Isaac
The strip club reeks of the unholy combination of lubricant, alcohol, pussy, and body odor. I have to admit I like the visuals, though.
“You want your usual?” the bartender asks me when he sees me.
I give a head nod as a greeting, then mumble an affirmation about the drink that he can’t hear over the music anyway. But he understands.
With my drink in hand, I make my way to the stage, dodging the strippers practicing sales at the bar.
Performances at strip clubs provide endless entertainment. The song represents the girl in a way, but the songs send different messages.
I like watching a trailer park teenage hottie dance for money to support her baby while jamming out in a thong and cowboy boots to “Cherry Pie” or “Pour Some Sugar On Me.” These natural beauties tend to demonstrate strength and some hope.
The slightly jaded girls who still have some hope but also a huge guard up (and about 5 more years under their belt) tend to dance to heavy metal songs about hate or rap songs about money. They look more like strippers in their eyes, but they can hold their own in regular society.
The girls at the other end of the spectrum walk on stage visibly intoxicated and stumble to “Butterfly” by Crazy Town or “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry, their song choices aging them more than their C-section scars and old cigarette burns. These girls are my second favorite.
I feel my dick twitch when I hear the introduction to “Puddin on the Ritz” play through the speaker. Emma belongs in a category of her own.
The smoke show bursts onto the stage in a pair of skimpy glittery short shorts that show off her ass, a matching black glittery bra, open black coat jacket, top hat, cane, nylons, and high heels.
She also wears a believable mischievous smile and maintains eye contact while pulling off advanced choreography seamlessly with only slight variations that make such an impact that each night feels like a new dance.
She understands showmanship, and she definitely understands how to tease the crowd as she playfully slides her coat off to the music and puts her hat on a regular while allowing him to bury his face in her chest (but only for a moment). The crowd goes wild when she spreads her legs open to the line, “spending every dime… for a wonderful time!'
I can watch her every night, but I don’t like the other creeps around. She gives me looks from the stage that makes me feel as though she dances for me, but I know she has that effect on everyone.
After her song, Emma makes a customer pick up her tips from the stage floor and comes to sit next to me. She kicks her heels off but stays in her glittery black panty and bra set and her coat in her lap.
“Hi! I will get your next drink,” she offers.
“Damn straight. You definitely have the money,” I tell her.
A man rudely comes between us, holding Emma’s top hat and a fresh drink.
“I retrieved your hat. Can I put it on you?” he asks.
Emma maintains a stern look; much different than the smile she wears with me or on stage.
The man slowly places the hat on her head, and I watch him smell her hair thoroughly before finally leaving.
“Thank you,” he says.
Emma nods with a bit of an eye roll and smiles at me again the second he leaves.
“Creepy. You deserve better,” I say, disgusted.
She takes the hat off, and two one-hundred dollar bills fall out.
“You think you won’t take two-hundred dollars to let an older lady smell your hair?” Emma questions me.
I honestly don't know, so I don’t answer. But probably.
“What do you want to drink? I get the hook up around her,” Emma offers, searching for a server.
“Do you ever think of becoming a waitress instead of dancing?” I ask.
“No,” she states emphatically.