A Link in Her Chain

I have a friend. A dancer. A stripper.

A beautiful young lady.

We've shared time together. Talk time at a table. Tip time at the tiprail. Passionate time in the private dance.

And I'm on her list. We email each other outside of the club on ocassion. I send her some thoughts now and then. And I'm on her list.

My friend, the dancer, has a penchant for chain emails. The kind with touching poems or stories about friendship. The kind that end with an admonition to send the email on to ten other people. And I'm on her list.

I think it's very endearing. I know it's sincere, that it's a sign of her friendship, and I'm always touched.

I'm glad to be a link in her chain.

Thank you, Dancer. You are a beautiful soul.

Hardware

I had been in the club less than 10 minutes. I had enjoyed the warm, friendly full body hug. Very nice. Dancer and I were enjoying a re-acquainting talk at a table. And she asked me a question:

"So, do you want to see the new hardware?".

Hardware? Ah, piercings of course. But where?

Dancer leans back in her chair, pushes her panties aside, and there it is. Hardware. Clitoral hood style. Sparkly. Yeow!

I state the obvious: "So, are you enjoying it?". Dancer clearly is, and she me stories of it's pleasurable enhancement of her life.

Only one thing to do. Try it out. So we dance.

Into the VIP, a two dance special, no touch. I'm a gentleman - so it's hands to the side. I let Dancer enjoy these two songs and her new toy. The hardware. She moves over me. Glides in her own space. Gentle friction. On the hardware. Very nice and arousing for me as well.

I extend the dance one more song. Now the touch time kicks in and Dancer and I fall into our familiar rhythyms. Cheek nuzzling. Fingertip stroking. Deep breathing. And erotic friction of arousal against hardware. Very nice.

"So, does that make it better for you?", I ask. "The hardware?"

"Oh Yeah", she says with a smile as she's putting herself back together. "Oh, yeah".

The Perfect No-Touch Lapdance

I wasn't expecting much from the night. A quick impromptu pop-in to a local club during some midnight errands. Some stage tipping. Some relaxation at a quiet table in the back at the end of a very long day. Maybe a beer. At the most a couple of $10 table dances. Low expectations.

And then I met Dancer.

Dancer came up to greet me at my table and I offered for her to sit. "Okay, but I'm going to smoke. Is that all right". Of course, I said. Dancers smoke. They just do. It was an offer to sit, not necessarily more. We'll see how it goes. So, I order a beer.

After a lengthy silence, I spoke.

"Usually, I'm more talkative", I said. "I'm just tired tonight."

"Believe me", she said. "It's okay for us just to sit here. We don't have to talk. It's okay. A lot of guys just want to jump in and start pounding on me right away with personal questions that I don't necessarily want to answer." I understand that. I only need to know one thing to carry this further, her stage name. I can improvise the rest.

We talked. Small talk. Unhurried talk. Club talk. Observations about other customers, including the strange table of three unaccompanied girls. What's up with them? And business stuff about this club's habits as opposed to others. About peep shows. And about strip club literature, including this blog.

We were in a holding pattern. Waiting for a pending special, 2 dances in the VIP for $25. "Would you dance the special for me", I asked. "I'd love to", she smiled back. And we waited. Unhurried. Eventually she wandered off to prepare. On cue, all of the dancers disappeared offstage and then paraded down the middle of the main stage to the sales pitch of the DJ. My girl came 3rd, introduced as Dancer - "Couch dancer of the year!". Really? If true, it was my fortune that she had sat down with me.

"Come on, DanceFan", she said taking my hand. And off to the VIP we went. Where Dancer lived up to her accolades. And then some. She pulled me in to a booth in the corner - "My favorite booth", she said delightedly. The room was filled for the special, with a visual orgy of dancers grinding on anonymous guys all around me.

The music was already playing and we didn't waste any time getting into the dance. Dancer stood before me and stripped quickly out of her small top and miniskirt. She was beautiful, of course. Young. Tall. Lithe and toned with long brown hair. Shapely, with long legs, slim hips, and a perfect. A very lovely young stripper. Here with me for two songs.

Dancer was practiced and skillful. Honestly, one of the very best I've ever been with. The highlight, appart from close contact with a very lovely young naked girl, was the connection. She didn't dance for me. She didn't dance on me. She danced with me, and was very present with me in our time together. I love that.

Dancer's skill came from her constant motion. Not frenetic. Not grinding. Not aggressive. It was like she was massaging my clothed body with her naked body. She went through various moves or poses, practiced and repeated, but very honest and very effective. And very arousing.

Straddling me, yes. But constantly moving. Continuous contact, even as she shifted positions on me. Soft. Rubbing. Continuous motion.

Body parts presented to me.

Tits rubbed against me.

Naked cookie presented to me in various acrobatic poses. Legs spread and pushed just short of my face. Look. Smell. Fantasize. Enjoy.

And friction. Sweet, continuous, friction. Straddling me sideways to fit herself against my arousal. Sliding down my body with a feet massage of my lap on the way down. Awesome friction.

Connection. Headspace. And humor.

Against my lap, warm naked kitty pressed and fitted to my package. Layed out along the length of my lap, with her arms on the floor behind her supporting her. Fitted to me. Gentle fucking motions into me. And looking at me. Smiling, friendly, knowing eye contact between us. We both are veterans and understand this moment. We can appreciate it and be separate from it.

"You remind me of Susan Sarandon's husband". She said. Fucking motions gently against me. "What's his name"?

Eye contact back. Enjoying the delicious warm friction. "Tim Robbins", I say - looking her right in the eye.

"Has anyone ever told you that?" Unhurried. Delicious friction.

"Not really. Must be the haircut."

"No, I think it's your lips. You really look like him".

"Is that a good thing?", I ask. She's very pretty, I'm thinking. Very pretty. And warm. And her weight feels wonderful on my lap. Moving. Slowly, but constantly.

"That's a good thing", she says - smiling an unhurried smile at me.

The song ends with her on my lap facing me. "Would you do one more for me?", I ask. "I'd love to", she says with with a sincere smile. I believe her.

We dance one more as the room empties. More motion. More motion. Heavy breathing and purring from me. Dancer poses for me, very frank body part presentations for my enjoyment. And I enjoy it indeed.

She's unhurried as the song ends, staying on my lap an extra moment or two. Connected on my lap. Rhythmic wiggles into my lap. I'm not complaining.

"Hey, I'm next", says the only dancer still remaining in the room. "She's hot!"

She is hot, indeed. Beautiful. Sexy. And extremely skilled.

I'll find a way to see Dancer again. Thank you Dancer, for an unexpected pleasure that night.

Natalie's Other Role

Yes, I joined the hordes this weekend to see Star Wars Episode 3 with younguns in tow. And yes, I ogled Natalie Portman - the only noticeable female in the movie - in her various costumes and hairstyles. And closeups of her lips.

But I prefer her in her other role in "Closer", out on DVD in your local video store. It's a forgettable movie, but she days take a turn in this flick as a stripper. On stage, dancing over her customer, and in private striking various poses for him. I'd have to say that she does a pretty authentic job, which is rare for a hollywood movie. I'd have bought a lapdance from her.

Bipedal Cinematic Lust

I saw her, of course, as we entered the theater. But not as I would see her when the lights went down.

Long, strokable, dark hair. Dark top filled out nicely and exposing a tantalizing midriff. Dark Jeans. And flip flops. A pretty girl in a theater suprisingly filled with pretty girls given the nature of the violent film we were about to share. (Jet Li, Unleashed). What made her stand out? Line of sight. She was in the seat in front of me. And as the lights went down so did my vision of her. Dark clothes, dark hair, all fading into darkness.

Except. A glow.

As the lights went down, her flip flops came off. And her lovely, bare naked feet went up on the seat in front of her, right in my line of sight. And they glowed in the reflected light of the screen. Two, beautiful glowing female feet.

Do I have a foot fetish? No, I have a girl fetish. Which includes all of their body parts variously at different times. Whatever strikes me in the moment. Hair, curves, exposed bellies, feet. It's all good.

And there they were. Legs crossed. Feet together. Beautiful sole pressed into a sexy arch. Moving constantly. Rubbing together, like a cricket. A sexy cricket. Slow circles. Rubbing. Rubbing. Rubbing. A delightful friction of skin on skin.

A profile view of a long slim delicate female foot. Distracting. Entertaining. Arousing.

I wanted to trace that arch gently with my fingertips. I wanted to lick that instep slowly with my tongue. I wanted to suck on those toes, each in turn, deeply into my mouth.

Movement. She shifts and her legs drape across her boyfriends lap. Her feet extended sideways into the open seat next to them. Glowing. Rubbing. Distracting. Arousing.

All in all, an enhanced movie-going experience.

Tantric Lapdance

Sometimes you just need a hug.

A naked hug.

Naked therapy.

It was one of those nights. I was wanting to drink heavily as I walked in, and $2 domestics were tempting me to do just that. But I that wasn't a possibility I allowed myself that night. So, I chose a different means of a cure. The lapdance.

It was favorites night. Many of my favorite dancers, all in one music thumping room. One that I didn't recognize or acknowledge as I transitioned from the blinding sunlight to the dimly lit main area. One who's full body hug got my energy stirring. One who I've missed out on for too long. And one who stirred remembrances of naughty times past.

Each would have been terrific to spend my hours and time with. So, again the decision. Do I get a dance from each and spread the love around? Or do I huddle with one, missing out on the rest and alienating one a little.

Naked hug therapy. That's what I needed. Not laughing, or shouting, or random relentless grinding. Extended time. With one.

My mind debated the merits of each lovely dancer. How could one choose? My eyes, however, settled it for me. On this night there was one. On others maybe another. But tonight there was one.

Table time. Talking and catching up.

Stage time. Lingering to enjoy the beautiful cherub, angular and taught but nicely filled out and matured. Appreciating the total package - the look, the attitude, the confidence. That truly squeezable perfect derriere teasing me as she slowly works her way around the pole with a little hip waggle.

And dancetime. Extended version privately in the VIP. For the first time actually with her, although we have spent time before - and you've met her here before. Spirit, the sex pixie.

Dancer, was lovely that night - as always. Cute, with lively eyes and blonde hair pulled back into a tantalizing ponytail. It struck me as I looked at her that she reminds me in her face of a porn starlet - ubiquitous in men's magazines, but not really well known by the name of Sylvia Saint. Ah, but Sylvia is 2D and Spirit is fully alive and with me. She's a lovely petite girl, with all the right curves and toned places and tastefully placed ink.

I'm picturing her that night, familiar but with a twist. A new outfit - or uniform if you will - that I've not seen in a club before. A hocky jersey, almost completely covering her petite form with just her pony tail and heels sticking out the ends. Sexy. Very Sexy.

It was cold in the VIP. Blowers creating a draft on the couches. So I told Dancer to keep the jersey on. That small request set the tone for the 1/2 hour. Dancer settled in on my lap, straddling me. Cuddling me. A little cheek nuzzling. A lot of cuddling. Very little movement. Almost tantric.

And we stayed that way, almost throughout our time.

I enjoyed her. I enjoyed her weight on me. I enjoyed her heat against me. I enjoyed her cheek pressed against mine and her hair grazing me. I enjoyed her breath and her voice as we made almost silent small talk.

No dancing. No grinding. No simulated stimulation.

Touching, though. There was touching. Halfway through our time, the jersey came off. And as dancer settled back in to a hug - straddling me - against me. I touched. Fingertips only. Gentlemanly. Stroking. Caressing. Memorizing. Relaxing her. Healing me.

A hug. A half hour naked hug. Naked therapy.

My first tantric lapdance.

Thank you Spirit. It was just what I needed that night.

It's Her Smile

Does anyone else think that the woman - not a girl, but a sexy mature woman - in the Levitra TV commercials is hot?

Okay, I'm watching too much TV again.

I think it's her smile, as she talks suggestively about her husband's newly revitalized boner, that gets me. Oh yeah. She would work for me, without the use of the product that she's pitching.

Girls Not Kissing

So, I picked up a video this week at the local video store that looked promising. "Girls Kissing", a film by Barbara K. Lee. The cover promises to be a "documentary exploring the politics of 'girl on girl' action. More importantly, it has a cover photo of two cute girls kissing. Sold. Up to the register I go.

I should have read the back cover.

Not the back cover photos, of porn stars like Alisha Klass and Cassidey (one of my favorites!). Oh no. The text, where it says:

"Consideration is given to the medias (sic) representation of sexuality, pop cultures (sic) effect on social change, women's roles, and society in general".

Being a visually oriented guy, I missed all the warning signs. "Documentary". "Politics". The fact that it's directed by a woman. :)

Translation: it's all talk.

What it's missing: Girls Kissing.

Let a guy, like myself - and I am volunteering - direct the video and all 68 minutes of it would have been wall-to-wall girls kissing.

Cute girls. Femme girls. Butch girls. All shapes and sizes of girls.

Kissing. Non-stop.

Oh, yeah. I could have had the same porn stars and "sex experts" blabbing on about the topic in general. But, they would be on split screen. On half of the screen, for the whole 68 minutes, would be - girls kissing.

On beds.

On couches.

Standing up.

Laying down.

In the shower.

In a park.

Fully dressed.

In lingerie.

Lips.

Tongues.

Girls Kissing.

And I'd win the "Best Documentary" award, hands down.

I want my $3.95 back.

Secret Lives of Men

I was in a barbershop last week, cooling my heels, waiting for my turn to get snipped. It wasn't my usual barbershop. It wasn't even a real barbershop. It was one of those strip mall family hair cutting chains. They had a distinctly more upscale set of magazines laying around than I'm used to, so I rifled through the numerous copies of Cosmo Girl and Teen People to find this month's issue of GQ for men.

The cover story caught my eye immediately: The Secret Lives of Men. It purported to answer the question of "Why do men have to have double lives?".

Obviously, the article was pertinent to this blog. I would say that a high degree of my fellow club goers are there without the knowledge or approval of their significant other. So, strip clubbing fits into the secret double life category.

So, do men have secret lives in general? And why?

The author had some good insights on it that had me chuckling in the waiting room. For example, to paraphrase, he gave an example of the cost of a sweater. A wife will lie and tell her guy that the $299 sweater cost $200. The guy, on the other hand, will accurately report that the sweater cost $299 - but will neglect to say that it was a gift from his mistress in appreciation for the SAAB that he bought for her.

Funny. (props to the article author, who's name I didn't catch.)

The author had a similarly humorous take on the origination of the secret life phenomenon when it comes to men. Why do men lie to women about sex? He traced it to the first time he was caught jerking off to porn in his room by mom. He pretended that the Penthouse scattered on the floor was really Newsweek, and she pretended to believe it. Thus was born the pattern of the secret life.

So, what about it reader's. You've read my take here on this blog about my issues with the dual nature, the secret life. What's your take? Guys, does this describe you? Ladies, does your man have a secret life?

Four of the Best

30 girls. 30 beautiful girls. The spectacle of 30 beautiful semi-naked girls simulating having fun in a high energy club greeted me as I walked in. A delightful menu of dance partners.

And I chose, or allowed myself to be chosen by, and got dances from four of the best.

Best is clearly a relative term in a strip club. All of these women, well most of them girls, are spectacular women in their own right. They are pretty. Quite pretty in fact. They are shapely. They are dressed in alluring attire. They are sexualized in every aspect of their behavior and manner at all times in the club. They project confidence and an ease and grace with sex and a comfort with their ubiquitous nakedness. And they are all worth it. Worth my time. Worth their pay for their moments of pretend intimacy with me. Worth it.

Having said that, and meaning it, there is still meaning in the phrase “the best”. The best intrinsically, in and of themselves. The total package of looks, skills, confidence, technique, moves, sales pitch, table talk, etc. And the best in terms of “fit” with me, the customer. Fit with my likes and dislikes and with generally being “there” with me – present in the encounter.

I’m a club veteran. I can evaluate a room fairly quickly as I enter and know with a reasonable certainty who among them is the best, although granted that with 30 gorgeous dancers the task can be daunting. But I evaluate and I know quickly how I will focus my attention and what will maximize my opportunity of being with the best any given night. I know how to say no to even the most tempting offers if it’s not what I want that night. And I know how to make it work if it is.

And so it was on a memorable night with four of the best.

The first, a lovely young dancer who was the first to find her way to my out of the way table. An Angelina Jolie type, tall and pretty in pink with a double ruffled skirt and long flowing dark hair. Ample assets and a megawatt smile. Quickly I was in the game. Some small talk, a shared drink, and a comfort level established – we danced. A table dance on the edge of the main floor, turning into two dances. A visual treat as she danced – out away from me and back – teasing me with that luxurious hair as I watched and enjoyed and memorized. Succulent full breasts. Amazing toned stomach. Well proportioned hips.

The second, a diva. Petite. Sparkling jewels and pearly white teeth set against deeply tanned and soft skin. A mix of Gina Gershon and Nicole Ritchie. Aloof, yes. But coiled sexuality and playfulness there too. Contact – safe, but with a hint of promise of naughtiness. Horizontal barbell piercings in each breast teased and displayed. Very naughty, this one.

The third, the jewel of my night. Elegant and hookerish at the same time, emphasis on the elegant. Dancer was long and lean with an absolutely perfectly slim derriere on display in a bright green neon spandex cutout chaps with a matching green G-string showing through. Table talk and a table dance as an appetizer, with a special 2-song private dance as the main course. And in the blue-lit booth, wedged in to capacity with other grinding duos, Dancer showed me what “the best” can mean. I’ve had many pleasurable “no touch” private dances, but Dancer was the best. Starting, as many have, facing away from me with with that exquisite derriere buffing my lap – the lightest of friction. But continuing that long after others would have moved on, and returning to it often. Not neglecting the cheek nuzzling and other delightful frictions. But excelling in the slow circles. Incredible.

And finally, the fourth. A pixie. Suntanned and petite with short black hair and an elegant tattoo between her shoulders. A last minute pleasure, born of persistence as she returned again to forestall my departure with her very reasonable question: “are you going to buy a dance from me?”. My gain, that she came back and that I did.

Four of the best. Thank you ladies. I will remember you.