Friday, March 30, 2007

The Liberation of the Cheese

Up until my late twenties, I lived a pretty sheltered life. I was perfectly content to do things as I always did, very vanilla and bland. Doggy style was “kinky”, and going to a strip club was just over the top for my puritanical mind.

As I entered my thirties, I experienced a sort of sexual awakening. I realized I’d been missing out on all sorts of shit, and damn if I was going to waste any more time. I wanted to do crazy naked stuff, and lots of it.

The first time I entered a strip club was probably when I was about 30 or so. It was my idea—I thought it would be really hot to be sitting there with my date, watching tit and ass flash by, close enough to touch. I imagined that it would the ultimate foreplay to foreplay, and was extremely turned on by the idea.

In reality, I admittedly freaked out when I was actually seated amidst all those breasts.
For some insane reason, I felt really violated by the mountains of boob that surrounded me. Instead of being turned on, it made me a little sick to my stomach, and if I remember correctly, I ran out of the joint in tears.

So much for the big turn-on.

Luckily, with years of practice, I have hardened myself to the idea of naked women in my face, and have enjoyed many a lap dance and burlesque show with fervor.

In fact, during one drunken trip to the Pussycat Lounge after someone’s birthday party, it was interesting to watch one of my friends have the same reaction that I had once had, a mix of horror and embarrassment, as another friend shoved some dollar bills into the thong of a dancer who had seen better days.

One night several years ago, I was on a first date. Seated at a bar in Chelsea, he mentioned that he noticed that there was a Scores around the corner from the the bar.
Although he was just making small talk, I made a mental note of this, and after my fifth or so vodka tonic, I slurred, “Letsh go see some boobies.”

He looked at me, not sure if I was kidding or not. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Fuck yea. Bring on the tit” I bellowed.

We grabbed our shit and hightailed it around the corner, standing on line in the freezing cold to be admitted into the highclass joint known as Scores West.

We walked into this mini-mall of a strip club, and looked around. It definitely did not have the cozy trappings of the Pussycat Lounge, and you definitely got the feeling that you were at a chain…sort of like the Applebees of the exotic dancing industry.

After paying about $20 for a cocktail, we settled in next to the stage and waited for the magic to happen.

Bored women with vapid expressions shimmied and shook on stage, tits barely moving due to all the silicone weighing them down. I tried to get into it. I looked at my date. He seemed amused, but not all that titillated.

“you need a lap dance,” I decided. I called a woman with dead eyes over to our table and handed her $30. “Go to town” I smiled.

I think that if I had been slapping my date around with a dead, rotting salmon, it would have been hotter than this woman. My 93 yr old grandmother could have done a better job.

After 5 minutes or so of this painful display, she was dismissed. I am pretty sure that my date never even popped wood. At least, not from her ;)

We got a good laugh out of it, and he eventually got a lap dance of sorts, so the night wasn’t a total waste.

I’ve decided that from here on in, I am going to be more selective with my booby watching. It is limited to locker room stalking, and divey burlesque venues. No more corporate boob for me!

I'm just not that kind of girl.

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