A Lap Dance to RememberbyMystical Michael©
A Lap Dance to Remember
Dean always looked askance at conventioneers and itinerant business travelers, those adolescence souls who saved up a year's worth of tomcatting and partying until it was time to join their lodge buddies in Vegas, Miami or New Orleans for a long weekend of margaritas, strippers and peep shows. He could spot them within 5 feet of the front door. Invariably they would enter the hotel or nightclub with their voices raised a few decibels, and their eyes opened just a millimeter or two wider than normal. They were on the town, away from the ball and chain, with some or all of their cash flow augmented by the miracle called an expense account. Pathetic clowns, they wasted energy and brain cells in the pursuit of things forbidden, or unattainable back at home — the elusive uncovered D cup or the sure thing that delivered orgasm without demanding similar benefit in return.
No, Dean was a connoisseur of commercial sexuality. Any idiot could stumble into a bar on Bourbon Street and find himself within groping distance of a silicon or saline-enhanced bimbo. And when you thought about it, how difficult is it to chat up the female sales rep for a pharmaceutical company while sitting in the bar at the Holiday Inn? To convince her that you're two misunderstood souls who could surely benefit from a Merlot-fueled evening of slap and tickle? The saddest thing about all of that was the closet desperation, the belief that failure to get laid somehow cast a pall of failure on their trip or accidental vacation.
He'd encountered enough of these people (male and female) to know that they usually went home struggling with a hangover and a load of guilt that would support their neighborhood florist for the coming month. No, Dean had discovered long ago that the exchange of currency (furnished in whole or part via the largess of the expense voucher) provided a cleansing factor that enabled him to preserve his liver and maintain that air of "gee, it's good to be back home" at the end of the week. Why waste karma and chromosomes in the pursuit of divertissement, when a little oil to the macroeconomic engine could relieve stress, enliven the libido and still enable you to return to the family without having to look over your shoulder?
Not that he was immune to the charms of the navel-pierced twenty something behind the counter of the Seven Eleven. But who wants to worry about cute little Donna borrowing your business card — just in case she ever decides to move to the city and needs a job while she gets started on her modeling career? His one encounter with a social disease had originated from a relationship like that. And that was back in the era of free love, when the only sexual connotation for the letters A.. I.. D.. S .. dealt with plastic penises and cock rings, sold through catalogs for the benefit of married couples and young widows. Okay, call him a sentimental pervert if you will. But Dean was a man of honor, albeit a skewed sense of honor who saw a clear distinction between the betrayal of marital trust and a business transaction that might involve some use of the words "nude" and "lewd."
Years of traveling as a field service engineer, a euphemistic term for "shit fixer" in the heavy machinery business, had allowed Dean to work his philosophy of guiltless, retail sex into a wealth of memories and information that allowed him to obtain sexual dalliance with a minimum of physical or emotional effort, no matter where he happened to visit. Let's face it, how many people east of the Mississippi even know that there IS a topless bar in Topeka? Not to mention find it, without directions, one hour after driving through the city limits?
Is it worthwhile to pop for the extra twenty dollars to pass into the realm of the "VIP" room at the Baltimore gentlemen's club? Ask Dean, he could confirm or deny the potential of additional comforts to be gained. He knew which cities offered decent prostitution behind the doors of their massage parlors and modeling studios, and which ones were littered with rip-off joints that offered the satisfaction equivalent to a Penthouse inspired masturbation session illuminated by the light of a stack of twenties burning in the ashtray. Let the itinerant rubes go off in their feverish pursuit of poontang at the titty bars. Dean knew where, how and how much it took to obtain some measure of sexual gratification in almost every corner of the country.
Thus it was that he found himself touring the length of Cathedral Street in Houston, in search of a watering hole with a name akin to "Sophisticated Lady" or "Lips of Elegance" — something reminiscent of classy femininity. He'd been made aware of this new (to him) establishment through conversation with the excruciatingly shapely Misty of El Paso. She'd provided him with a full hour of one on one conversation, followed by one of the more memorable twenty-dollar lap dances he'd ever purchased. Almost any dancer could find the wherewithal to smile through the chitchat, up to the moment of truth when she inquired about the possibility of a private dance.
But Misty was unhurried, and seemed genuinely interested in discussing the plus and minuses of the various clubs she'd worked at throughout Texas. She had been most enthusiastic of this one club in Houston, noting that "a gentleman like you will certainly enjoy this place. And if you visit there, be sure and see my former roommate, Shea. Mention me and I know that she'll treat you right." Now, if only he could remember the name of the damned place. Maybe if the smell of the perfume rising so warmly from Misty's notable cleavage had not been so intoxicating, he'd have retained more than "Cathedral Street," "Shea" and this vague allusion to moneyed sex appeal that surrounded the business's moniker.
Maybe he was losing his edge. He was after all fifty-two. But at last, after twenty minutes the cinder block Taj Mahal known as the Sophisticate Room loomed on his right. It looked promising from the start. Turning into the parking lot, he observed a clutch of young women gossiping away near a car. Their dress (costume?) and body language gave immediate rise to thoughts of cheap sex, but the one in the shredded dress caught Dean's eye in a way that would be hard to explain. Sure, she had lovely legs and the type of brown curly hair that practically screamed "blow jobs here," but the dress was entirely unique.
Actually, to call it a dress would have been a stretch as it barely covered her ass. In fact, since it featured a wealth of slits and holes, using the word "covered" was something of a misnomer. How in the hell did she put it on? And how long would it be before she took it off? Parking the rental car, he left it unlocked (in the event of a hurried exit like the one he had to make from that one club in Detroit) before strolling to the entrance; casually checking out the girls, while they remained deep in their conversation.
The contrast between the late afternoon light, and the dark interior of the club could not have been greater. It took him a moment or two to adjust his eyes, and during that moment a cute little hostess pranced up to mouth "welcome to the Sophisticate" while the sound system blared an Aerosmith song at almost earsplitting volume. She ushered him to a booth between two of the three stages and took his drink order. Okay, he would have preferred to scope things out a bit before planting himself, but she seemed insistent and Dean was nothing if not polite to an attractive lady.
Before she had returned with the Coors Light, he was joined by an equally friendly and very exotic looking dancer whose thick, Brazilian accent rendered intelligible conversation nearly impossible. "Shea? Oh she no work days, she only come in after ten." Were it not for the fact that her left nipple kept slipping out of her halter, Dean would have probably downed the beer and chalked the trip up to a wild goose chase within five minutes. As it was, Thea grew impatient after a few minutes of polite head nodding, with no obvious offer of gratuity and moved on in search of a less selective customer.
His solitude was to be short-lived, as the "slit slut" quickly slid into the across the naugahide and practically into his lap. Hell, her hand was already fondling the inside of his thigh before she even opened her mouth. "Hi there, I'm Pam!" preceded a chatterbox introduction, along with the inquiry as to "what do you like to do for fun?" Suddenly the twenty minutes of driving down Cathedral Street didn't seem to be as fruitless as it had fifteen minutes ago.
"Some guys don't care for girls that are too friendly, I hope you aren't one of them" she said, in the biggest understatement Dean had encountered since his mother had noted that "with a draft lottery number like that, you might want to consider the Coast Guard or Canada." Okay, so maybe she wasn't quite the stunner up close, but hey, that dress was a work of art! It didn't take long to discern the complete absence of a bra and that the standard issue t-back panties were crafted from blue lace. Lucky lace!
What was it about her? The legs for one (or two) things, long and smooth, and something about them practically screamed "put your hears between us!" Usually, Dean was content with the label of boob man, but the fact that Pam's tits would struggle to fill a B cup didn't seem to be a factor. Here it was just as well, the rest of her body was slim, but somehow it worked… especially in a dress that his eyes couldn't stop examining. It wasn't really a dress of slits; it was ingeniously constructed of inch wide ribbon. And who cared whether the shape underneath was Pamela Anderson or Kate Moss? This was a feast for the eyes, and Pam was selling it! Her dancing hand in his crotch only endeared her to him even more.
Conversation came naturally. They watched the other girls hustling the conventioneers and slackers for table dances, critiquing their style of dance and what made each one sexy. She laughed at his jokes, told stories about $300 dates with oil men, and… oh yeah… never took her hand more than a few inches away from his aroused cock. Granted, she hadn't actually "touched" it yet, but his growing state of arousal led to serious speculation that he was in the presence of a hand job all star! This girl was good! Her fingers practically danced over his thighs, caressing, stroking and teasing his penis in a way that it had never been tormented before. Sure, there was a hint of dexterous contact with the prisoner of his jockey shorts. But it had the distinct appearance of being accidental, or at best artfully ambiguous.
She verified that the elusive Shea was normally a night performer, adding that this was usually her night off. But by this point, Dean was beyond caring. He was enjoying the attention of Pam, and the thought of waiting for someone else had long since fled his mind. She volunteered that she was married, had two kids aged 12 and 10, and considered herself to be a professional stripper. This level of candor made her unique enough in his view.
Most dancers were models, students or actresses in waiting. But Pam was a stripper, with the sole ambition of someday moving into management of the club she had been working in for eight years. "Oops! I hope I didn't hurt you there. I just get a little wound up with some songs and I've always been one to talk with my hands" she said after a notable encounter between his cock and her well-manicured nails. This digital dance between constrained penis and artful fingers continued with the conversation, until he realized that he was three beers into the evening and his interest in Pam's body was beginning to border on obsession.
Just as he was becoming aware of the fact that his ardor would require some form of relief, she abruptly stood up and announced that she was due on stage. "You do want to see me on stage, don't you?" she asked. His snarled response of "actually, I was hoping to see you underneath me" was met with visible interest and a melting smile. The night's excursion was approaching a delightful level of success. And there was still time.
Like most Texas strip clubs, the dancers seemed required to enter the stage in some state of fully costumed coverage. Given the architecture of Pam's dress, "coverage" was a misnomer if ever there was one. Moving with the music, in a way that only underscored her twelve years of experience, she performed like no other woman in the club. It went beyond the typical solicitation of tips. When she slithered her near nude body in front of each customer, you could see the transformation as they became the only man and woman in the room.
Her eyes locked on his. Her sensual fingers stroked her skin like no lover could, and more than one customer was observed to replace the dollar bill between his fingers with a five or a ten, in hopes of having those hands stroke him. One of the amateurs that Dean so callously regarded, earned an assisted trip back to his table courtesy of the bouncer. Two hands, firmly massaging a dancer's ass while placing his nose deep between her legs apparently exceeded the house rules for polite conduct. Not that Pam seemed to mind, in fact, the bemused look that she flashed at Dean only suggested that she was anxious for similar treatment from him.
Practiced tipper that he was, Dean positioned himself so that Pam's body was between him and the bouncer, and his body was between the bouncer and the mirror behind him. This subtle discretion was rewarded by a less than brief exposure of the delights previously hidden behind the lacy t-back. The talent in this girl's fingers only hinted at the flexibility and command that she had over her vulvae muscles. This was incredible! Pam was incredible! Reflecting on her stories of paid dates, he began to mentally calculate the potential cost of that which was becoming his avowed goal.
The end of her set found him back in the booth, with another bottle of beer, and she wasted little time in rejoining him. But before sitting down, she offered her hand and led him to a table in the far corner of the room. "We have a better view here" she explained, "and a little more privacy." Somehow, the ribbon dress had been reapplied to her torso. Meanwhile, Thea from Brazil was wrapping her tits around the face of some redneck three tables away.
They resumed the conversation from before her stage performance. Yes, her husband knew where she worked, and no, he had no major problems with her performances. Dean avoided the temptation to explore that line of questioning any further after she volunteered that "he just doesn't know the full extent of my 'performances'." After mentally noting that Thea was indulging her fourth client/victim since leaving him, he finally asked, "Are you ever going to offer me a private dance?" "Well sure, is it my fault that I was having too much fun?" she answered while her fingertips traced up and down his almost painfully erect rod. No "accident" here. She was teasing his cock. He knew it, she knew it, and the only remaining mystery was "just how much is this going to cost?"
"Table dances are usually $25…" she whispered. The tired line of "but for you…" never came, as he reached into his pocket wallet to obtain the required cash from his wallet. "Oh well, she's just another commissioned marketer" he thought. No sense getting sentimental about this. A quick glance in the direction of the door, verified his suspicion that the management was keeping a casual eye on their employees' interaction with the customers, and Dean prepared to play the "how much can I get away with" game.
She stood before him, showcasing those lovely legs again. Placing a stilettoed foot on the chair, she struck a pose worthy of Dietrich or any one of a thousand Fosse-choreographed dancers. The long fingers stroked her smooth flesh and he began to wonder if she'd been holding back during her onstage performance. The look in her eyes foreshadowed the type of interest that made him want to magically transform their location from a tacky strip club into a more solitary hotel room. Meanwhile a creature from the bottom of the club food chain had approached, the type of cheap-ass so and so that likes to watch someone else get a lap dance instead of paying for one himself. A stern look from the both of them bought a small bit of renewed privacy.
Okay, maybe a laundry list of her dance moves would carry the "like any other stripper" label. There was the "hip swivel", the "lap grind", the "bend over and display the butt" move with the optional "pussy peek." Old standards to be sure, but beloved old standards when presented with the skill of a woman like this. More inspiration was garnered from the faux blow job that ended the set, with Pam nestled between his (unfortunately) clothed legs, her forehead applying serious friction to a cock that was restrained and incredibly uncomfortable.
As if on cue, the DJ segued the music into Robert Palmer's "Simply Irresistible" and her look of "shall I continue" was met with a definite nod of affirmation. More of the same? Not at all, Pam was all over him this time… above… below, and forget about the standard stripper air kiss. This girl could swap tongue with the best of them, and probably had. Nipples had never tasted so nice, and she clearly enjoyed it when he sucked on them (while slyly glancing in the direction of the bouncer who was now engaged in a rather spirited phone call regarding point spreads on the weekend NFL games). And as always there were the hands roaming all over his body, with specific (and surely illegal) attention to his cock. By this point, Dean was beginning to wonder how he'd managed to avoid the type of leakage that could make the "amateurs" rethink their wardrobe selection of khakis or other light colored pants. "Thank God for dark slacks!"
As the strains of Robert Palmer faded away, replaced by the DJ's exhortations to give it up for the girls leaving and entering the stages, they both leaned back into the booth. His arm regained its place around her shoulder, while her hand began playing more earnestly with his zipper. "You know, Sweetheart" she breathed into his ear, a lot of guys find underwear to be entirely too restrictive!" Interesting choice of words, since the only thing between her palm and his nut sack at this point was a micron or two of polycotton fiber. Damn! It had to be a little damp, from the precum alone. "Aren't you a little overdue for a visit to the men's room Sugar? The words practically dripped with sex, reinforced by a gentle squeeze of his Johnson and the comment "I'd never use the tem 'little boys room' with something like this in my hand." Not being stupid, Dean wasted little time getting up, rearranging himself and walking to the corner facility. No mean feat, given the fact that he was sure that the eyes of every solitary customer, the bouncer, manager and bartender were glued on his every step.
Once in the stall, he surveyed the situation, and muttered a quiet prayer that nobody should enter the room while his pants and shoes were off to facilitate the removal of the offensive jockey shorts. Perhaps a practiced lothario could undress and redress quickly, but Dean had always preferred massage parlors or hotel rooms for the creature comforts of being able to undress and dress in a nice, unhurried fashion. Why put yourself in a situation when the unexpected arrival of a husband or boyfriend might necessitate dressing and running simultaneously? But if indeed there is a patron saint of activities lewd and lascivious, he/she was with him, as he stuffed his shorts into his pockets and strode back out into the club. "Note to self, next time make sure the dark trousers also have deep pockets" he though, acutely aware of the bulge from his left side.
He rejoined his curly headed siren in the booth, and conversation picked up from before. Only this time, he was acutely disappointed to notice that her hands (after a brief examination of his nether regions) seemed more interested in drawing his lips to hers. A nod from the bouncer seemed to confirm the suspicion that his sensual fun might have peaked for the evening. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted and there were at least two massage parlors and one peep show between here and his hotel, any one of which would provide ample opportunity to lessen the strain from in his balls. Further disappointment arrived when he popped the question, "what time do you get off?" followed by a sincerely disappointed reply of "just one minute before my husband picks me up."