Down the rabbit hole

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.