and early 90s. Across the Mississippi River in Illinois is where all the strip joints and hot tub places are, and most of the girls who worked over there were students or had "regular" jobs and were just picking up extra dough. So they were virtually all young and very good-looking—hardly a skank in the bunch. Most of the customers, like me, were businessmen from St. Louis, where you could have a naked hottie in your lap in less than a 10-minute drive from downtown.

East St. Louis, Sauget, Centerville, and other nearby little Illinois towns had high unemployment from all the manufacturing and chemical plants that had closed down, and crime was rampant. The first time I drove over there I got all turned around and actually saw a guy walking down the street with an AK-47. Don't know if he was a good guy protecting himself or a bad guy up to no good, but I chose not to ask him for directions and find out.

Anyway, the point is, the cops over there had better things to do than bust the strip joints, and the communities direly needed the tax base they provided, so things got very wild inside them—especially if you were a regular customer and the girls got to know you.

My favorite time to go there, PT's and Diamond Cabaret--which were only half a mile apart and under the same management--was in the late afternoon by myself on weekdays. The lunch crowd had cleared out by then and the after-work crowd had not yet come in. The evening shift girls were just coming in and the day shift ones were about to get off, so it was usually slow with very few customers.

The first time I went to PT's, as soon as I walked in the door, I went in the men's room stall to take a dump—a case of I-cannot-wait-another-moment. I did my business, flushed, and the toilet ran over and flooded the floor. I went to wipe, but, in my haste, had not noticed that there was no toilet tissue. It was then that I saw that the roll, along with my fecal boli, was in the commode—that's what caused it to run over. Some vandal had plugged it up. Not a problem. I'd just go into the adjacent stall and get some TP from it.

But the stall door would not open. I turned the lock as hard as I could, and the handle just twisted off in my hand, leaving the bolt in the locked position and the door secure as the hinges of hell. I pushed and shook and rattled the door, but couldn't get the damn thing open to save my life. Great. Here I am alone locked in a strange bathroom with no tissue and a dirty ass.

With the floor flooded with piss and shit, I wasn't about to go under the stall wall, so I slipped my shorts off, hung them on the hook, and used the toilet as a step to go over the top. My shoes being wet against the slippery porcelain, when I made a strong push-off, I slipped, and my entire right foot immersed in the water—smashing a soft turd into the suede of my brand new New Balance running shoes and soaking my sock in piss-water.

Clawing the wall as I fell, I knocked the heavy ring of keys from the shallow pocket of my running shorts. Guess where they landed? Yep, right into the commode. In fact, they disappeared down the drain, from which my foot had just conveniently dislodged the roll of tissue. I reached into the filthy drain and retrieved the keys, now encrusted with the excrement of perhaps a thousand men. My keyless remote never did work after that.

I have an especially high frustration tolerance, but at that point, I was boiling mad, exacerbated by the fact that I could hear the loud music and the DJ's stale jokes from the club. So, with adrenaline pumping, I cleared the wall like Teddy Roosevelt attacking San Juan Hill. In so doing, the entire metal wall separating my stall from the next ripped out of its moorings in the solid tile wall, making a crashing noise that sounded like all hell breaking loose and inflicting bloody gashes on my forehead, an elbow, both hands, and a knee.

It was then that the bouncer appeared. Think about it from his point of view: The restroom floor is flooded with water, urine, and feces; he has just heard a loud noise which was obviously the stall wall, now slightly bent over a commode, being torn down; and the sole person in there was a sweaty, bloody bottomless geezer with a crappy butt. What would you think?

The bouncer, who resembled Hulk Hogan, screamed, "What the fuck are you doin', asshole!!!"

Fortunately, I immediately sized up the situation correctly, and took a quiet, non-confrontational, rationale approach. It's really amazing how you can sometimes deflate a person's aggression by giving them no fight. For the aggressor, it's like socking his fist into a vat full of jelly—it just doesn't do anything. Speaking in a barely audible monotone with minimal facial inflection and body movement, I simply explained in chronological order exactly what happened, then wiped my ass with paper towels, slipped on my shorts, washed my hands and keys and shoes, and asked him if they had a first aid kit.

It worked, and he left and returned with the kit and the manager, who apologized over and over, saying someone had been intentionally stopping up the toilets, and they mistakenly thought I might be he. I told him that I had just moved to the area, what I did for a living, that I frequented "gentlemen's clubs" often, and was looking for a regular place. On the way out, we shook hands, he apologized again, and he gave me a thick stack of free passes, saying if I ever needed anything to ask him personally and consider it done.

So I never had to pay a cover charge for any of the strip joints under that company's management, and in, fact, I had so many passes that there were still a few left when I moved away from the area. I generally stopped in PT's, Diamond Cabaret, or both a couple times a week. The girls and managers and DJs got to know me, and I them, quite well. With only a handful of customers in the late afternoons, the girls were downright bored, and they'd enjoy my entertaining them with jokes and stories and chitchat.

Although I didn't hesitate to drop twenties for lap dances, a few of the girls got to like me so much they wouldn't even charge me, or do multiple dances for a single twenty. As long as I bought beers, the managers didn't pay us any mind, for they knew I referred a lot of well-heeled businessmen there who spent big bucks in the evenings.

I could tell you scores of stories, but the general routine was the same. I'd come in wearing a tee-shirt, running shoes, and shorts (I changed out of my suit at the company gym and just kept on those clothes after working out), tipped the dancers lots of ones while they stripped on stage, and go to my usual table in the most secluded spot with a couple brews.

Then one or two of the gals would come back and give me lap dances. Sometimes, when it was especially slow, several girls would come back and give me multiple multi-girl dances as we talked and laughed and carried on. Knowing me, they were sincerely friendly and totally relaxed, and I was treated like a VIP.

Cherokee was the first dancer I got to know pretty well. A tall, long-legged, medium-boobed gal in her late 20s with long, wavy blonde hair, she was married to a cop and had twin boys. She was a really, really nice person without a fake bone in her body like some dancers.

I'd been going there several months, and she was one of the girls I always made sure to get a lap dance from. I was wearing my usual thin nylon running shorts, which is like wearing nothing at all. (Not a coincidence that I wore them there!) Cherokee had extraordinarily smooth skin and danced with slow, sensuous moves, and she was sitting in my lap facing me rubbing her magnificent, big-nippled tits all over my face while sliding her barely-covered pussy up and down against the underside of my steel-hard cock.

Her bald pussy lips were bulging through the thin triangle of her thong and literally hugging my dick. Knowing I was on the brink of cumming, I tried to wriggle away, but she adjusted her position right with me, and I blew with a real intense orgasm. She knew exactly what she was doing and closed her thighs together to milk every drop of cum out of me. That felt better than 3/4 of the girls I've actually fucked.

"I've wanted to do that since the first time I gave you a dance. You're such a nice, funny guy. Stay put and I'll go get you some Kleenex from the girls' room."

She returned with the tissues, along with two more Buds on the house, and watched intently as I cleaned myself up.

"I love to make a man cum, but I've never felt comfortable doing it here at the club until now. And you've got such a pretty cock, too, so meaty and veiny," she said, stroking it softly with the long, slender fingers of one hand while tickling my balls with the nails of her other.

We sat there and talked for a while, while I finished the beers. Then it was her turn to dance again, so she tied her top back on and left for the stage while I stayed put.

She picked up the wad of Kleenex as she left, brought it up to her nose, and said, "Mmmmm, I just love that smell."

The routine was the same for all the dancers in the East St. Louis area: First dance is with top and bottom on, second dance the top comes off, and the third and final dance the bottoms come down. As long as the thong stays above the knees, the law over there considers them not to be bottomless, even though their pussy and ass is entirely exposed. Go figure, but I was not protesting!

Once in a while two girls would dance on the same stage at the same time, and this was just such an occasion. The beautiful Roxanne joined Cherokee, and they were doing a girl-girl act that had me half hard again, you know, fondling each other and licking each others' tits and playing spanky-spanky.

Roxanne was another one of my favorites there. She was a spry little 5-foot, 95-pound pixie with a dark complexion, brown, shoulder-length hair and pert D-cup boobs tipped with dark, pointy nipples with hardly any areola surrounding them. She had told me she'd had a silicone breast enhancement when she was only 17, which would have been in the mid-1980s. Curiously, though she had the best boob job I've ever seen--utterly undetectable--she said she wished she hadn't done it.

By the third dance, their bottoms were down to their knees, and they were in a 69 twiddling each other's twats, Cherokee's lippy pussy pointed right at me. It looked like they were going down on one another, and I badly wanted to leave my distant table for a close-up to see if they really were or just feigning, but my light blue shorts were printed dark with cum, and I was too embarrassed to walk all the way across the club. Frustrating!

The waitress brought me two more beers as I hid my hips beneath the table.

Shortly, Cherokee and Roxanne finished their respective lap dances with other customers and sauntered together over to my table.

"How'd you like a double lap dance, sailor?" they asked.

I reached for my wallet, but Cherokee said, "Put that away. This one's on us," as Roxanne positioned a couple chairs to block the view of the only other person in there who could see us, the DJ.

They slathered themselves all over me, Roxanne pulling up my tee-shirt to rub her lovely boobs against my chest while Cherokee first kissed her then got down on her knees out of my line of sight to nibble my cock through my cum-encrusted shorts. I liked this place! A lot!

After a myriad of positions , Cherokee eventually mounted me facing away, then, grabbing my spread knees with her hands and placing her shins on top of my shoulders, she hoisted herself up and back and smashed her barely-covered crotch right into my mouth!

With my nose right in her butt hole, I gazed down between her thighs to watch Roxanne, who was now kneeling on the floor between my legs, pull my shorts to the side and squeeze her big breasts around my raging hard cock, gently titty-fucking me so fine.

As if that were not already positively GREAT, she reached up and slid Cherokee's thong over to reveal her totally bare, sweet-smelling, freshly-shaved pussy. I mumbled something about it being only fair that I give her pleasure before flicking her clit with with my tongue and licking all the way up through her rapidly moistening big labia to make fast circles on her squinch hole. Repeat as directed, so sayeth the good doctor!

Unbelievable!!! Here I am in a titty bar with two of the hottest women to ever walk the planet eating one's pussy and getting titty-fucked by the other! And for free, no less!!!

This went on for several more songs. I felt Cherokee start to quiver, so I reached around, grasped her dangling C cups hard, and tweaked her rubbery pencil eraser nipples. She rared back into my face, literally plunging my nose INTO her bottom hole while I lick-sucked her swollen clit for all I was worth.

"I'm cumming; I'm cumming; I'm cumming," she repeated, pussy juice streaming down my chin and her whole body vibrating as she French-kissed Roxanne while she never missed a stroke with my dick in her cleavage.

Cherokee was breathing hard and her chest was heaving as I hung onto her lovely breasts. She rocked slightly forward off my mouth, and I felt the pressure of Roxanne's tits lessen around my cock. I looked down and could see that Roxanne had three fingers in her own pussy, plunging in and out extra-fast while her thumb did clit duty.

Even so, she took her free arm and wrapped it around her tits from beneath, squeezing her orbs around my shaft and maintaining the up-and-down titty-fuck action. Amazing!

Before long, I heard her say, "I'm about to cum, yous guys," and she released her arm from her boobs and put both hands to use on her itty-bitty pussy. Wow, what a sight to behold! All in the same field of view was Cherokee's ass, glistening asshole and gaping pussy, and just beyond, her dangling nipply boobs, my purple-domed missile, Roxanne's pert footballs, and--the piece de resistance--Roxanne's furiously wrong-side-outing her little pixie pussy with six fingers, three from each hand, knuckle's against knuckles.

Roxanne screamed out something unintelligible just as the song ended, and the DJ looked over our way. While he could not directly see anything, only a dunce could wonder what was going on, and I felt a twinge of paranoia.

He started another song, the Pink Floyd number that starts with, "Breathe, breathe in the air," looked away, and cracked a stale joke. Just then, Cherokee sucked my entire cock into her warm, wet mouth in one smooth motion. Talk about feel good!!!

She performed the BJ with expert precision, and Roxanne assisted by licking and nibbling my balls. Since I had cum not long before and had had a few beers, I knew I could just relax and let the girls have at me.

They took turns sucking me and simul-sucking me as I variously ate out Cherokee's pussy and ass some more, spanked her perfect, tight buns, played with her dangling boobs, and, with my long arms, even reached Roxanne's enhanced ones. As I said before, she had the best set of fake boobs I've ever had the pleasure of playing with.

I felt my cum slowly rising, but knew it would be a few minutes yet. What to do that I had not already in this position in which I was basically anchored down?

Aha! It came to me. While Cherokee was sucking my dick and Roxanne nibbling my balls, I used one foot to force the shoe on the other foot off and peel the sock off. Then I wiggled my big toe into Roxanne's pussy. It was really wet, and felt great. I could tell by her quickening breathing on my scrotum that she liked it, too.

I wriggled and wriggled it inside her pussy. Man, what an extremely tight pussy she had! Her whole crotch was sopping wet, and, in my wriggling efforts, my "ring toe" found her butt hole, and I actually managed to insert it while keeping the big toe inside her pussy.

"That's SO kinky," she said, "And SO good," just before sticking a wet finger in my asshole. Turnabout, as they say, is fair play.

Well, that's all it took, and I blew inside Cherokee's mouth in an explosion that might put Mount Pinatubo to shame.

With my cock all the way in her mouth and her throat muscles contracting around it as she swallowed over and over, coupled with Roxanne's index finger buried in my ass as she sucked my balls and tickled them with the nails of her other hand while I stuck my tongue deep into Cherokee's ass and vibrated my palms against her erect nipples, I could say it was the best orgasm of my life.

But I always say that.

Well, we kissed goodbye and, of course, there was nothing to clean up this time. I downed the last of my not-so-cold Bud and left the club just in time to avoid rush hour traffic.

When I got home I so enjoyed smelling Cherokee's pussy and ass on my hands and Roxanne's on my foot while mentally re-enacting the scene that I was hesitant to take a shower.

But I did, knowing there would probably be more occasions at those two strip joints to reapply such odors.