Archive | March, 2010

Blonde Hair and Big Tits

17 Mar

From Texts From Last Night:

(813): I’m surprised you like me… I didn’t think I was your type.

(1-813): Blonde hair and big tits is every guys type.

There were two types of customers.  The first would approach me, immediately ask for a lap dance and drag me off to the back room (this often happened just as I’d gotten to work, deposited my things in the dressing room, taken off my street clothes and run my fingers through my hair.  It was about 49% irritating, as I preferred to knock back a Jack-and-Ginger or two before I took my clothes off, and 51% immensely flattering).

The second type took a little bit of coaxing to warm up.  He wanted to relax, have a legitimate conversation (albeit one littered with innuendoes and more explicit sex talk), perhaps buy me a drink first.  After five or ten minutes, I’d pretend I’d forgotten I was working and had been fully engrossed in his witty banter, and that I was just now noticing the scantily-clad girls and suited men and remembering where I was.  “Oh!  Do you want a dance, by the way?” I’d ask casually.  I was never sure whether this type of customer wanted to feel like the lap dance actually meant something – like it wasn’t a complete stranger writhing against him, naked – or he hadn’t initially been attracted to me but my rad personality charmed him.  Either way, I was rarely turned down.

The key was finding the ideal moment to offer the dance.  Too soon, and you’d seem insincere; too late, and you ran the risk of the customer deciding that, despite your taut stomach and cleavage spilling out of your push-up bra and thick, mascara-drenched eyelashes, you were too much of a “normal girl” to be objectified.  “I mean, you’re obviously attractive,” one customer said after we had spent ten minutes discussing our similar tastes in movies and books.  “But you’re, like, a real person now.  You’re not a sex robot anymore.”  I assured him that I loved giving lap dances.  That I found him sexy and that we had a connection.  He consented.

I always felt much more comfortable offering dances to middle-aged, unattractive customers than young, good-looking ones.  I may be a textbook example of ugly duckling syndrome, but even I knew that I was doing them an enormous service by laughing at their tired jokes and not flinching when they placed their hands on my thigh.

It was with the attractive customers in their late 20s or early 30s when I’d have to swallow my vulnerability long enough to dupe them into going with me to the back room.  Or, at least, that’s how it seemed to me.  It was the possibility that I’d actually enjoy the lap dance; the fact that the sexual chemistry that existed between us might be genuine, not a steadfastly maintained illusion; the risk of rejection that would actually sting, if only for a couple minutes.

“So, um, how about we get some dances?” a customer once asked.  He had an athletic build – I admired the way the muscles in his arms and chest strained slightly against the button-down shirt he was wearing – and was conventionally attractive, with closely cropped blonde hair and a strong jawline.  He had posed the question to the entire group: his half-dozen friends, all slightly older than him and married, and the handful of dancers who had gathered around them.  But his eyes lingered on me last, so I felt compelled to answer.

“Yeah, of course.  Who do you want to dance with?”

He rolled his eyes.  “You.”

Shockingly, in the six months I danced, only one customer turned me down and told me explicitly that it was because of how I looked.  He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had an arrestingly gorgeous face.  Conversing with him was surprisingly easy, given that I was half-naked and my skin prickled the way it always did when I was nervous but had no idea why.

“I mean, you’re really beautiful.”  He scanned the room.  “You’re probably the most beautiful girl here.”

“Thank you.”

He looked back at me, and my thighs erupted with goosebumps.  His expression was apologetic.  “But I like tall girls.”

“Oh.”  At 5’4, I hardly fit the bill.

“Like, really tall girls.”

“Well, that’s okay,” I assured him, even though I felt the pit of my stomach sinking.  “It’s a slow night, so I’m happy to just talk.”

“Okay.  I just don’t want you to feel like I’m leading you on or anything.”

No more than two hours later, I was stripping off the miniskirt and bra I was wearing and straddling him wearing only a flimsy pair of black panties.

About an hour after that, I was in his bed, naked (except for the panties, which I refused to take off) and unable to stop kissing him.

More than seven months later, he’s my boyfriend.

I just don’t take “no” for an answer.