Cake

Of just as little of consequence was the non-alcoholic drink menu with apple orange and yes pineapple juice. I didn't even mind the way our waitress hypnotized us into handing over another $40 bucks to cover our two drink minimum and dollar bills for tipping. Even the dudes drooling at the side of the stage with every ass slap and pussy pat were ok by me. Because with each little tap I got a little tingle and a little titillation was the game for the night.

It was the bathroom that was the real kicker. The potty was a shithole, grimy, caked with dirt on the white tiled floors with cigarette butts smooshed into corners everywhere. Looked like it hadn't been cleaned - maybe ever. And this is where the girls hang out. To get a little reprieve from the fake date conversations in between sets, this is where you've got to go. Sure enough two dancers were in one stall, peeing and chatting before they went back out to do their thing. And that's when it really hit. Get me out of here!

When I came out, all I could see were the losers at the pool tables - too cheap to sit at the stage and tip, the club regulated stripped shoes, and the methodical pole wide downs. I stopped wondering if any of the girls could be enjoying this so that I could justify my turn-on, and started wishing their daddies would come pick them up and take them home to do their homework. And I then I felt nasty. It was a strong full-body feeling that made me want to go home and fuck till I felt saved, relieved and safe. In this place where pleasure was hopeless, I yearned for it more than ever.