Thursday night three packs

First set of the night on the second stage and I couldn’t really get a feel for who would be getting a lapdance. No one seemed that into me, which doesn’t mean anything but it’s nice when I can just haul them straight off my rack into the lapdance room. Regan, who went up two songs before me, told me they liked rock so I told her to specifically ask the dj not to play any Katy Perry. Ask for that Alien abduction song to annoy the crowd to cheer yourself up on a slow night and you’ll be consigned to Katy Perry for the remainder of your Thursday nights, apparently. They were unmoved by my heroic sacrifice in dancing to the dj’s definition of rock.

I crawled over to one of the guys who looked friendliest, purred in his ear.

“I hate cats,” he said. “Never do that again.”

Cheesy as it is, this was a first (to hear out loud. There have probably been others who thought their visible masculine enjoyment would be called into question if they criticized it, or something, I don’t know) and I couldn’t help laughing.

“I mean it!” he said. “I hate cats!”

Sometimes it’s such a weird balancing act, being naked and attractive in public while people take things way too seriously and just keep talking at you and not actually saying anything constructive like “I’d love a lapdance!”

“Shhh,” I told him. “You’re too pretty to talk, don’t talk.”

He kept talking, something about being manly and maybe biting me. This has been a running theme for the past two weeks, people biting me, and I’ve lost the ability to find anything redeeming in it, or even make it funny. Maybe some other time. I made a face like I couldn’t hear him, “Are you still talking? I’m sorry, what?” Move away.

No one wanted a dance after that set. I faced my money and went to circle the bar, got turned down twice and was about to get turned down a third time when a guy in plaid grabbed me. “Let’s do dances!” Magic words!

He was totally nice and funny and really got overshadowed by later customers. All I really remember about him is realizing halfway through the second dance that this was the mouthy guy from my stage set. I discovered this when I purred in his ear again.

“I still don’t like it,” he told me.

He told me next time I’m in SF he’ll take me on a full strip club tour.

“And pay for everything,” I specified.

“Of course!” he agreed.

Worth a shot.

The next three pack was to a guy who’d been harassing me and then backing off all night. By the time I got him back there I knew he was going to be more trouble–if nothing else gave it away than a conversation with his brother where they told me how they didn’t mind sharing if I wanted to come home with them would have– than he was worth but I’d already factored the hundred in and didn’t want to write it off.

We got back and immediately I had to remove his mildly sticky hands from my ass. “No touching,” I smiled.

“Oh yeah yeah,” he agreed.

I like really brawny guys–it’s like with Russian, I will excuse a certain amount of unattractive qualities for muscles or Russian–but this guy had too many unattractive qualities. He kept clicking his tongue ring against his teeth and it got to be a warning sign that he was about to grab me; hear the clacking, tighten my hold on his hands. His boner started to tilt up toward the waistband of his jeans and I kept catching him trying to pull them down inch by inch, in the hopes of eventually revealing an inch or two of veiny purple penis, probably. I could just tell that it would be purple.

“Hold on,” he’d say and at first I was fooled into letting go of his hands, at which point he would grab my hips and try to slam me down on his boner. The bouncer would reappear like a jack-in-the-box.

“No touching,”

“Oh yeah, ok ok.” I’d grab his hands and we continued this way through two songs. After strong-arming him off of my tits I turned around to give my face a rest from my teeth-gritted grin, then turned back to him.

“Let me just help you,” he offered, grabbing my hips again and lurching his own upward.[1]

I lost it. “No touching,” I snapped, not even bothering to smile. It was short of a shriek, but said into an unexpected lull in the music, just as the bouncer popped up again to reiterate, “No touching!”

I felt the guy’s boner wither beneath my ass. The lack of regret in my voice and my obvious annoyance popped his delusional bubble that we had both been having the time of our lives; in fact, that the only thing that could make this more fun would be actually being naked without that pesky bouncer. I ruined it. I felt nothing but delight. He kept his hands clenched on the armrests for the rest of the third song, and no, in response to my sweetly voiced question, he did not want to keep going. He paid me and high-tailed it out of there.
1-this is a thing and it is the most annoying ever. It’s like being jounced on a trotting pony and I can’t imagine that it works for either of us.


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