I was, recently, at a strip club, with a date. I may or may not write about that evening. But let me just tell you about the phenomenally sexy dancer/stripper/woman working there who stole my heart (my cock).
There are all sorts of things to say about her: unlike most such people, she was (I think) born here. Her first language is English. Among people, this isn’t particularly important to me. But among women working in strip clubs, it’s a huge turn-on, because the interactions that are available between a strip-club patron and a dancer are so structurally overdetermined that a language barrier makes escape from the most boring, bland, “Where are you from? What do you do?” interactions really hard. Whereas, with a woman whose first language is English, it’s at least plausible that you could quickly find yourself discussing, say, her graduate degree (if she were so inclined).
Not so in this case, alas. In this case, we didn’t progress too far conversationally (though we did discuss the existence of this blog). No, the only place our ability to communicate efficiently really came in handy was when she invited me to pull her hair (I had been sliding my hand under her hair, against her scalp, as if looking for a good clump to grab) and to spank her (I had been kneading her ass, lifting and lowering my hand gently, as if spanking her in slow motion).
“I’m not, generally, the permission-seeking type,” I said (half-accurately – I don’t often seek permission explicitly, but I often obtain it).
“Well, in places like this? I’m a perfect gentleman. But elsewhere? Not so much,” I said, pulling her hair a bit harder, tilting her pretty face back toward mine as she sat on my cock, her back to me.
“You can pull my hair as hard as you want, as long as you don’t pull it out,” she said.
The other dancer, an Eastern European blonde, chuckled as she pressed her mouth into my date’s pussy, against her navy boyshorts, exposed by the flouncy dress that by now was well above her hips. “That’s going to be in your blog,” she said. (She was, evidently, correct.)
“You can spank me, too,” she said. “Just don’t bruise me.” I did. And I didn’t.
My dancer – call her Amy – was a phenomenal specimen. She was tiny, pale, brunette, with wavy hair, a pretty pretty face, and a bright white smile with perfect teeth. Maybe 26? Her breasts were B-cups. At first, it seemed, my date was going to choose her. But then along came Olga, the tall blonde, and my date was smitten. Which was nice for me. Because Amy was just about the only woman in the club for me. (Other, of course, than my date, who was by this time otherwise occupied.)
Amy had a tiny (like, shockingly tiny) waist above (relatively) wide hips and a perfectly heart-shaped ass. She worked her ass, lifting it in the air for me, waving it in my face, and lowering her g-string nearly all the way, tempting me (daring me?) to slide a finger into her pussy. I didn’t. In a strip club, I am a PERFECT GENTLEMAN. Seriously. I never ask for permission to proceed. I never push boundaries.
But if, for the first bit of our time together, she was all about her ass, for the second bit, she was all about her pussy. It was in my face, close enough for me to smell (through the tiny black g-string), almost close enough for me to taste. It was pressing against my arm, against my hand. I finally gave in and pressed my thumb, my fingers, against her clit (through her g-string, natch). In that strip club way, I had no sense of whether actually felt good to her, if she actually enjoyed it, but she was a good, not overly dramatic actress. She effectively communicated, to me, and to my date, the sense that she was enjoying herself very much thank you.
She was a generous tease, Amy – she stroked my cock through my jeans, rode my cock hard, soft.
I actually went back later that evening, after my date and I had gone our separate ways, hoping to find her again, but no dice. Oh well.
Here’s hoping that wasn’t the last time I see her, though I doubt I’ll be back to the club any time soon. (In my current iteration of existence, strip club visits are quite rare, and generally on dates.) It had probably been a year since I’d been in that club. Two years, actually.
Truth be told, I’d rather see her not in the club, anyway.