Condensed soup

Interesting article from a few months ago in the British newspaper The Observer titled The Brothel Creeper. It’s a cynical but perceptive look at the differences between sex for money and sex with a more spiritual/emotional basis. The article is based on the old joke that sex for money is a lot less expensive than sex for free. His philosophy: "…the prostitute and the client, like the addict and the dealer, is the most successfully exploitative relationship of all. And the most pure. It is free of ulterior motives. There is no squalid power game. The man is not taking and the woman is not giving. The whore fuck is the purest fuck of all."

There must be (or have been) a debate in England about legalizing prostitution, and even though the author advocates patronizing prostitutes, he still wants brothels to remain illegal because he treasures his secret life. Although I’m not addicted enough (yet) to be pursuing street-walkers, I’m realistic enough to see strip clubs, at least where I live, to be brothels in disguise.

As I see it, I’m living a very compressed version of the experimental period I never had. I married pretty young and did not ‘play the field.’ That was actually OK during the beginnings of the AIDS epidemic in the eighties – monogamy was cool – but in these sex-obsessed times, it makes me wonder what it’s all about. So my short-term relationships that I should have had before I was married are now happening in the very short term, like say a half-hour or so.

The meeting phase happens when a dancer does her 15-minute shift on the stage, stopping by to flirt, to entice, to sell herself to me & I make a decision to get to the courting phase. I ask her for a private dance. Courting is just small talk as we wait for the next song to begin and then we progress toward consummating the relationship during the dance, starting off slowly, getting hotter and hotter, and finally reach what we both want. I get off and she gets her just reward.

We then have an amicable break-up and go our merry ways. It’s a stripped down (so to speak) version of a relationship – stripped of emotional baggage, dependence, and animosity.

Return from Hades

Four funerals in as many weeks have kept me from blogging and strip club mongering. I'm really getting itchy to resume, but in the meantime, I have a story from my archive.

I rode the commuter train to the big city up the line on business & I had a couple of hours to kill in the afternoon before the train started back. Not surprisingly I got no response to my Craig's List posting looking for a lunch companion so I decided to see what has become of the city’s infamous red light district. I did my homework and found two strip clubs in the city, an 'upscale' club (where the pro athletes hang out) and another which is more of a dive bar. Of course I knew where I was headed.

Both clubs are on a street the width of an colonial alley that runs between a street in the trendy theatre district to a street on the edge of an ethnic neighborhood. There are a couple of dirty bookstores around there and the two clubs - what's left of the adult businesses cleaned up ten or fifteen years ago. I ducked into the dive bar and grabbed a seat at the bar waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark. It's a long narrow room with a U shaped bar & there were quite a few people there for 1 in the afternoon. At the open end of the U, away from the door was a raised stage where a chubby white woman with a long black wig danced slowly in a bikini bottom. Along one side of the room were U shaped booths with tables and black leather seats where customers and dancers got together.

One of the first things I noticed was that there was no cigarette smoke. I had a feeling this is one of those cities that has banned smoking in restaurants and bars. One thing I don't have to be ready to explain away later. Also banned is any contact between dancers and patrons - there has to be a 5 foot distance kept at all times. What fun is that? But I knew from my research that plenty goes on in the booths.

I wasn't in my seat long before a slightly overweight, very fleshy Hispanic woman sat next to be and asked if I wanted company which I knew meant buying her an over-priced drink. I naturally said yes and got us both drinks. As we started to chit chat J was very friendly and ran her hands all over me. She unbuttoned my shirt and pinched my nipples. She took my hands from her legs and encouraged me to reach inside her bikini bra which I did readily. She rubbed my cock and asked discreetly if I wanted to come. I nodded. It seemed like she's about 7-8 months into learning English, but I understood her perfectly well. She and the bartender told me the deal - buy a half or full bottle of champagne or several drinks and you can go to a booth with the dancer for some 'privacy.' While I was deciding she was persuading me with more stroking and nuzzling. "You like licky dick?" she asked at one point. I laughed and said that comes with the full bottle, right? I probably wasn't far off the mark.

I broke down and ordered a half-bottle and we went over to a booth (that's what I was there for anyway). We took the first booth which was up a couple of steps. I looked down on the booth to my left which was at floor level and was filled with dancers having their lunch - great-smelling Asian food. The table in our booth was about chest high to people walking by between the booths and the bar. J sat on my right and moved very close, cuddling, stroking, cooing, chatting and mixing her champagne with cranberry juice. At some point she double-checked to see if I still wanted to come and then pulled my shirttail out from in front of my pants. Over the next few minutes she alternated between discreetly unzipping my pants, innocently sipping her drink, pulling down the waistband of my briefs, and putting her arms around me, depending on where the bartender was and how many people were walking by the booth. She succeeded in pulling my cock out and covering it with my shirttail - needless to say it was standing at attention. At that point I wished I had worn pants with a longer fly.

She asked me to give her a back rub. She put her head down on her left arm on the table and reached under with her right hand and started stroking. I massaged her back with my right hand and her tits with my left. Somehow she knew when the manager or a customer was going to walk by or when the bartender was serving someone across from our booth and she straightened up, covered my cock with my shirt and attended to her drink. When the coast was clear she leaned over and we both went to work again. This happened several times, leaving me at the brink of coming each time. She was a little rough and my clothes were a little tight but she succeeded anyway. I came in my shirttail and on my black pants as I disguised my heavy breathing by burying my face in her neck and hair.

She straightened up again for a passer-by and asked me in a whisper if I came. I smiled and she checked the wet spot. She seemed proud of herself and we continued talking as if nothing had happened. I put things back together and finished my beer and she finished her champagne (what a job - giving hand jobs and drinking all day). Another dancer sat with us and asked me to buy her a drink. I told her I was out of money and J translated for me (no diniero). Eventually she left and J led me to the men’s room where I cleaned up.

She tried to convince me to stay but I had to go. She walked me to the door and we embraced and pecked each other on the lips. I looked back as I was leaving the entry way and she was still watching me, smiling, and she waved goodbye. I walked into the bright sunshine and wandered around a little and eventually made it to the train station for my ride back home.