Mar 202012
 

I wrote some while back about my “origin myth.”  I did it here, and here, and here.  I’ve been writing a bit about “firsts,” and this is an attempt at re-telling a bit of my story, in greater detail than I think I did in those origin myth posts.  Or, in any event, from a different angle.  There’s more to come – there always is – but this is a good first crack at a part of my story I think I haven’t delved into.

I don’t remember my first “lap dance.”  Sometime in my early 20s, I imagine.  By my mid-20s, something that was known about me among my friends was that, if I was at a bachelor party in a strip club, I was going to drop a lot of change on lap dances.  I grew up in a politically progressive circle – we were very coed, including our bachelor parties, and many – most? – bachelor parties didn’t end up in strip clubs.  When we did, we all were self-conscious about participating in the exploitation and degradation of women (or so we told ourselves).  So the full-throated abandon with which I gave myself over to the entertainment of dancers was… notable.

At least I noted it….

I noted first that I really liked lap dances.  That I really liked the sensation of a woman’s touch, being delivered at my command.  That I really liked the (at that time, in New York) occasional grazing of my cock by a woman’s hand, and the far less occasional pressure against it by a leg, or arm, or back, or crotch.

And somewhere in there, I noted that I liked them so much that I wasn’t really prepared to wait for the next bachelor party to indulge this pleasure.  I started sneaking off, occasionally, to the VIP Club.  I was single, and I was in graduate school, so my schedule was pretty flexible.  I went during the day, or in the evening.  And when I did, I often would sit for hours.

Like any addict, the vast majority of my time was spent fantasizing about my next high, remembering my last high, enduring the space in between.  Unlike most addicts, this even extended to the time I spent in the club.  I was petrified of asking a woman to dance for me:  my fear of rejection (or of objectifying a woman) was so comprehensive that even here, where it was their job, where, presumably, they would be happy to be given an opportunity to earn money, I would simply sit, tortured, agonized, and wait.

And I had preferences.  Typically, there would only be one or two dancers on any given visit in whom I was interested.  So I would just sit.  I’d say “no” to anyone who asked to give me a dance unless she was one of my “preferences.”  And if, by chance, one of my preferences came by?  I’d get a dance.

Then, there was a second bit of selection.  Did she touch my cock enough?  Did I like the way it felt when my cock received whatever pressure she was sending its way?  If not, then one, or maybe two, dances was enough.  But if I liked it?  The sky would be the limit.  I would happily sit and re-up with a dancer for an hour, or two.  My stamina was fine – I could just have my cock rubbed and rubbed and rubbed.

And then, one day, I read about another place to get a lap dance:  I think it was probably in the Village Voice, but as I recall, I read about a place where lap dances weren’t lap dances – they were full-on, unrestrained, simulated intercourse.  On Church Street and White Street in New York, there was a dark, forbidding club.  The neighborhood was quiet – light industry, mostly, near some residential and some government offices, as well as a bit of financial services a bit to the west.  The Harmony Theater was unmarked, except for a dangling sign that said, as I recall, “Harmony Theatre.”  No clue as to the depravity that awaited within.

The door was forbidding, heavy, red metal.  I opened it, and found myself in a little entryway, where a kid, as I recall – something like 17, or even younger – would collect my $10 (or $5?) entry fee.  And then, through another door, into a dark, dark, hole of a room.  Music blaring, sticky floors, and decrepit old velour theater chairs scattered throughout the room.  A stage, on which a nude woman would lackadaisically saunter up and down.  Or maybe just smoke a cigarette, waiting.

And the women – it was so dark you could hardly make them out.  But unlike at the VIP Club, where the women were mostly white, mostly Russian, here every kind of woman was to be found:  white, black, Latina, Russian, Asian, young, old.  Some were clearly strung out.  Others clearly were grad students.  I gravitated toward these latter.  But the environment didn’t encourage chatting.  At the VIP Club, drinks are a big part of the revenues of the place.  At the Harmony, there was only one thing for sale:  lap dances.  (Maybe sex was for sale too – that was alleged later, when the place was shut down.  But I never knew about that.)

When a woman danced for me, she would lower herself on my cock, or she’d stand against a wall, or bend over a chair.  And it would be JUST. LIKE. FUCKING.  Except I’d be wearing clothes.  And she’d have a thong on.

Or maybe it wouldn’t be just like fucking – when I was happiest, it wasn’t.  When I was happiest, a woman would simply sit on me, and rub my cock with her hands.

Over the weeks, months, I found myself going more and more often, drawn there, like a moth to a flame, and with the same disastrous results.

  29 Responses to “Down the rabbit hole”

  1. That was really interesting reading. You write so well I felt quite drawn into it…

    xx Dee

  2. It is a shame that something so fun should become so negative. I love lap dancing clubs but I can see how an addiction to them would end up being very destructive.

    Mollyxxx

    • I’m grateful that I’m able to enjoy them once again.  And even to do so semi-responsibly (i.e., without losing control of my wallet.

      But they’re so much more fun when you’re with others, whether friends or sex partners.  It totally strips away the shame.  Dan Savage has said, memorably (to me), that strip clubs are where men go to watch a little bit of themselves die.  This was surely true of me.

  3. I have a fantasy that I may play out some day of playing the role of a topless waitress / dancer for a group of men. I agree with Molly this kind of thing can be fun.

    I loved this story it was so alluring and so sad at the same time.

    • I can imagine it would be fun to be the object of many people’s desire at once, to serve them. I have that fantasy too.

      And re: alluring and sad, just wait….

  4. This is fantastic. It penetrates into a world I have never known (and probably will never know). I’m so glad you write about this stuff, and that you do it so very, very well.

  5. Such a great, sexy, sad, doomed, well-written personal account.

    Like a moth to the flame….

  6. Quite intriguing! I’m not wired for that kind of socialisation, but I can understand the attraction.

    ~Kazi

  7. An addiction that is hard to avoid, good written account x

  8. What would you wear to these clubs? Shorts? For better sensations ?

    Interesting read. Since I’ve never been I feel like you’re giving us insider information to the clientele mind.

    • The “classier” places wouldn’t let you in wearing shorts. But yes, to the Harmony Theater, I would occasionally wear khaki shorts in hope of a hand’s creeping up underneath them. In general, looser pants were better.

  9. Great read!  Unlike a lot of my friends, my strip club phase was short-lived and fairly inexpensive.  When I used to do it, it was mostly for the novelty factor.  Sometimes I find myself wishing I’d done it more, and then I talk to a friend who dropped five hundred bucks on a single dancer, and swears it was “so worth it.”

    And you say it gets darker?  Can’t wait.

    -Jack

  10. Great read!  Unlike a lot of my friends, my strip club phase was short-lived and fairly inexpensive.  When I used to do it, it was mostly for the novelty factor.  Sometimes I find myself wishing I’d done it more, and then I talk to a friend who dropped five hundred bucks on a single dancer, and swears it was “so worth it.”

    And you say it gets darker?  Can’t wait.

    -Jack

    • Ugh. I read your enthusiasm for the darker days and wince. I like the idea that it was “totally worth it.” There were things I spent money on in my dark days that were wonderful, phenomenal. But unfortunately, it wasn’t just my money. It was my family’s. And the circumstances surrounding it were horrific, even if the hour (or two, or three) were heaven on earth.

  11. A very interesting read. I did not know that one can get addicted to lap dances, but of course, I guess anything can be an addiction. This did remind me of the lap dance I had in Vegas… I might write about that one day 😉
    Rebel

  12. […] done anything practical to advance that particular ball.  One night, I got a hickey at the Harmony Theater.  I wasn’t sure if the hickey was an act of ardor, hostility or both, but there it was:  a […]

  13. […] my early lap dance days, I frequented the VIP Club.  It was, as I’ve written, “classier” than the Harmony Theater, the women, more made up, better dressed.  They also, […]

  14. I guess this is supposed to be a cautionary beginning — I know there is darkness to come — but, goodness, is it easy to see how you got drawn in!!! The fact that you were a bit selective about your dancers actually makes the story hotter… there’s a real element of sex appeal here, rather than all-out obsession or addiction. I almost wish the story could end with the tantalizing fantasies of what “could” happen… to me that’s much more alluring…

  15. This one is sad, too. But more intriguing? And of course well written. The comments are extremely interesting, too, and perhaps more educational in some way. Or, they start to answer where the post leaves off.

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