Happy Birthday to you.
Your friends have been saying that to you all night. They said it at the restaurant, and said so at the bar. Next thing you know, they're attempting to make themselves heard over the loud, thumping house beats you're all jamming to in the strip club. And you're all so close to the speakers that you can feel the bartop reverbate underneath your elbows and cigarettes.
However, at that moment, you don't really care if your hearing will require an earpiece when you return to the outside world. You're with your people at the strip club, and the girls are hot.
Well, most of them are, at any rate. A couple of them strike you as kind of "meh,", while several others seem bored. A suspicious glint on another girl's mouth makes you wonder if she's sneaking a set of orthodontic braces no one will think to look for in the dim house lighting. You roll your eyes at how you're thinking about teeth in the middle of a strip joint; as you sip a muscled-up Grey Goose and soda and try not to choke from the extra alcohol your friends bribed the bartender into adding, you suppose you oughta be looking at the girls' gyrating tit sets, ass cheeks, and thongs instead of nitpicking their smiles.
So, you sip your drink again. Fuck braces. She's on the pole near the ceiling!
Your attention remains on the dancers, especially the ones whose movements would have captured your attention anyway if they had clothes on. Your jaw drops while you watch them climb poles and reach the ceiling easily in trademark clear, six-inch heels. To you, they seem feline, and you tell your friends as much.
But, a new purpose emerges to replace the futility of raising your voice against the house's stereo system. It's your birthday. You're getting lap dances. You're about to be devirginized strip-club style. You need to pick a girl.
Your mouth forms a grin faster than you can say yes.
You congregate with your friends and start watching the dancers again, but this time, you look at them as though you're auditioning candidates for your own cheerleading squad. The girls' nudity doesn't seem to matter as much as their movement does; you've never been a huge stickler for a perfect physical body, and you're not into huge mounds of silicone. You're looking for an angel— with a little edge, and a whole lot of coordination.
Take your time, your friends tell you; there's no need to rush into picking someone, and they're having as much fun as you scrutinizing candidates for your first-ever lap dance. You are a little non-plussed after two or three songs, but someone catches your attention when she enters from stage right.
Unlike the other dancers, she seems casually dressed and more covered-up, but she also wrecks any initial conservative impression by ditching her top and hot pants for a mere thong within the first few minutes of taking the stage. She turns and looks at you; you see her slender frame, long legs, and toned rear, and think she could be it. Just as quickly, she moves to the opposite end of the stage. When she races up the pole, reaches the ceiling, and slowly slithers down, you realize that you and the rest of your friends are all gawking like fifth graders with a contraband porn mag.
You manage to say her body is sick. Nobody argues. No one says anything.
She continues to keep your attention along with your friends' eyes. Eventually, the other dancers sharing the stage with her drift off, and she occupies it by herself. In your mind, it's almost as if she was too much to compete against. Which makes her seem even hotter.
Before you can blurt out that you'd like her for your lap dances, your friends immediately nominate her. They work out the details while you trade a couple twenties for singles; it's $90 for three lap dances. They put the money in your hand, and tell you to go have a good time. Your girlfriend suggests that she come with you, just so she can watch. You don't mind one bit.
You see your girl arrive; she introduces herself as Christine. You are astonished to notice how cute and girl-next-door she looks like, and her face reminds you of an edgier Alicia Silverstone. You also find out that her stage name is, coincidentally enough, Alicia. You two were meant to meet.
The three of you trot off to the private rooms, and a hiccup occurs— no one else except the person getting the lap dance is allowed with Christine. Your girlfriend looks totally crestfallen, and Christine tries to talk the back room bouncer into letting her hang. But, you present a solution. You're willing to have Christine lap dance your girlfriend for a song while taking the other two for yourself.
After all, you like to watch, too.
You see the guy in charge nod, and you all file past him and into one of the private areas, a space as large as a dressing room with a bench and a mirror. As your girlfriend watches you with a shit-eating grin, Christine sits you down and places herself expertly between your legs.
Comprehensive and constructed thoughts instantly disappear from your mind. As Christine writhes across your chest and expertly caresses you, you think of nothing except that you love being used as a human pole. You are also astonished to notice how nimbly Christine positions various parts of herself in your lap, face, and chest; you can't believe how quickly she moves in addition to how fast she turns you on. You happily tip her from your stash of singles, while she keeps you aroused and titillated.
Your two songs end, and Christine stops devouring you with her movements. Part of you is glad your turn is over, for you feel like your heart is about to burst through your chest. If Christine were to dance for you anymore, you would probably want to explode or kick a hydrant from the fact that you're not likely to go home with her. As far as you're concerned, you had the perfect amount of time.
Christine thanks you, then turns to work on your girlfriend, who is still sitting next to you with a fat grin. However, as Christine gets to work, the fat grin shows up on your face as it disappears from your girlfriend's. You watch your friend's face as Christine works her expertise; after a few moments, you are certain your girlfriend is as turned on as much as you are.
Your joint session with Christine is brought to an end by the back room bouncer, who is eager to whisk you out and keep the private areas open for new traffic. You take off and return to the bar, where another of your friends is waiting for you with a huge grin. When he asks you how you feel, all you can do is fan yourself, even though the air conditioning is pretty strong.
The rest of your friends file out to meet you after their own private dances, including your girlfriend. As you repeatedly thank them, you can't help thinking to yourself that your little Catholic mom would probably kill you since you're her daughter.
But, hell. Happy Birthday— to YOU.
An expert in coloring outside the lines while reading between them, Alex B has a head for business, bod for sin, and weakness for ice cream during all seasons. Apart from watching Bravo marathons and enjoying haute bites here and there, she writes about TV, pop culture, and coloring outside even more lines. She sneaks Tweets via @lexistential.
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IF YOU LIKED THIS COLUMN...
8.13.08 @ 2:02p
The one and only girl that won me over at a strip club did it by dancing to Slayer.
The only thing that sucks about going to a fully nude club out here is that you can't drink alcohol. Poo.
8.13.08 @ 2:37p
my first time lap dance was utterly disappointing. I picked a girl because she was a) hot and b) danced to techno (which I thought made her very hot, too). She was TERRIBLE at the lap dance. Like she'd never danced for a woman before. Or couldn't fake it for a woman...or SOMETHING.
The second lap dance I ever got was from a chick that was hot, but not perfect. She danced to "I'm hot for teacher" or whatever that song is. When I went up to tip her, she grabbed me, ground against me, bit my neck and kissed me, then smacked my ass when I headed back to my seat. I was intrigued. Enamoured. THAT was awesome. She ended up giving me an amazing lapdance. I left...hot, bothered and wanting more.
8.13.08 @ 7:16p
Heh! Heavens, I still can't believe I had lapdances on my birthday. Absolutely loved every second of it.
If there's anything I could certainly empathize with after the fact, it's how much a guy gets turned on from the whole experience. Guys, I certainly understand why you'd find the experience completely awesome... and then a huge letdown.
And besides, my girl was hot.
8.13.08 @ 7:32p
Ok, so I guess I am a prude! :-P
8.14.08 @ 7:44a
If your mom ever disowns you I'll adopt you, Alex. You are just too cute and smart to be momless. Strip clubs and lap dances are not exactly my cup of tea, since, as I once said, I can't get excited unless there's at least one cock in the room, but I'll take your word for it.
8.14.08 @ 9:58a
Don't worry, Reem, you're not alone! I'm feeling very "oh heavens! oh, my word!" about this whole thing.
8.14.08 @ 10:46a
Thanks Sandra! I'm very much with you on the excitement factor, but for this birthday night at
band camp the strip club, I could have played for my side of the team, and definitely understand the other side.
As far as the prudery factor goes, hey, I'm a huge prude when it comes to brussel sprouts. Can't stand the naked little buggers.
And why is it the only guy who's commented is Daniel? Most of the posters here are the girls, who I don't consider entirely prudish at all.
8.14.08 @ 6:50p
Brussel sprouts? Rrowrr.
8.14.08 @ 6:52p
Also... I've been to one strip club, but didn't get a lap dance. They don't serve alcohol at the all-nude places here either, but you can bring your own. We carried in a big cooler full of beer. I was more embarrassed about carrying that cooler than I was about going into the club.
8.14.08 @ 8:42p
"We carried in a big cooler full of beer."
Ken, that is so tacky, it's hilarious.
8.14.08 @ 10:12p
And why is it the only guy who's commented is Daniel?
Erik is laughing on the inside.
Dan is lost in some underground bunker.
Brian is being polite.
Walker doesn't want to upstage you.
Robert, Roger, and Pete have other stories to tell.
Russ hasn't come up for air yet. He's been on the floor since this launched, overcome by the visuals.
8.15.08 @ 8:53a
8.15.08 @ 11:37a
Ken, you're fearless enough to even carry your own beer into a nudie joint.
*Notices Russ on floor*. Funny boy.
Tracey, your hypotheses look ragingly correct.
8.15.08 @ 1:57p
Not laughing. Pooh. But this was certainly, right from the start, most definitely a woman's perspective of the inside of a strip club. The reveal at the end didn't feel like much of a surprise. :)
you suppose you oughta be looking at the girls' gyrating tit sets, ass cheeks, and thongs instead of nitpicking their smiles.
I thought this is how everybody felt inside strip joints.
To echo Daniel in a weird sort of way, strip clubs are what turned me onto Prince. Pussy Control, while popular to dance to, is ridiculously out of place if you actually listen to the words.
8.15.08 @ 2:13p
Alpha Nerd, not surprised you figured out my femme perspective. Nice to see you here discussing :-)
And the moral of this motherfucker is
Ladies, make em act like they know
U are, was, and always will be pussy control
Love that song, this verse in particular. And now that I think about it, Pussy Control's lyrics don't quite belong in strip clubs.
8.15.08 @ 5:24p
What I'm really impressed by is that you went this whole article without using the word 'turgid.'
8.15.08 @ 6:19p
'Turgid?' Not in my vocab of usual picks. Unless I watch 10 Things I Hate About You and need to invoke Julia Stiles.