In and Out

New city, new clubs. But I don't have much time so it will have to be in and out.

I started with the biggest and best, a chain club that I've always wanted to visit. It's literally a palace on the outside. This has to be good. A reasonable cover and I'm in to a luxury pit with a huge main stage, plush tables, and big screens everywhere. Wow! It's everything I would have expected and more. I bet this place must be jumping on a weekend night. Unfortunately, this is a midweek afternoon and the place is dead. 3 zombie girls, 5 patrons, and a DJ that's threatening what feeble customer base he has with endless playing of "break songs" until someone starts tipping. "My girls don't dance for free!". Nothing happening here, and I'm gone in ten minutes. In and out.

I'll try one more before I give up and sack out in the hotel. It's a little hard to find, and I pass it up on the highway. Cirlcing back, I pull into the back parking lot with 50 other cars. That's a good sign.

Walking in I can see that the place is jumping, full of energy. A huge room, two stories tall, with 4 stages and neon lit side areas including a "Champagne VIP". Semi-naked girls everywhere. Everywhere! A quick scan of the room and I can see more than twenty dancers in all kinds of wild stripper outfits, including a wild girl walking by me with bare-ass chaps on. Hello. How will I choose? I grabbed a beer and a table on the main aisle to figure that out.

I see Dancer walk by and immediately my search is over. She's clearly the top talent in my field of view and she's out on the floor working the room. I quickly catch her eye and she joins me for a drink. Dancer is a beauty, way out of my league, and I'm entranced by her as we talk. I'm holding my own, though, as we talk about the dynamics of the club, her travels as a dancer, and the bruise on her slim and lovely knee. "Are you ready for a dance", she soon asks. This is an easy decision and I follow her to the VIP private area for what I know will be only one $40 dance.

What are the rules in here? I forgot to ask. I'm captivated by this early twenties sex goddess before me. After clearing my person of sharp or protruding objects, we dance. Not knowing the rules, I lay back with my arms out to the sides and go into my gentlemanly "no-touch" posture and let Dancer dance her routine for me. It works - for half a song. Dancer goes through the poses - straddle, grind, reverse, back to straddle facing me. Nothing's happening with the wood. I'm amazed, not necessarily aroused, which is okay. It's only going to be one song. That's not going to get me there. I'm content to just enjoy this beautiful girl being here with me, against me, on me. Dancer seems suddenly perplexed by my reserve and I become a challenge to her. Leaning into me, and draping her long thin silky hair over me, she takes both of my hands firmly into hers and clasps them directly on her tits. Small, soft, real, sexy tits. Wow. And I join her in touch. My hands quickly caressing her in my usual touch mode. Fingertips only. Moving. Stroking. Memorizing her slim sexy toned body. Incredible. She grinds quicker on my lap, moans deeper into my ear, and starts planting wet sloppy kisses on my cheek. Oh my. I could spend an hour here and be in love. The wood is responding. Too late, and the song is over.

I regained my composure and thanked Dancer. "You made my night", I tell her and I'm gone.

In and Out.

Girl Watching in Layover Hell

6 hours in the prison known as a concourse of one of the World’s busiest airports.

People watching. Well half-of-the-people watching. The amazing capacity of the brain to filter out half of the population from my vision. The wrong chromosome pair not even on my radar screen.

If you’re a people watcher and you’ve had a long layover in an airport then you know that there are strategic chair placements in certain gate areas that are perfect. Not the cattle herding areas where the chair clusters are cramped and facing each other. Oh no. The rare few seats that line the concourse facing out. Perfect for people watching.

Ok, let’s be honest. Perfect for butt watching. Beautiful butts. Jean clad butts. Bouncing butts. Swishing butts. Barely there butts. Vivacious teenage butts. Slim Asian butts. Shy girls hiding their butts behind sweaters. Juicy girls flaunting their butts in low riders. Oh man, are there some delicious butts to enjoy tonight.

And hair. All lengths, shapes and colors. Short bleached blonde hair. Long silky brunette hair. Flaming red hair. Elegant styled hair.

And lips. Luscious juicy pillow-ish lips like those on the two beautiful exotic Indian teens sitting next to me waiting their flight to Canada. Yeow! Would it be wrong to jump them and kiss them for the next hour?

And shoes. Heels and boots and stilettos and flip-flops. Plain shoes and fashionable shoes with beautiful ladies attached.

I don’t normally have a thing for shoes. But the beautiful blonde seated in front of my for a late lunch had on the most interesting shoes today. She was interesting as well. Shoulder length blonde streaked hair. A perfect tan and makeup. Elegant silk blouse and form fitting slacks. Expensive but tasteful jewelry – not trophy wife bling, but expensive. And those boots. Black polished leather with a high thin heel. And long, sharp, impossibly angled, wickedly pointed toes. Very exotic. Very erotic. Looking at the whole package, I’m thinking traveling feature dancer for high end gentleman’s clubs. (I saw her later in the concourse after we’d both been rebuffed on standby. I walked up beside her and said “I meant to compliment you earlier in the restaurant – you have very interesting shoes.” She smiled and thanked me and we walked together for a while. I wished her a good flight and went on my way. She’s probably wondering about the traveling businessman with the shoe fetish! J Actually, I was more smitten by that slim delicious butt in the elegantly tailored slacks.

It’s hard to be horny in layover hell.

Erotic Echo

...to my last post, "Passionate Kisses", from an anonymous wonderful female who was compelled to leave her computer in a good way:

She likes to be taken.

Words have pulled her here. Into the space where words fall away, after they have finished their work and now echo insistently inside her.

The echo vibrates and pulses and demands. Now it is the pleasure-pain of strong need for her. Pulling her willingly to an even deeper place.

She realizes she is following the rhythm and cadence of the words in her self pleasure. Slowly, slowly. Is this to soothe or excite more..the warmth moves and moves and grows.

A kaleidoscope of images swirls before her. The ceiling above her bed becomes a screen for the slide show that doesn't stop playing before her open eyes.. Oh God, now she hears his voice. Oh God...

The wave picks her up .Legs draw up involuntarily. Shudders run through her shoulders and the pleasure becomes audible. The orgasm is deep and wide and long and hard.

The wave drops her there. Drained of need temporarily. But only temporarily, because...

She likes to be taken.

Very nice. Thank you, my friend, for sharing.

Passionate Kisses

She likes to be taken. And this week, on a break from the clubs and in the midst of discord, I took her.

She was hurried. Pent up passion unleashed and frenzied. Wanting to make it all up in an instant. Frantic desire. Hunger. Devouring hunger.

The first time, yes - I took her. Hard. Rough. Pounding. Intense heat between us, as it was when we were younger. Missionary. From behind with her head pushed down into the mattress. Ankles gripped. Release - for her, not me. That's ok. My turns coming.

The second time, on my terms. Slowing it down. Denying her, in a sense. Pleasing her in the end.

R&B on the CD player to set the mood. Rich, sexy beats and smooth velvet voices. Freshly showered with a new scent to entice her. She starts again, with urgent and busy hands. I stop her hands. Hold her. Still her. And wait. And then I create the headspace.

Kissing first. Soft kisses. Very soft. She kisses back - hard, urgent. I stop her. "Soft kisses, baby. Soft kisses". One song. Two. Soft kisses. Passionate kisses. Slowly, on my terms.

Caresses. Fingertips only. The side of her face. The hollow of her neck. Kisses following. Her back, her sides, her thighs. One song on the CD. Two. The swell of her pendulous breasts. Fingertips only. High on her breasts, just below her collar bones. Working down. I roll her on top of me so that I can explore her with both hands. Caressing. Memorizing. Fingertips only. Her back, the swell of her ass right where it meets her thighs.

The heat of my erection between us. But no penetration. Not yet.

I hold her face in my hands and kiss her as she hovers over me. Only lips. Soft kisses.

On my terms I turn her and settle in between her legs, my hips pressing into her and spreading her legs with their pressure. She reaches for me, as I kiss her, to guide me into her. I deny her, hold back just short. The engorged head of my cock poised at her entrance. Wet, slippery, deliciously hot. And the heat guides me. But I hold short at the entrance.

Small movements. No penetration. Teasing the entrance of her pussy. Sliding against it, but stopping short. Pushing and stopping. And kissing her. Soft, continuous kisses. All lips - no tongue. One song. Holding short.

She's urging me with her calves. Trying to push me in. But I hold short.

Reaching for me with her hands. But I pin them against the bed and hold short. She whimpers into my kiss. Pleading with her moans.

Penetration. One inch. Only one inch. Then out. Penetration. One inch. Then out. And kisses. My lips on hers, soft but unrelenting. Penetration, foreskin deep only.

Two contact points. My lips. The engorged head of my cock. Slow circles at the opening. In. Very slight. Out. Very slight. And kisses. And she whimpers and writhes, but I don't give in. Grooving with the R&B. Nuzzling her neck with my lips as I move, ever so slightly. It feels amazing for me and it's driving her wild.

Contact. Grazing her clit with the engorged head. Wet. Slick. Rhythmic. Sliding. Rubbing the length of her slit and back to her clit. Hands still pinned. And kisses. Unrelenting. Three songs. Four songs. Incoherent mutterings. And kisses, my lips caressing hers. Soft nibbles.

Two points of contact. Her lips. Her clit.

Penetration. One inch only. In and out. Shallow. Wet. Slippery. Volcano hot. Denying my length.

Forty minutes. One Hour. Repeat on the CD. Penetration denied. And passionate kisses.

And when she was completely melted, completely incoherent, completely in the headspace, I took her. Deeply. Long slow strokes. Deep, deep penetration. Hands tightly gripped. And deep, deep kisses. One finger stuffed into her mouth as I stroked, her sucking deeply on it. Two fingers stuffed into her mouth, feeling her tongue grip my fingers. Deep, filling strokes as I pulled her against me.

Release, to the smooth sounds of deep bass vocals, as an orgasm ripped through me from the soles of my feet to the shivering top of my head. My thighs trembling and shaking as I emptied into her.

We stayed entangled for some moments, collecting ourselves. And kissing. Passionate kisses.

Frustration and Discovery

Traveling again, during Valentine’s week. Frustrating.

I’m desperately lonely on the road lately, and horny as hell with no outlet. Frustrated. Oh well, the club will have to do.

Can I find a club? I always have before. I resort to my usual source, the yellow pages. Uh oh, no phone book in my hotel room. Frustrating.

Inspiration! I do an internet search using some familiar resources and I find some clubs listed in this frigid town. Hmmmm. Not enough detail to spot the quality club among the dives. Frustrating.

I set off for a late night drive, showered and dressed appropriately, to an area that seemed to have several club listings. Yeow! I’m not walking into those dives, in this new town, late at night. Not going to happen. I have to abandon my quest. Frustrating.

One last shot, back to my hotel, back on the Internet. What’s this? There’s another listing a couple of miles from my hotel. Out of the parking lot, two short right turns through an industrial park near an airport, and I’m there. But am I where I want to be? Hard to tell from the parking lot and the neon exterior, but it looks close enough to try. So I walk in.

It’s not so much a strip club as it is a small, cozy, bar with some club add-ons. There’s one small stage with a lot of stage lighting, a small DJ booth, and a small room with 3 couches as a VIP area. Other than that, it’s a bar. Everyone in the place, dancers and customers alike, all 10 of them are sitting around the bar. There are tables around the stage, but no one is there except one lonely dancer working hard. Clearly this is a local bar for regulars and I am one giant fish out of water. Should I leave? It’s hard to know. Frustrating.

I tough it out a little longer and find a seat, any seat, at a table. Man, do I stick out. No waitress, no beer. No idea what the tipping custom is. Frustrating. A less confident clubber would cut and run. I decide to stick it out.

A survival move is to relocate to the bar. Not exactly comfortable, but no one is acting hostile and I can breathe easier here. Blend in. Chill out. Survey the scene. What to do next, I have no idea. Frustrating.

After nursing one beer I’m plotting exit and capitulation. Things are not looking positive. The girls, while pretty, are not doing it for me. And the DJ keeps announcing that the girl’s are available for “ten dollar dances”. Ten dollars. That can’t be good. It must me fully clothed, minimal contact. Maybe even no contact. Not what I had in mind. Frustrating.

And then my whole night changes. Discovery!

Dancer comes on stage from out of nowhere and she is a beauty. Sexy, and confident – she owns the stage. Tall and beautiful, lean and toned, exuding sexuality in black and pink hotpants and a matching top that says “Naughty”. Naughty indeed! I can stick around for this. I moved back to the table and commenced to tip her.

I catch Dancer’s eye as she comes off stage. This is not the time to be shy or coy. Off we go to the VIP for ten dollar dances. The room is full and we have to find an empty spot on one of the couches. There’s an almost-orgy going on at the nearest couch, with two girls and a guy buying a simultaneous dance from one dancer. Wow!

“Tell me the rules”, I say as she settles in on my lap.

“Well, the dances are timed by the lights so don’t worry about when we start. My G-string and top will stay on. And you can touch me anywhere but private parts.”

Touch! I can touch for $10? Are you kidding me? This is a DISCOVERY.

Dancer and I settled into a nice lapdance groove. She was into a routine, straddling my lap and moving in slow circles. I switched into my gentlemanly touch mode. My fingertips alive as I caressed her delightfully soft but toned skin. Slow caresses along her sides and her back. Down her thighs. Along her hips. Nuzzling into her neck and against her cheek. Instant headspace. Cradling those incredibly small and tight ass cheeks. Phenomenal.

We had to move twice as couches opened up.

“How am I doing?”, I asked as we resettled.

“Fabulous”, she smiled as she reconnected.

Two songs, three songs, four songs. Lapdance bliss.

“You strike me as a nice guy”, she said as we gathered her things. “I’m heading home for the night. You have a nice stay.”

I only stayed for a little while longer, long enough to see her come out of the dressing room looking extremely civilian sexy in her jeans with her long flowing hair freshly brushed. Hot!

Ten dollar dances. An absolute bargain. And a temporary balm to my frustration.

Thank you, Dancer. I’ll remember you.

Stripper Love

Happy Valentine's Day to all the beautiful, talented, and sexy dancers that I've spent time with in the dark!

Special hugs and kisses to Passion and Spirit, My Lovely Dancer, Sassy Girl, and The Light in Her Eyes. You girls have added a lot to my life. See you in the clubs!

G*diva Ch*c*late

Back in town. I had a nice time at a club here the last time I was in town. (I wrote about it here then - called "Where do you want to put it?") And half hour after I land, ten minutes after I a rental car, before I go find my hotel, I'm there again.

I love this little club. It's small and cozy, but it's fun and the girls are consistently pretty across the board. My plan is to have a beer, tip a few dancers, and then go find my hotel and crash. It works for a while, a short while. I tip a few beautiful blondes and I swear the first one says it again. I folded up a bill and she approaches and asks "Where do you want to put it?" What are my choices? "Top or bottom". I try both, of course. Top is a bill tucked in my mouth and deposited between cushiony breasts. Nice. Bottom is the G-string pulled out and I place the bill directly in front with my teeth. Nicer.

And then Dancer unravels my plan. She's black and tall and an imposing presence on the stage. Incredible long dreadlocks. And she's working it. No one else approaches the stage, so I do.

"You're working hard up here", I say.

"Good answer", she says smiling. Where do I want to put it? Top, indeed.

"Where's the party at", she says, looking over at my empty table.

"Over there, after you get there", I offer.

"Another good answer", she smiles. And I know I'm in for a treat.

Dancer joins me on the couch, and quickly learn four things about her. First, she's Jamaican and very, very beautiful. Second, she's a proud and very sexy black woman. "I should call myself G*diva, for the chocolates, but I'm so fine", she says confidently. Third, she's extremely tipsy, buzzing as she calls it. And fourth, being very tipsy, she's very touchy. And I'm not complaining. This beautiful girl cannot keep her hand off my crotch. And I'm not complaining. A glass of wine and we're off to the couches.

Dancer was an erotic delight, all contact in a full out grope session in the privacy of the back couches. She's way into it and totally okay with my touch. More than okay. She reaches behind her, grabs both of my hands, and slaps! them on her ass. "That's more like it", she says as she resumes molesting me. Oh baby. She rips my shirt tails out of my pants and begins roaming her hands up my chest and pinching my nipples. Yeow! I've got a wildcat on my hands. She joins me in the headspace for a while as she finds my hardness and rides it, pausing the routine to grind for herself. My hands exploring, and my body throbbing. Two songs of all out kiss-less, zipless makeout. Very hot! And I'm out.

So, thank you my gorgeous Jamaican G*diva Ch*c*late. I'll remember you.

on Tipping

A note: about the $1 tipping, mentioned and commented on in my last post. I'm not, as a rule, a big spender in the last year or so. I was in 2003 and I went through thousands of dollars. I scaled back in 2004 and visit the clubs on a manageable budget. I may be a bigger spender again in 2005, we'll see.

Generally, I maximize both my time and my money in the club and spend what I have to spend on high value opportunity. I spend time at the tiprail when I'm ready to tip, usually a $1 a song, more if it's one of my regular dancers. I never sit at the rail if I'm not going to tip and waste a dancer's time or insult her. I also don't make a habit of sitting "for free" at a table and watching all night without tipping. I appreciate that the girls are working. I also don't waste a dancer's time talking at a table if I'm not going to buy a lapdance. If they ask if they can sit down with me, and I'm not ready to or planning to buy a lapdance, I politely decline. Again so that they can move on and work. Somewhere in the night, I will know who I want some dances from and I buy a few (at $20 or $30 per dance) or a 1/2 hour (at $150 per), enjoy myself, and move on. But that's just me. Everyone has their habits.

Just so you can gage me: on the two-night upscale cicuit that I'm writing posts about, I visited 4 clubs in two nights, spent 9 hours in the clubs total, had 5 lapdances total, had no alcohol, and spent about $280 total. Not extravagant, not cheap - just on a budget. What do you think?

Also...what are everyone else's habit on tipping at the tiprail? Let's have a class on that here this week. Click on the word "comment" and add your two cents - or $1.

Going Upscale, Part 3 - "Are you not Drinking?"

Inscrutable. Isn’t that the sterotype of the Asian culture? Dancer was inscrutable, unreadable indeed. What was going on in her mind, behind that passive face and that 1000 yard stare off into the distance of the club?

I met Dancer at one of the satellite stages in one of the opulent upscale clubs on my weekend tour. As is my habit, and my ability being alone in the club, I had rotated through a number of different seats in the club looking for the best view of all of the stages. On this particular move I found an open seat at a table pulled up along the stage and waited. I had not yet figured out the tipping custom in this club at the stages. There was no tiprail, per se. Just a small, flat, elevated surface for dancers to gyrate on amidst a group of tables. I clicked into my routine when I’m unsure of the local customs and I waited and watched. Someone will teach me the custom. Ahh, there it is. Apparently, when you want to tip, you stand up in any opening between chairs and dancer will approach to perform a mini-table dance against your standing body and then deftly do a sideways turn with a thumb hooked under her G-string at the hip for a concluding bill insertion. I can do that. And my Inscrutable Dancer gave me my first opportunity to try.

Dancer glided onto the stage silently and began her slow motion routine. Small, undulating moves. No eye contact with anyone around the stage, just an expressionless gaze out over the crowd. Was she appraising the crowd? Making her grocery list? Humming tunes in her head? Thinking about a fight she had with her boyfriend/girlfriend? Having erotic fantasies? Wondering if the lighting hid her flaws? It was unknowable, but she was in essence saying go ahead and ogle me – appraise me. Make your selection or not, it’s of no concern. And so I did what I do, which is to appreciate her beauty.

Dancer was, as I’ve noted, a classically beautiful young Asian woman. Tall and slender with a boyish figure, although a boy she definitely was not. Long silky hair black hair cascading down onto her tattooed shoulder. Not the average stripper tattoo, but intricately done art in black and white. Tasteful and sexy. And as she continued her gentle swaying on the stage, I decided – time to stand by my table and tip her.

Dancer acknowledged my movement, not with a smile but with a scan. Was I worthy of approach? Frozen and impassive. Glaring and appraising. Whatever judgement she processed, whatever calculus she arrived at, I passed and she approached me on all fours. Dancer sidled up beside me and began her close up ritual. First, head down – allowing that gorgeous shiny black hair to drape luxuriously out over her, covering her in a peek-a-boo. Minimal touch, no expression. Soft slow motions as close as she could get to me without touching. She looked wonderful and smelled wonderful, but she remained inscrutable. One brief exchange of names – no more. And quickly the hip was offered to receive the bill I had in my hand. A neatly folded $1 bill. Customary in most clubs that I frequent at the tiprail. Not so, apparently in the upscale world. And Dancer broke her silence with a soft spoken icy rebuke. “Not enough, baby. More.” Diffident and demanding in four words. Confident and expecting – of course you will comply. And I complied, supplementing my lonely single with four brothers. Sufficient apparently, and having chastised me she moved away back to the slow movements. Back to the stare.

Was that an anomaly? Was this the custom or just dancer’s going rate? I determined to find out and rose to tip the next dancer as well. She was feisty and petite and very, very animated. Our tableside tip was all motion and contact. She was all over me, up against me, in contact with me. Facing me, she leaned down and bit each nipple through my shirt to say hello. Facing away from me she snaked a hand down the front of my slacks and fondled my package directly and enthusiastically. Wow. Facing me, she leaned over and bit into my zipper. Facing away again, grinding back into me. Finally, finally, she offered the hip. Again disdain at my lowly single.

“What’s your name, honey”, she asked me as she continued to fondle and grip.

“DanceFan”

“Well, DanceFan. I’m working awfully hard here for just a buck, don’t you think.”

“You are indeed. I can’t argue with that”, I said as I upped the ante. Satisfied, she moved on to more frenetic shaking and fondling.

Sometime later, after moving again to a neutral table away from the stages!, I saw Inscrutable Dancer emerge from the back in full table dance battle gear. Tight top, bright pink form-hugging sheer “Hustler” panties. And silky knee stockings into high stripper heels. A knockout. And sometime later she found her way into my lap. “You moved”, she noted with her usual brevity. We shared a silence as I enjoyed her weight on my lap. And finally, the question – “Would you like a dance?” Of course, I would, who could say no. And we shared a languid and slow lapdance. Nice. Not hardcore, but erotic enough for one song. I paid and she dressed.

And finally, Inscrutable Dancer awoke from her passivity. The mask broke. Something startled her. It was me.

Dancer looked at the table. Confused. And then she looked at me. Confused. And then she looked at the table again, and spoke.

“Are you not drinking?”, she asked with a startled expression.

“No, I’m not drinking.”

“Nothing? No alcohol?”

“No, I’m not drinking”, I answered again.

“How are you not drinking?”, she asked as if it was the most amazing thing she had seen or heard in a while.

“Is that unusual?”, I queried.

“Yes”, she answered emphatically”. “Everyone drinks here. Everyone, all the time.”

“Well, I’m not here to drink. I’m here for you”.

She stared at me for a long moment, appraising me as she had done before. Dancer shook her head, unbelieving, and moved on – back into the routine.

And that’s pretty much true. I don’t drink more than one beer a night in a club. It’s diet Pepsi the rest of the night. Why? Three reasons:

- I don’t have to drink to have fun. I have fun, my way. And since I’m alone when I go to the club it’s not a social event. It’s a pleasure event.
- And being a pleasure event, I want to have all of my senses fully alive to enjoy the delightful offerings of these hard-working entertainers all night long. Not like the drunken zombies that I often see groping dancers inappropriately and making fools of themselves. Or the couples groups that I saw last night who all started outlively and fun and sexy and ended up, after hours of the drinking – smoking – and relentless pounding music, beaten into submission and slinking quietly out of the club. I’m alive and alert the whole time.
- Finally, I manage my money better when I’m sober. And you can go through a lot of money in a hurry if you’re not making good decisions in a strip club! Been there, done that.

So thank you, Inscrutable Dancer. You were memorable.

Passion and Spirit

I know these two, these living breathing beauties sitting with me. And to know them is to desire them. A desire lived, however briefly, in the lapdance.

Young ladies, both. Dancers. Friends. Partners in the dance. Strippers, yes, desiring to please. Pleasing indeed.

You know them, too, if you've read here before. Red and White, skilled in the double-dance. ("The Double Dance, Pt II - in Four Acts", "Red and White Reunited". Click on those titles and read them again. They're worth revisiting.)

Rechristened here, tonight, as Passion and Spirit.

Passion - a voluptuous and radiant beauty. Smoldering Passion, desiring to please. A poet's heart and a lover's body. Enchanting and familiar- both at once, with a welcoming smile and a bone deep lingering embrace. All consuming passion coiled within her. Un-handleable - she had challenged me before. Handle-able, I think. She knows me and yet she does not. Handle-able, I know. And I would risk the fire of her passion to find out.

Spirit - a wickedly delightful sex pixie. A girly-girl in innocent pig-tails and white silk stockings with ruffles mid-thigh. A porn-loving wild girl, at ease with impropriety. Pure fun in a boner-inducing let's-get-it-started package.

A taste tonight, just a taste. A preview, in tandem.

A tiprail double-dance, with Passion and I tipping Spirit. First the girls - lingering and connecting. Then me, toyed with by Spirit's teasing bump-and-grind. Nice.

A dance, with Passion and I on the couch. One song, one heavy-breathing, body rubbing, song. Intoxicating perfume invading my senses. Smoldering eroticism. Not enough. A taste.

A dance, passing me off to Spirit. A visual, energetic treat. Reconnecting, she and I, with the promise of wild times to come inferred. Very nice, but not enough. A taste.

A tiprail double-dance to end the short evening. Spirit and I tipping Passion. Spirit stashing my dollars in strategic creases for a game of find the dollar. Two girls as one, a sexual moment that's as real as it gets. Nice. A taste.

And I'm out.

But I will be back. And the clock won't bind me on my return. Our time will come again, Passion and Spirit and me.

Thank you, ladies. My friends.

Stripper Saturation

Just hours from another club. From the erotic embrace of a Jamaican goddess.

So much to write about. Upscale clubs. Feature dancers. Tonight's ebony softness. So much in the past few days.

Airplanes and clubs and home and girls and work and dancers and hotels and tiprails. And I remember them all.

It's so much. It's too much. Can it be too much?

Going Upscale, Part 2 - South American Treasure

Opulence and taste. They are evident from the moment you pull into the parking lot and spy the grandeur of the edifice. The architecture, landscaping, lighting, and columns all tell you that this place was built for elegant pleasure.

The sophisticated blonde at the register is a foretelling of the quality of the entertainers inside. The doorman, dressed in a suit, is a friendly and professional gentleman who answers my questions on club etiquette, and then introduces me to a waitress to guide me to a main area table. As I settle into my expensive and comfortable high-back chair, I take in the ambiance of the club. Wow! The place exudes an aura of money and elegance. An incredible bar runs the length of the center of the club. A main stage and 3 satellite stages sprinkled throughout. And in the center, above me, red satin draped on the center and gathered in the center into an elaborate chandelier. A strip club among all strip clubs.

Scanning the room I see the VIP area off in the corner, behind closed doors. Very, very private this VIP, with it’s own bar and stage and a pool table to shoot stick with the lovely ladies. I had asked the doorman on the way in about the VIP on the way in. $750 for a year’s membership, $450 for tonight. Or maybe I could get in if I bought a bottle of champagne for a dancer for $200. Too rich for my blood. The main floor would do.

My plan for the evening is simple: enjoy this club as much as I can, given that I’m not going to be a high-roller tonight. I can see the high-rollers. They are here in number. In suits. Smoking cigars. Drinking brandy. Peeling the $20’s off a roll. Surrounded by dancers. I observed one gentleman in particular getting at least an hour of continuous dances from the star of the club – a platinum blonde Brianna Banks lookalike with gigantic tits. One hour. I’m going to guess 20 straight songs at $20 each - $400 like it was nothing. High rollers. Were I one of them, I would be smothered in flesh all night – one, two, or three lovely ladies at a time. I’m not one of them but I can certainly enjoy myself here on my scale. At least I think I can.

This was my second club of the evening and I still have a few hours to enjoy. If my resolve holds firm, and my money holds out, I’ll be here for 3 or 4 hours I guess. So I watch the stage show for a while. Beautiful women doing very passive dances with very little tipping going on. So little, in fact, that I’m having a hard time determining what the tipping custom is here. Beautiful dancers, striking in fact. But none that are grabbing me. I enjoy my beverage and fend off one or two low key approaches from dancers seeking private dances. I decline politely, they move on gracefully. It will come, I tell myself.

And then Dancer captivates me. A South American treasure. Beauty beyond imagination.

She’s there silently, stealthily kneeling beside my chair, engaging me in greetings. And she captivates me. I’ve heard that women from Dancer’s country are famous for being beauty pageant queens, and Dancer is no exception. She’s stunningly exotic and beautiful, and she’s here talking with me.

Dancer is visibly cold, being semi-naked, from the drafts in the vent. I jokingly offer that she can sit with me and warm up and in an instant she’s in my lap with her arms around me. Her delicious weight pressing into me. Her delightful smile captivating me. And we chat – small talk about weekend plans and about Dancer’s plans to leave in a while to go partying with her girlfriends. Small, inconsequential, talk with a contact transaction as the subtext.

And we dance. One table dance to get acquainted. Very nice. Very sensual. Very brief. And we part – for now. I still want to get to know the room.

An hour later, after some time tipping dancers at the satellite stages (more on that in part 3), I realize that my South American Dancer is the treasure of the bunch and that I want more dances with her. I tipped a waitress extra to find her and ask her to rejoin me. After a while she does and I find out that I’m a lucky man. Dancer had decided to leave and go party and was in the dressing room mid-dress when the waitress found her.

So Dancer rejoins me. She has warmed up by now, floating on liquid courage, and I offer to buy her a drink to keep her going. She downs a Buttery Nipple, and we resume the dance. Dancer has a nice buzz going and is in a friendly mood. By which I mean a touchy mood. Her touching me, which is always a good thing. As I don’t know the touch rules in the club, I restrain myself and maintain gentlemanly conduct. Frankly, it’s enough to be cheek nuzzling close to this amazingly beautiful girl, with her long brown silky hair caressing my face. But being a gentleman is growing more difficult. Speaking of growing, my arousal was evident and had not escaped Dancer’s notice. Her hands find their way to my lap for some welcome attention to the wood. Nice, but within bounds.

Dancer is enjoying herself as well, and she wants to move the party to the back, away from the main area and the prying eyes of the our neighbors. So we walk to the back, me with a visible erection protruding through my pants and pointing the way.

And we continue the dance. Dancer feels safe with me and explores me at will. She seems genuine as she says repeatedly “Wow, it’s getting hot in here.” And we move together – cuddling and nuzzling and grinding in a dance of intimacy and growing passion. Dancer is all grace and fluid motion as she straddles me, cheek to cheek, and then reverses – splayed out across my lap with one hand pinching her beautiful small brown nipples and the other sliding through the crease in the tiny patch in her G-string, through the wetness of her lips. Dancer is puzzled by my control, and at one point takes my hand and places it directly on her breast with a pleading touch. I sample, but I remain controlled and return to the headspace experience.

Three songs we shared in the dark of the back area, Dancer and I. Sublimely enjoyable for me. Hot and apparently frustrating for her. After the songs, she lingers – playing on my lap. “You have a nice dick”, she whispers to me as her hand returns again and again to play, finding iron hardness each time. “I’m just a person”, she sighs. “I get horny too.” Stroking still. Unfortunately, there’s nothing either of us can do about our state here. And soon we disentangle and go our separate ways. Dancer has opted to stay and work some more and she makes her way to sit with a group of men as I retake my place in the main area.

So, thank you Dancer. I will remember you.