Visiting a Strip Club.

Ah, one of my old pastimes, eh? Okay, I'll indulge.

Personally, any time is a good time for a strip club, and there's no such thing as a bad strip club, but my favorite is late Friday nights at The Top-Heavy Lounge. It's not amateur night so most of the performers are at least feigning interest, the private show rooms are open, the club's popularity means it gets a decent audience size - big enough that all the girls are especially eager, but small enough that female patrons stand out effortlessly and get a free lap dance at the price of their modesty and dignity - and the dance clubs are open to call away most of the other women. Even during the rest of the week, The Top-Heavy Lounge is a firm choice. The private dances can be done on couches or beds, they also offer shower dances but have not yet acquired female swimwear, and the customers are allowed to slip bills directly into garters, G-strings, and cleavage. Plus, it was my first strip club experience, and it was full. I'd love to go deeper on what I mean by "full," but that's my underaged past. Hopefully I did the joint some justice in this description.

Anyway, it's a special place to me, so I always do something a little special. I swing by the gym to shower, shave, freshen my breath, and buff the muff. Then I head to work to raid my wardrobe for clean clothes. Since it's Friday night, I grabbed my white polyester. The skirt comes to about mid-thigh, and the top is a sleeveless crop top, both with a handkerchief hem. Arms, legs, and waist bared, but my ass and boobs are totally covered. Sexy enough to draw attention, but not revealing enough to evoke the dancers' wrath. Same reason I went for my natural colored mid-calf boots that lace up; plain leather, only two inch heels, but accentuating my strong legs. The only thing I hate about these clothes is having to dig out my skin colored strapless bra and matching bikini cut panties. It's not that they're uncomfortable or anything, it's just a pain to sort through my clothes looking for the only underwear that won't be visible under a white outfit. Especially since it wastes time I could be using to load up my white leather purse or iron. Oh yeah, I iron my clothes before going to Top-Heavy. Part of the ritual.

Okay, so that's the past. The present is I just got a free cab ride to the street with my favorite strip joint. Well, sorta free. I made money on the deal, actually. The cabby just doesn't know it yet. Hey, strip clubs cost money and I don't feel like finding an ATM. Anyway, walking down the street at this time of night is usually fun. There's the occasional driver who thinks I'm a working girl even when I'm not, lewd remarks from drunks and jealous bitches, and plenty of morons who think I'm a helpless little girl all on my own in the seedy part of town. But sadly my adventures don't go this road tonight. Apparently no one is in transition right now, because I'm all that's on the street. All I have for pre-club entertainment are the sheer amount of neon signs illuminating the street in lieu of street lamps. Some raunchy, some clever, but all tantalizing, and accurate.

With all the clubs, stores with peepshows, and the obviously inconspicuous brothels, there was never any pressing reason for the new meat to go into one specific place, but I'm a veteran who knows what she likes. And I'd rather not waste nice clothes on random adventures until after the big one I originally wanted. So without hesitating I walk right up to the door of The Top-Heavy Lounge. And now the story can really begin.

"Hey, Jessie!" the bouncer called.

"Hey, Tony!"

Tony could not look more generic. A head wider than it is tall crowned with a crew cut, arms adorned with pure black sleeve tattoos inked by a horrendous artist, and dressed in too-tight clothes meant to show the world his muscles as he stood flexed. As could be expected, he lacks the brain power to figure out grade school math in his head, and his main interests are making money, working out, fighting, and emptying his balls. He and I went together about as well as a butt plug and a sack of potatoes, but sometimes I have to suffer a bit for a fast track.

"Runnin a little late tonight?" he asked.

"Just waitin for the riff raff to clear out."

I try walking past him, but he raises a hand in front of me.

"Sorry, kiddo. You know the rules. This late on Fridays, we got a cover charge."

"Aw c'mon, Tony. That's for the hoppers. I'm a regular. And a well-tipping one to boot. Surely you can waive it."

The toe of his right shoe spiked upwards. That's his tell. Whenever he tries to contemplate something, he curls his toes backwards. The good news is he's genuinely considering letting me in for free. The bad news is he might think better of it. The worse news is he doesn't look like he's crumbling. Usually when he folds, his posture suffers, his eyebrows fall, and he exhales slowly. He looks unchanged right now. I might need to pay. Fuck. I wanted to keep the cash for the girls. Although, there is the other option. Maybe he'll want me to work off the fee instead of paying. That sucks too, though that would earn me some more spending cash - I am a classy whore when I don a price tag.