Dancing through my memories

Long ago when I was young and stupid, I had my first experience with exotic dancing. No, I was never a performer. I was on the other side of the pole; the sheep eager to be shorn of every fleecy dollar.

A guy of my acquaintance and me had seized upon the idea of investigating a strip club one evening and we immediately set about making it happen. I think for him it was simply a matter of leaping upon the chance to gaze upon lots of naked female flesh. For me, I was suffused with an excitement of doing something wholly foreign to my experience, of entering an environment I had only heard of in the sketchiest of rumors. I would probably have dismissed the entire adventure from my mind until I was of age to enter a bar, if it wasn't for the fatal flaw to that plan. The closest venue was also what is referred to as a "juice bar." No booze on site meant that it was merely eighteen and above. There was nothing holding me back that night when the idea surfaced beyond my own cowardice.

That night persists in my memory with a knife-edged dream-like feel. The details are sharp enough to draw blood. I can recall the slashes of brilliant light, the hints of superficial intimacy evoked by the dim tables. I can smell the wakes of perfume, cigarettes, and hot lights. I can hear the voices of the dancers asking me if I'd like a private dance. And yet at the same time, it feels like I was drifting wraith-like through that entire night.

I was completely taken aback at how friendly the girls seemed to be, how fearless. Looking back with the clarity of wisdom, I couldn't have given more hints I was prey if I was festooned by neon signs proclaiming "Tender and Stupid." I was trailing blood in lurid red clouds and twitching like a mortally wounded guppy in the midst of hungry piranha.

I didn't drool, didn't stare, and never made an even remotely lewd comment. I sat upright taking the least amount of physical space I could. I made eye contact, never letting my eyes linger anywhere other than a woman's face for any length of time. It's entirely probable that when a dancer did catch me looking at girl parts that I looked startled and blushed. I was determined to not be a gross, uncouth pig leering at them with unseemly lust. I would not give them a moment's doubt that I saw them as people and not sex objects.

I was strung so high that animals in neighboring counties wondered who was whistling so loudly. Naturally, there were at least a half dozen strippers who could not resist fucking with me. They'd position themselves so my attention would naturally focus on something terrifyingly interesting and watch me contort myself to be "proper" once again. They would sit next to me so close I couldn't help but be painfully aware of their body heat, the scent of their skin, how little distance remained between us and watch me squirm. It was a pattern that would persist for over a year. My friend, being the helpful and generous sort, bought me a lap dance that night.

My first.

I damn near climbed out of my skin.

I'm sure my eyes were wide, pupils dilated wildly. I held my position so rigidly it could have mimicked rigor mortis. The only thing about me that wasn't was the one bit that everyone expects to be at parade ground attention. Force of will can accomplish miracles. I was determined not to embarrass her by revealing myself as aroused by her body. She responded by using my terror against me, challenging me to ignore the breasts, thighs, ass, and pussy writhing inches away. I don't know who was more amused, my companion or the dancer.

In any case, by the end of the night I had decided I would return again soon. Little did I know it would lead to my first and only stripper crush to date.

She caught my attention with the subtlety of an air-raid siren as soon as she hit the stage. A flash of movement when the music started brought my eyes up in time to see her launch at the pole, orbiting the pole in a flat, frantic spin before stepping gracefully from the move. The first time I watched her, she was in a black gown slit high upon her thigh. Despite myself, she was hypnotic. When she had eventually divested herself of the dress, she did a move I have rarely seen since and never with the same flair. She leapt to the top of the pole, spiraling lower upside down holding to the bar with only her knee. I was to learn on subsequent visits that pole work was her forte.

She adhered to a physical plan that was ruthless in its efficiency at stripping me back to my lizard brain. She was tall, around five foot ten without her black stiletto heels. Her bone structure was delicate, supporting a trim graceful figure. Her breasts were modest in size, high and firm upon her chest over a smoothly muscled belly and gently flared hips. Her legs were impossibly long and neither under or over muscled. There was a tattoo of a black wolf over one ankle. A demure triangle of pubic hair revealed the vivid red bob she wore was natural. Her eyes were large, expressive green and prone to sparkle. Her mouth seemed crafted to kiss or smile. I fell deeply in lust with her.

It became something of a tradition when she would find me out in the audience to sit down and shoot the shit with me until the guy behind the bar would give her a dirty look and gesture she needed to be mingling. Generally, she'd make a couple circuits of the room before plopping down next to me. She wasn't making much money off me, a few buck laid on the bar while she was on stage, an over-priced drink on occasion to let her sit at my table for more than a couple minutes, so I'm tempted to think she honestly found me pleasant company. At one point during one of our conversations she leaned over and gave her real name. Perhaps it was a con to make me feel special. I choose to think it otherwise.

One thing that always bubbles to the fore when I think of her was the singular time she ever gave me a lap dance. I'd suspect that most exotic dancers don't brush up against their clients quite as often as she did with me. I'd also like to think it wasn't part of her usual arsenal to brush her lips over the edge of a man's ear. If nothing else, I feel flattered she gave me a lap dance free of charge.

A week or so later, she was gone. I like to think she moved on to greener pastures and happiness. I wish I might have gotten to date her sometimes, gotten to see her outside of where she had to be on display. It's probably better this way though, leaving me with an untainted image, a sweet little fantasy.