SLOW LAP DANCING

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She was naked except for her tiny, luminescent thong…

I had never seen a lap dance before, so I grabbed a barstool high up and close to the action. And for the price of single bottle of beer, I got a show I’ll never forget.

The beautiful topless dancer spread her bare legs just wide enough to straddle the young man’s lap, lifted her arms gracefully, arched her back and thrust her symmetrically perfect breasts to within an inch of his face. Then she rolled her hips seductively back and forth in time with the music streaming loudly from the overhead speakers. 

I took a swig of cold beer and leaned over the small counter for a closer look.

The watery-eyed young man, probably no more than twenty-one himself, was in a world all his own. He couldn’t hear the music and he couldn’t see the other lap dancers in the dark corners of the room moving their hips in cadence with the percussive rhythm. He wasn’t aware of the other men all around him, drinking, smoking, shouting, and throwing dollar bills at the naked coeds on the small stage. His mind was focused on one thing—the dancer’s bare breasts. Ten dollars had bought him a two-minute lap dance—the length of one record. Entranced, the only sound he could hear was that of his own heart pounding inside his head. He was totally mesmerized.

Heck, so was I.

I could see the bouncer standing up against the wall just to the side of the stage. He was a big man, I’d say in his fifties, but in good shape—tall, lean and brawny with a square face and closely cropped gray hair--military style, possibly an ex-Marine. He stood straight with his shoulders back, chin up, his muscular arms across his broad chest scanning the room for any sign of trouble. Most guys played by the rules. Some may have sneaked a little squeeze here and there, but it’s risky. I certainly wouldn’t have taken a chance on getting my face rearranged by some ex-jarhead who gets off on banging heads. But that’s just me. I wondered about the excited young man in the booth. After all, he was the one sitting so close to those magnificent breasts that he could probably smell the intoxicating rose water in her perspiration. What would he do? That was the 64,000-dollar question, and I wasn’t going to leave the gentleman’s club until I had the answer.

The dancer moved in a little closer, her full weight on his lap, her hips rotating. But he sat perfectly still, both hands gripping the vinyl seat, eyes transfixed on those two lusciously pink strawberries recklessly dancing so close to his lips, taunting him, daring him.

I knew what he was thinking. One forbidden touch, an infinitesimally brief kiss on the tip of her sweet, smooth skin would unquestionably unleash an erotic shock wave to his brain pushing him deeper and deeper into his sexual fantasy. But he held firm--digging his fingers into the vinyl couch to keep from grabbing her. Then, as the music climbed to its final crescendo, the dancer closed her eyes and her gyrations became stronger--more careless. Only a few seconds remained. All he had to do was move his lips slightly forward--the width of a finger. It was now, or never.

I saw him shoot a quick glance towards the bouncer who, for the moment, was preoccupied with something on the other side of the room. I knew exactly what the young man was thinking. Should I go for it? If I touch her, will she scream out? Good questions, because if she screamed the bouncer would throw him out into the dark alley, alone, slammed back into the reality of his lonely existence. Humiliated. Banned from the club forever. He returned his attention to the gorgeous, undulating mounds of soft milky-white breasts now no more than a hair’s breath from his lips. Glistening beads of sweat streamed down his cheeks. His loins ached. His brain screamed for satisfaction. Go ahead dude, I thought. Take a chance and see how quickly that bouncer breaks your arms. Then, to my surprise, it all just sort of petered out. I guess he’d somehow heard my thoughts, because he leaned back in his seat and slowly blinked his eyes as if momentarily overcome with rapture. We both took a deep breath of air.

Suddenly, a loud, raspy voice broke my concentration. "Do you want a lap dance honey?"

Startled, as if jarred from a dream, I turned to see a fifties something, stringy-haired, old gal with dark lipstick and raccoon eyeliner smiling at me. I looked her up and down incredulously, the pale skin, sagging bikini and deep crevices in her face told me she had been around the track a few too many times even for an old duster like me. Then I looked back at the beautiful topless girl on the young man’s lap jiggling her perfect C’s in his face. He nervously slipped another Hamilton under the side string of her tiny, luminescent thong. His eyes rolled upwards to meet hers. Pleading. One more dance? She smiled, but her smile was contrived, like that of a storefront mannequin, indifferent, as if he were of no more importance than the chrome pole at center stage. But he didn't care. So as a new record began to play, she leaned dangerously close to his face, arched her back, lifted her arms and began her slow lap dance all over again. Pathetic, I thought, like some whimpering little puppy begging for table snacks. "No thank you darlin," I said, as I threw a couple of wrinkled up dollar bills onto the counter. "It’s time for me to head for the barn."

I climbed into the cockpit of my 1981 Delorean, closed the gullwing door, started her up and shifted into first gear. The little hula doll on my dash swung her tiny hips back and forth--a gift from an old friend who had recently gotten divorced. I smiled and drove off into the night.