From The Book of Firsts: Sex and Lap Dances

I was a salesman at the time. I was a 21 year-old in a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase. My industry was tough and rejection was all too common. At best, my love life was complicated and my need for female attention was at high demand. It was mid-day and the warmth of summer had nearly vanished. The autumn winds of October were cool, but the city was still warm enough to allow for lighter clothing.

I was a young man in New York City. I was tired of bad sales calls and tired of the angry rejection that came from over-worked production managers who saw my position as a nuisance.I thought of seeing a girl in The Empire State Building. The only problem was that girl required work. She wanted to be taken out. She wanted to be fed and entertained, or as the saying goes, she wanted to be “Wined and dined,” but I was down to my last $40.00 until payday.

Instead of taking a risk with a girl and not receiving anything better than a kiss on the cheek—I decided to go someplace on East 33rd Street where I knew I could find a sure thing.
I knew of this place from a flyer handed to me on Broadway. The club was called Club Paradise. My office was only a few doors down and I had passed this club daily. The only problem was if I went inside, I ran risk of being seen by my boss or a client. However, after passing the club several times, eventually, the temptation to go in got the best of me

I stood outside near the doorway and pretended to thumb through a series of business cards. Eyebrows folded down and forehead scrunched with a curios interest, I acted as if I had lost something important. Meanwhile, what I really did was wait for a lull in the pedestrian traffic. And once it seemed clear; I moved through the doors and went inside.

There was no point in waiting and wondering what would happen. I knew what I was there for. I knew the different prices and cost of drinks. Rather than waste time; I found my girl quickly and we went to the back for a private dance

Soft light shimmered from the pink excess of dull florescent bulbs that wrapped around the wall below ceiling height. The small private room was rounded with walls the color of midnight blue and black trim. A big-cushioned loveseat with soft black leather was in the center of the room.
The place was dim with the hum of erotic glow from the hot pink lighting. This is the type of light that took from the accuracy away of my eyesight. The room was slightly smoky with a hint of smoke moving around at ceiling height.  The aroma in the room smelled from cigarettes as well as a mixture of various colognes from previous patrons and cheap perfume from previous lap dances that went on before mine.

My dancer was blonde with long flowing hair that parted from the side and dangled across the left side of her face. She was tall and thick in figure. Her body was tight and her chest was very full. My dancer had blue eyes with chips of green in them. Her eyebrows were thin and her lips were moist. Her skin was like that of a porcelain doll.
My dancer had long eyelashes and a small birthmark above the right side of her upper lip. She was Russian and spoke with an accent. She never said much—but then again, neither she nor I went into this room to have a conversation.

“Do you like slow music,” she asked.

“Sure,” I said

I sat on the loveseat to settle in and allow my body to sink in to the soft, thick cushions. The seat was perhaps in the brightest section of the room. I suppose this part of the room was brightest because this was the epicenter of sex. All else around it was unimportant.
The perimeter of the room was dark and somewhat shadowy.
My dancer walked over to the side and knelt before a small console. Leaning in to see through the sultry light, she managed her way through a series of songs and found something slow and more intimate for this occasion.

My dancer was dressed in a red, see-thru, robe which was short and covered midway down her thigh. Beneath the robe, she wore a matching red and black bra with a thong that rode perfectly above her hips.
I watched as the dancer navigated through the sound system. My eyes fixated on her soft round bottom as it faced me and moved. I noticed the way her white skin took on a soft glow beneath the hot pink lighting.

I was new to this game. I was young in the world and only recently legal to enter establishments like this. Outside, the small strip club moved with women dancing on stage. A series of women combed the audience beneath blue dim lighting, pitching men in various chairs for lap dances, offering massages, and explaining about the luxuries of a private dance, or even better, they told of secret fantasies that could be easily had in a place called, “The Champagne Room.”

I wondered if my girl could tell I was new to this. She was my first real private show. I had ventured along the peep-show, sex shops on 42nd Street and passed through a few places on 8th Avenue. Only, this place was much different.
I wondered if my dancer saw me as more innocent than say, the rest of her usual and perverted crowd. I wondered if maybe the girl would like me—or could she like me if she ever liked anyone she danced for. I understood this was just business. However, I wondered no differently from every other man my girl had entertained.

After finding a song, the dancer stepped from the shadows at the edge of the room. I was able to see her clearly. She bit her bottom lip as she stepped forward—pretending to be almost shy, and coyly seductive.
Moving closer, she slid from her short, see-thru robe and allowed the garment to fall from her shoulders and land on the floor.
Next, my dancer slowly removed herself from her bra. She freed her large breasts while looking directly into my eyes. Her skin was so very white and soft. Her facial expression took on a humble appeal. She looked at me as if she was the virgin and it was me that was taking advantage.
Then the music began to choreograph her approach. After that, she dropped her thong down to the floor and around her ankles. Standing in open-toed shoes with tall, clear heels, she stepped outside the circle where her panties now lay on the deep gray carpeting.

She moved in very slowly. Her nipples were large and pink. Her breasts were rounded at the sides, swollen, and well formed. She was certainly thick but everything was very tight. Nothing jiggled in an unacceptable way. Her legs were long, soft, and smooth. Her toes were painted with bright red nail polish and from the big toe down to the little pinky one; her toes were perfectly categorized in size order.

I searched her figure from a short distance. My eyes scoured her flesh and traced the details of her naked body. She was shaven clean with the exception of a small blonde patch of hair above the pink rose petals in the center of her legs.

“Have you ever been here before,” asked the dancer in a very seductive way.
“No,” I answered.
“You look familiar,” she told me.
“I work up the block,” I explained.
“Maybe you’ve seen me around.”

“Maybe you are right,” she agreed in her thick accent.

To be honest, this girl had me at the start. Had I been flushed with cash, I might have paid more for her time.

“Do you like me,” the dancer asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Of course, I like you.”

By this time, the girl was standing right in front of me. Her approach was so playfully innocent, but yet, so raunchy and beautiful.
The dancer reached in backhanded to gently stroke the side if my face with the tips of her long fingernails. Then my dancer turned her hand over to caress my face and ignite a series of chills that run up and down my spine.

She hushed me. “SHHHHHH,” said my girl.
“Just sit back and relax,” she told me.
“This will be our little secret.”

My dancer stood in front of me so that I could take in a complete view of her body. I thought to myself about a long list of things I wanted to do with this extraordinary young girl.
Sweeping in, the girl moved her face to the side of my neck. I could feel the long strands of her hair brushing by my face. Then my dancer slumped her head on my shoulder as if to act overwhelmed by a loving and sexual energy.
She was only pretending. I knew this; however, there was an ounce of hope in my head. I was newly single at the time and I was looking for love in any place possible.

We were barely into the dance and I already felt my blood begin  to rush. I felt the center of my legs begin to stiffen in my pants. I felt all the need a man could have in a time and place like this. It was no wonder to me why the sex business was a multi-billion dollar industry.

Spinning around, the dancer turned her back to me and leaned herself into my seat. She leaned her head against me, reaching back to place her right hand on the right side of my face to cuddle my left check against the left side of her face.
Whether this was real or only an act; I was happily sold. I looked down across her naturally plump chest. The light pink color of her pointed nipples fleshed out to a large circle to tease my appetite.

Again, being new to the lap dance scene was a disadvantage to me. I was unaware of the rules of engagement. I was unsure what I could touch and what I couldn’t.
I wanted to touch my dancer. She knew this. I wanted to run my hands up from her stomach while grinded her rear end into the seat of my lap.
I wanted to hold her in my hands and run my fingers across the dancer’s chest to tease her the same way she was teasing me.
I wanted more from her. I wanted everything she would allow me to see, do, or take. I wanted more, but more accurately, I wanted to throw her on the seat, facing away from me, and ravage her from behind. I thought of my dancer’s soft pale rump staring at me; her look of innocence vanished to someplace unspoken and my lust for sin took over in a fury of loud and aggressive sex.

When I first began my sexual career, I was always unsure how to push forward. It was never quite clear to me whether I should lean in and go forward or when to patiently withdraw and accept “No” for an answer. The way I moved passed this is I always figured to keep going. If a woman wants you, she will let you move on. If she doesn’t; she’ll tell you when to stop.

“Keep going,” I thought to myself.
“She’ll tell you when to stop.

I could no longer remain a patient and well-mannered customer. I reached in and placed my hands on her chest. The dancer allowed me to feel her but warned, “Don’t put your hands below my waist, okay?”
Of course I agreed. How could I not? I agreed to keep my hands on the dancer’s breasts while she grinded her large rear into my seat. And by this time, my lower half was beyond stiff and standing at full attention.

I was mesmerized by the moment. I lost the function of thought. I was enticed and teased and found myself somewhat hypnotized by the trance-like sound of slow jazz with a soothing, sexy bass line. I was caught in the moment and sexually thick. I felt like a missile that was about to take off to explode.

Then my dancer slowly moved up. She delicately removed my hands from her breasts and returned my hands to the arms of the chair. She stood with her thick swollen rump a mere foot away from my face. Turning to look over her left shoulder, her long hair swung, covering one eye. My dancer looked down to find my appreciating the view of her back.

The cheeks of her bottom were so full and thick. It was enough to make any man drool. Looking her backside, if I were dying man, this is what I would want for my last meal. I wanted to taste her. I wanted to press my nose against her skin and inhale her aroma
When she bent forward, my dancer revealed the fruit of her body. I could see everything. In fact, I had never seen anything like this before.

“Do you like me,” the dancer asked again.
“Sure,” I said.

After exposing the behind view of the openings to her body, my dancer turned to face me. She placed her knees on the front of the loveseat and leaned in.
Taking her hands and wrapping them around the back of my head, the dancer pressed my face against her chest.
I could feel the texture of her heard nipples. I could smell the soft essence of her skin. I was no longer thinking about the business transaction between the dancer and me. I was not thinking about the countless number of men that sat in that chair before I did. I was not thinking about the cigarette burns on the arm of the loveseat. I only thought about my dancer and her constant need for reassurance when asking, “Do you like me?”

I was not sure how long we sat in that room. I lost track of time. I lost my ability to think clearly. I stayed too long missed an afternoon appointment.
Again the dancer asked, “Do you like me?”
“Why do you keep asking me if I like you?”
“Because I want to know if you want me to keep going,” she explained.
“Of course, I want you to keep going,” I responded.
And had she continued, I am sure that she would have successfully created an issue that would stain beneath my shorts.

“Are you sure you still like me?”
I told the dancer, “Absolutely,” with hopes that she would simply continue without asking me any further questions.

“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said patiently.
“Because you already owe me $120.00”
Quickly, all the blood that rushed through my body came to a complete and total stop.

“You told me a private dance is $20.00.”
“It is,” she explained.
“But each time I ask if you like me, you say, ‘Sure’ so I keep going.”

“I didn’t know that liking you meant I had to pay you another 20 bucks each time you asked!”

There is a saying that goes, “When the money is gone then it’s time to move on.”
I suppose my dancer knew this saying very well.
“Well,” explained my dancer without the Russian accent.
“Now you know!”

I was no longer sexually impressed by the room. As blood returned to the more appropriate section of my brain, I noticed things in the room that I did not notice before. I noticed the burn marks in the carpeting—and various stains on the walls and on the couch. I was able to see a bit more clearly now. I was no longer blinded by the hot pink glow from the fluorescent lights. As my eyes adjusted to reality, I was able to see the imperfections in my dancer’s skin.

I stood up and handed her $40.00 because that was all I had.
Then the dancer shook her head. She curled her lip in a look of disgust and shouted, “Butch!”

Butch was the bouncer.
That was my first lap dance.

I should have just went to see the girl that worked in The Empire State Building.



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