If you've been to a strip club-- oh, pardon me, Gentleman's Club-- in the last decade or two, you know what the girls look like these days. Long and lean, muscular and aerobicized. The day of the buxom burlesque queen, or even the natural-breasted cornfed honeys of the 1970s, is long past. If you like back, at best you might get the occasional black dancer with some booty, but the white girls all shop in the petite section.
Don't get me wrong, I admire a gal like that as a sort of architectural construction. They're certainly young and sort of beautiful, and that's what strip clubs hire for. And I'm impressed to see one of them hoist her 108 pounds up onto the pole, flip upside-down, and slide down slowly, like an Olympic gymnast. But when they come by after their dances to invite me to go drop a wad on a private dance, well, I find a way to politely pass. I'm happy to watch girls built like that, but having them writhe up and down on me is like having a teenage boy do it, which is not something I have any intention of actually experiencing, ever.
So the first time I saw Yvette-- that was her stage name, anyway-- at Primroses on Baxter Road near the airport, she stood out because, well, things on her stood out. She had rounded, floppy breasts, a curvy behind, real hips, soft arms and thighs-- in short, somehow she didn't fit the muscular profile, but she got hired anyway. And once she got on stage, it was easy to see why-- she had an immediate connection with the audience, knew how to keep them interested and act as if they were turning her on. Too many dancers seem to be off in their own private world (possibly drug-enhanced), but Yvette had the gift of making every man in the room feel like she was dancing just for him.
Now, you know you have no business going back for a private dance in any club unless you're willing to see money vanish at a startling rate. So I ration such activities carefully, using them to make a serious contribution to the income of a dancer who's really put on a great show, and not just to pad the checking account of every girl who works me. But Yvette got me three times in a couple of months, not only because she did a great private dance, and didn't seem to mind my hand brushing against things I wasn't strictly supposed to touch, but because I liked having a soft, curvy woman like her rubbing all over me. It got a reaction that those lean, bony gals didn't quite achieve.
So I was surprised one Friday night when she seemed distant and even angry on stage. Fight with her boyfriend? Red-light-camera ticket? Hard to say, but when she left the stage without even trying to hustle me for a dance-- me, a known sucker!-- I was curious. I saw that she stopped over by the bar to talk to another of the girls, so I took my $4.50 Bud Light and walked over by her, waiting politely until she saw me and said hi. Which she did, sullenly.
"Not such a good night?" I said.
"You could say that," she said. "Try, my last night."
I was shocked. "You got fired?"
"You don't have to announce it to the whole world," she said.
"Oh hell, getting fired is nothing," I said. "If you don't get fired once in a while, you're not worth the trouble of firing. Is your boss an asshole?"
"Damn right," she said.
"Well, then, why give his opinion any validity by listening to it? What was his problem?"
"Maybe we should go sit down," she said.
We went over to one of the tables, a row or two back from the stage so the skinny dancer on stage wouldn't expect me to pay too much attention to her. "So what happened, did he harass you?"
"He said I wasn't thin enough to be a dancer," she said. "I know I've put on a few pounds lately, but I'm always first or second in tips--"
"Which means he has no frickin' clue what guys like me like," I said. I looked her over. Yeah, maybe she was a little broader in the behind lately, and her little tummy pooched out a little. But she was totally hot, and those soft curves were a big part of the reason why. "Honey, you're gorgeous, and the tips prove that I'm not the only guy who thinks so. So why the hell is he listening to his own dumbass opinion instead of the money you bring in? I was under the impression that strip club owners were at least somewhat interested in money," I added, and she laughed.
"Okay, maybe it's not as bad as all that," she said. "But it just makes you feel so worthless. I know I'm hot--"
"You are so hot. But you knew I thought that."
"Yeah, I've felt something that made me think you think that," she said.
"Listen," I said. "If this is going to be your last night here, I want to send you off with a ba-- er, in style. One last dance, and I promise you a very big tip. To tide you over till you land at a new place."
"It's a deal," she said.
She led me back to the private area and I sat down on a soft couch, sinking backwards into its cushions. I looked up at the curved mirror which was mounted at the end of the room, and saw the bouncer watching us, bored. Then Yvette pushed my hands down onto the couch to give me the signal that no touching was allowed.
The music started in the other room and she started moving in front of me. She unbuttoned the flimsy black top she was wearing and revealed her breasts-- of course, I had just seen them on stage a few minutes before. Yes, maybe they were a little bigger and droopier than they had been when she first started. We should all have such problems; they were gorgeously round and dangling, and soon she was pressing my face in between them, swaying gently back and forth so that her boobs caressed my face.
She moved up, my nose rubbing against her soft, round little belly until she was standing over me on the arms of the couch, her panties in my face. She gyrated her crotch over me, pantomiming rubbing herself up and down my lips. She'd done this before, but this time she came closer and closer, until-- she pressed her pussy right against my face, I could feel the pelvic bone and the softness around it, separated from me by only the thinnest layer of silk. Nervous, I glanced up at the mirror, but realized that the bouncer couldn't see, from this angle, if she was six inches away or smashed into my face.
.... There is more of this story ...