This story can only be found bundled with the Erotic Novella “Business with Pleasure”
We pull into the shadowy parking lot in some corner of Los Angeles. I look around the deserted area, wondering where exactly we are, only half caring. Most strip clubs in LA are located in tucked away corners like this one.
I’m a little apprehensive as we walk around to the entrance and part the strings of beads to enter Cheetah’s – a strip club, a real live strip club! I’ve been dreaming of just such a place for years, but have never worked up the courage to actually go, until now. I’d heard that Cheetah’s was “women friendly”, and from the crowd I can immediately tell it’s true. There are plenty of guys but also a decent number of female customers who look like they’re having a good time.
My three friends and I take ringside seats along the surprisingly empty stage and animatedly set about checking out each new dancer. Many of them are what I expected – peroxide blonde, fake boobs, very LA and very boring. Some have a spark of creativity and feign a glimmer of interest to tease out one of the dollars we hold in our hands, but many pass right by us or stare back with vacant eyes.
We watch as one girl after another manoeuvres around the stage, shimmying up and then down the shiny silver pole, twisting and writhing in ways I can’t imagine my body doing. It feels surreal, this world of glamour and money and lights and ultra-femininity. I look and stare and whisper to my friends. Though I’m having fun, the place starts to lose its charm when I have to get more change and still no girl has really grabbed my eye. I settle in with a new drink and a fresh stack of bills and hope that I won’t be disappointed by the next round of dancers.
When the next girls walk out, I’m transfixed. She’s the hottest girl I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing cave girl attire, a leopard print bandeau top and hot pants – all tanned skin, natural curves and gleaming black hair. She looks shiny, like she’s just put on suntan lotion. She slithers along, making eye contact when she passes us, crawling back across the stage, putting her whole body into the performance. She toys with her shorts, thumbs hooked into the waist, before sliding them down her long legs to reveal black panties. I know that she’s the one for me, that I really like her and am not just an indiscriminate ogler, when I realize that I preferred her with her shorts on.
After her performance, I offer her a wad of dollars. “Thanks,” she says. “I’m Gabrielle.”
“Hi,” I say shyly. “I really like your outfit.”
“Me too,” she giggles, then smiles before waving her fingers and gliding off the stage.
“Oooooh, you like her. You should get a lap dance.”
“Yeah, get a lap dance! Get a lap dance!”
My friends are practically jumping up and down in their excitement, making me blush.
“No, no, you should get one. She’s totally hot.”
“I know, I know, but let me think about it, OK?” They’re so eager for me to lose my lap dance virginity, I’m afraid they may drag me over to her.
I need to get away for a minute, so I go to the bathroom. To my shock, I find her sitting inside, casually chatting with a friend. “Oh, hi,” I stammer. “Is this your dressing room?”
She laughs. “No, but it’s almost the same quality.” I smile at her and then go into the stall, nervous at having spoken to her. When I emerge and begin to wash my hands, she admires my purse. I tell her about it and then take out my sparkly lip gloss. She asks to try some, and I hold it out to her, watching as her finger dips into the red goo. We talk a bit more about make-up and then she says, casually, “Did you want to get a lap dance?”
Did I? Of course! Yes, I’d like that, I say.
“Great, just give me a few more minutes and I’ll come get you.”
I practically float out of the door and back to my friends. I’m going to get a lap dance, and I arranged it all by myself! Ha! I feel like gloating. I wait patiently, trying not to let my excitement show in a big stupid grin.