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.