Why not?
The Paradise Lounge is probably the nicest strip club in the city, located in the popular nightlife area, surrounded by dance clubs and expensive restaurants. When I walk into the front entrance, a man in a suit collects a twenty-dollar entrance fee, and then another escorts me into the club as if he’s seating me at a fancy restaurant.
“This way,” he says, turning towards the line of chairs right up against the stage—pervert’s row.
“No,” I say quickly. “Somewhere more private.”
He nods and turns, indicating an empty table at the back, and I tip him—even though I could have found my own damn seat. It’s the way the club works. Everything here is an economic transaction.
I’ve grown accustomed to being alone, after years of traveling. I’ve been to hundreds of restaurants alone, hundreds of movies, and yes, even the occasional strip club.
I sit and signal the waitress and eye the women moving around the room alertly, wanting to see Mata Hari but not be seen by her. Like the fucking creep I am.
I don’t know what it is I want, exactly. I’m just wondering what it would feel like to see her again. Would I be blasted by the same powerhouse attraction as before, or was it something about the night, the mood, that made me idealize the whole experience? I’m not sure. I order a beer and continue scanning the room, eventually concluding that she’s not here. Feeling equal parts pathetic and relieved, I try to focus on watching the dancer and enjoying my drink. I’m just a man trying to unwind after a business meeting, I tell myself. If I see her, I see her. If I don’t, that’s fine.
Being fixated on her isn’t healthy.
On stage, the dancer listlessly swings a leg around the pole. She has long, lank dark hair and wears a glittering bikini with sparkling tassels, but her dour face contrasts with the bright effervescence of her outfit. She moves slowly, as if to another song, hip movements just a second off the beat, gaze distant and empty. I wonder if she hates her job. Some people aren’t cut out for this line of work, I’m sure. I let my eyes wander around the perimeter of the stage, looking at the faces of the men—and one woman—sitting in pervert’s row. Up front, they’re paying more attention to the dancer, while back here men are chatting with circulating strippers and waitresses—ordering drinks and private time with the girl of their choice.
I’m finishing my drink as the dancer toddles onto a rickety hydraulic lift that lowers her down below the stage, and as I get ready to stand up and leave, the DJ announces the next dancer.
“Give it up,” he cajoles, “for Sa-lo-mé!” He draws out the “eh” sound at the end like he’s Oprah giving away free cars.
I freeze, my hands clammy as I stare at the empty stage, unsure what to expect. It’s like waiting for a celebrity to appear—or a deity. The sight of her will decide something, either ending my fixation or explaining my actions on my birthday. I’m not sure which, but after thinking about her for so long, the idea of seeing her has got me gripped with excitement.
Time ticks by eternally, long seconds feeling like hours, and then there she is. She rises from the floor on the same hydraulic lift, first her blonde hair, now in long, shaggy layers, then her strong shoulders and her perfectly straight back. She’s dressed in a metallic leotard that’s as tight to her body as skin, long sleeves but bare legs. A cape of the same fabric drapes off the back. It’s so different from the bikinis or lingerie sets the other girls are wearing, and even the song that’s pounding out a driving beat is a stark change to what’s been playing in the club so far. The energy around me changes, voices quieting, attention turning to her brilliant presence.
The platform reaches floor level, and she struts forward, slamming the beat on each step, her legs a mile long in platform heels, long lines of muscle rippling up her calves, thighs, and ass.
It’s so theatrical it would be comedic except for the absolute composure on her face. Her chin is lifted, highlighting the length of her neck. Her eyes are bright. Her charisma is mesmerizing.
When she grabs onto the pole and swings her body around in time to the music, it’s a feat of athleticism. She has surprising strength for her size. She climbs the pole and bends over backward, hair sweeping the floor, and the lone woman in the front row whoops in appreciation.
Then she’s down on the ground again, crawling on all fours; savage. She whips her head around, swinging her hair, and tears the cape off her leotard with a loud velcro rip.
It’s as astounding as the number I saw her do on my birthday—maybe more so. It’s not a striptease, it’s a music video. It’s live theatre. She sits up on her knees and pulls a zipper down the front of her leotard, exposing the skin between her breasts and the top of her stomach in a seductive V. My cock jumps to life at the sudden promise of her nudity. She slides the leotard down over her hips and legs, and jumps to her feet, kicking the fabric off her high heels. She’s got a G-string on and nothing else, and I find myself staring at her tits in utter captivation.
Her full, natural breasts remind me of the centerfolds in the old magazines my dad used to keep hidden in the garage, and I feel the same way I did when I first found those magazines—when arousal was so imminently at the surface that the slightest hint of sexuality would send me running to the bathroom with a hard-on. It’s happening to me right now, my cock getting so stiff it’s straining against my zipper.
Up front, a man starts laying twenty-dollar bills out on the stage, and she turns toward him, crawling on all fours with her perfect ass in the air, the fabric of the leotard barely covering the warm, wet slit between her legs I can so vividly remember touching.
My throat feels dry. I can’t wrench my eyes away from her.
“Another?” asks the waitress, suddenly beside me and lifting my empty beer bottle.
“Yes,” I say quickly, without taking my eyes off the stage.
I pull out cash to pay for the drink and hand it to her without looking.
On stage, Salomé slides her ass back towards the man with the bills until her crotch is right in his face, and the ache in my balls blooms painfully.
With laser focus, my thoughts center around her tight, pink cunt. How slick and smooth it felt against my fingers, how it pulsed when she came.
She reaches back and runs her hands over her ass and down the backs of her thighs, and the man’s mouth hangs open, wet lips surrounded by a sparse goatee. She’s so close to him he could lick her, pull her panties to the side and run his fat tongue up her pussy, savoring every inch of her, and perversely, the thought heats me.
How I would love to watch her—breath heaving, eyes closed—as this man, so many leagues below her station and feeling like he won the fucking pussy lottery, sucked and licked at her right here, on a stage in front of a crowd.
Instead, she rolls onto her back, lifting her strong legs into the air and splitting them apart before closing them again on the other side, rolling up onto her knees and running her hands up her body. She cups her breasts and then jumps up in time to the music. She grabs the pole, once again lifting herself effortlessly off her feet until she’s straddling it, and spins around.