Boris and Natasha expressed interest in a couple’s dance, and despite my very best intentions I find the lure of a fast 80 dollars difficult to walk away from. I already knew Natasha wasn’t wearing underwear because at the rack she’d lifted her dress to show everyone. Forewarned is forearmed, I planned to be getting paid up front and then not go anywhere near her. In the meantime, we had to find some common ground.
“So… do you speak Russian?”
“No,” Boris laughed. “We’re third generation. My grandfather was involved in the plot to kill Rasputin and fled Russia.”
It shouldn’t–but still does–surprise me how many people tell me that.
“Yeah, he wrote a book about it. I’ve been thinking about digitizing it.”
“Oh you should! Seriously! If you do, email me!”
He blinked and looked surprised at the enthusiasm. “Sure… do you want my email?”
“Oh yeah! I’d love to read it!”
Somehow from there it came up that Natasha wants to get on stage. This I had already deduced from her pantyless state. Female customers. They took “No Panties” as a divine revelation without stopping to listen to the rest of the lyrics. What the hell.
“She can come onstage,” I offered, hoping to seal the deal on the couple’s dance after I got offstage. Sometimes–very rarely–I haul a customer onstage, leaving the burden of entertaining customers to the starry-eyed amateur while I sit back, laugh, and hustle dances off the rack. I do this rarely because while it in theory works, in practise they tend to flail around, humping the pole like dogs and it’s awkward and embarrassing and once I got kicked in the head. A relaxing set it is not.
Almost immediately I regretted it. Sparky, up before me, is a big fan of taking girls onstage so I gave her a heads up. Natasha could play with Sparky and get it out of her system before I got there. It almost seemed like it would work, too. She got off before I got on, but remained in her chair at the rack, buck ass naked, and only waited a beat before clambering back up. I expected her to go for the pole the way most girl customers do, clinging to it and humping it while I continue to move around them, but she threw me for a loop by frog-hopping her naked ass up to me and trying to rub it all over me.
I tried not to visibly cringe and moved away from her, and that set off 3 minutes of hell, as she hop-chased me ass first around the stage while I gave up on looking graceful and settled for scrambling away from her as fast as possible, trying not to let her vagina or ass touch any part of me. I tried to incorporate her into a normal, contactless two-girl routine, thinking as she latched on to the pole that it worked, but I congratulated myself too soon. Somehow she’d launched her crotch at me, wrapping her legs around my waist and doing a full on Gnomey from Showgirls dolphin sex flail, before doing an odd back bend and somersault off me as I clung to the pole, weighing the equally undesirable options of holding still while her vagina made contact with the crawling flesh of my hip, or choosing death over dishonour and letting us both fall off the stage. The thought that my father would surely find out how I died and never forgive me decided me: I held on, promising to autoclave myself after I got done.
She picked herself up from the somersault and recommenced frog hopping around the stage with her ass in the air, a grin of manic delight on her face. It was like being chased by an anthropomorphized biohazard box.
Finally the song ended, and Ivan, smiling and nodding approvingly at the rack this whole time, helped Natasha down.
1-No matter when they left Russia, dedushka is always involved in some plot to assassinate Rasputin, or the tsar, or both. Or they otherwise try to school me on topics they know nothing about. Later in the night, giving a lapdance to a different guy, he asked me what the text was on my shoulder. There should be a rule against asking about tattoos, there really should. Especially for people who are unwilling to take a simple answer and want to argue about it.
“It’s a verse from a Russian poem.”
“Oh yeah? Who?”
“Oh, him. Have you heard of his contemporary, Mayakovsky?”
I’m tired and willing to give this the benefit of the doubt, even though the only Mayakovsky I know of is a full century later. “I haven’t, his contemporary?”
“Yeah, massively influential during the revolution.”
We didn’t bond any further, mostly because he was an idiot who’d come to the strip club looking for a budget submissive to boss. “Now pinch your nipples, hard,” he instructed me, and I couldn’t help laughing, comparing him to Hundred Dollar Dave. He tensed, and I knew it wasn’t going to work out.