The girl from C—

(Or, the hardest dance I ever did.)

Around 1am on a busy night this cute girl can’t stop following me around with puppy eyes and finally convinces her friend to buy her a lap dance. I get the full story while we wait for the next song to start. They’re both from C—–, and dated in middle school. The boy now lives here and she still lives in C—– but hates it, is bisexual, and she comes to the city to sleep with her middle school boyfriend. I blink, nod.
“you should definitely move here,” I assure her. “you could date girls if you wanted. There’s an actual queer community here.”
She gazes up at me, wide-eyed. “who do you date?” she asks. “would you ever date–”
oh dear. “I’m celibate! I’m wedded to school and my job!” The song starts and I push her back in the chair, hoping she won’t talk anymore.

She does me one better. As I move from purring into her ear to sitting in her lap she starts humping me and her breath gets faster and louder. I try to continue unfazed–it’s not like this doesn’t happen, although it is the first time a girl customer has done it to me–but soon she’s scuttled her legs up onto the seat with her ass and she’s in full-on crab walk position, the better to thrust at my ass. Her thrusting does in fact knock me off balance and I almost fall over, torn between wanting to kick her and laugh at how ridiculous she looks. And now sounds, because she’s also moaning.
The bouncer is looking at me like do I want him to put a stop to this, but the other dancers don’t seem fazed and I do feel sorry for the girl, sort of. She’s not going to get the best dance with all that humping/crab walking, but I can keep going. I keep moving, from a safe distance now, only making contact with her shoulders and sometimes breathing into her ear. I squeeze her thigh, smile. She’s still crab-thrusting at me and moaning, and I’m still torn between horror and hysterical laughter. I know the other girls can hear and see and I wonder if I’ll hear about it in the dressing room. I’m a little impatient, I want the dance to be over so I can start making it actually funny in the retelling, rather than awkward and embarrassing.
It reminds me of a story that was disapprovingly linked to on Tits and Sass, about some writer who went to a club with her male friends and got a lap dance and humped the poor dancer til she came. Did she even tip for that? I can tell I’m not going to get tipped extra for embarrassment, my customer clearly has no sense of scale or the contextually appropriate and is still pushed up on all fours, moaning.
Finally the song ends. She stares at me like we just shared something special. I put on my top and pat her and tell her I’ll come find her and hustle her out of the room, breathing deep with relief when she actually exits.
Yikes.

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2 comments

  1. Pingback: Hard times, difficult dances, handholding, pt 1 | G-Strings and Infamy
  2. Pingback: Hands off | G-Strings and Infamy

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