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remnants of the templeThis is one of the pieces I wrote for that crap memoirs writing class I took a while ago. I realize its a bit, no-duh for a sex work blog, as it was written for a vanilla class. this is why I need a macro lense. I see him sitting in the back corner on the main floor of the club. I strut over to him, a style of walking that is nearly unavoidable in the four inch black stilettos I’m wearing. “Would you like some company?” I ask him in my stripper voice whilst gesturing to the empty chair beside him. My stripper voice, which I had been honing for months, was a few octaves higher than my norm, sickly sweet and patronizing with all the silky smoothness that I could muster given the smoky atmosphere inside the club. “Sure” he says looking at me with his round, watery eyes. Robert is a small man wearing a striped polo shirt and jeans. His face is aged and stressed, he has a round, knob-like nose and hairy forearms. He drinks a Heineken and fidgets while we chat. It doesn’t take long to convince him he needs a dance. I lead him to the back, hand in hand, where there are rows of booth like upholstered benches and us ladies straddling, grinding and caressing away hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars. I think this is where the scales become a little more balanced. I sit down with him in one of the dance booths and we wait till the next song starts. I make small talk and take note of how his eyes scarcely make contact with mine. Finally the song begins, hip hop rhythms boom through the club speakers and I start my mojo. Eye contact is my first weapon of choice while I hold on to the sides of the booth and roll my hips to the beat. I move my body close to him, in his space, breathing in his ear, down his neck, imitating foreplay-like behavior. He looks nervous and keeps his hands by his side. I like that. I turn around and bend over with my ass thrust purposely in his face, head bent over, hips still moving in slow waves to the music. I arch my back and flip my hair. I have done this so many times by now, my own routine bores me. I turn around and begin pulling the thin material that makes up the imitation evening gown I’m wearing over my head. Now it’s time to grind. I get closer to him and start to straddle his lap when he hoarsely asks me to stop dancing. “What?” I ask. “Can you not dance?” I looked at him puzzled thinking I had done something wrong. ”Can we just sit here and hug?”, he asks timidly. I sit down next to him still wearing my g-string while he hugs me and feels up my body rather awkwardly. I hug him back and caress his body. Then he starts to talk. He tells me about his marriage, his wife and how cold she is and how all he wants to do is touch her body and feel her. I wish everyone in the whole wide world could see our interaction right now. We stay like this for three or four songs after which I escort him to the door and embrace him again. Robert continues to visit me in the club every other week for his hugs. He’s still one of my favorite customers and I think about him often. 10 comments to remnants of the temple |
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That’s tragic and sweet at the same time. I love it.
Wanna start a stripper temple together?
Good! VERY pleasant reading.
I’ve sent a copy to a friend, who teaches English, for her to translate for her lover. Or, alternatively, for her to give a copy to her lover to ask his wife, who teaches English too (!), to translate it for him.
Which solution do you think she’ll retain?
Best wishes to you and your ‘visitors’.
yeah! that would be awesome.
Very well written. I enjoyed it immensely. Thank you for the pleasure! I hope you continue to write more erotica. Your talent is definitely there.
Sequoia:
I think in this case the “vanilla” tone of the story is very appropiate. At first I thought this was just going to be a description of a typical lapdance for a typical customer but, you vey effectively pulled at the heartstrings when you had the guy stop the dance and explain his reasons for being there. Out of curiosity how did it go over in your class ?
the responses in the class were stupid, one chick said “I liked how you took the raunchiness out of it and made it into something special”. I mean, come on, its still naked dancing, I’m still shaking my tits in some dude’s face and yeah some moments are interesting and introspective and speak VOLUMES about our stupid sex culture, but at the end of the day, the raunchiness is apart of it, thats what gets people in touch with their bodies sometimes.
the other thing that was said was “I didn’t like the part about the hip-hop rhythms”. Like I have control over what music was being played? Come on. Its MEMOIRS, not FICTION.
But yeah, thanks everyone for the nice responses
, I knew you guys would understand 
it wasn’t erotica, just sex work memoirs. not really meant to get people hot and horny.
hi, sequoia redd. u should be living a happy and peaceful life at sunsport gardens nudist resort or colina do sol naturist village. the people there are friendly Not creepy perverts like in other nudist communities. so don’t give up ur nudist life just because of those people
I have been Robert many times in the past; that guy who sits alone, looks partly nervous and partly sad, and is just genuinely happy for any sort of real human contact. It’s that sort of experience that I wish people could understand when they talk about strip clubs, that experience of being the lonely guy who gets just that one bit of affection, no matter how trivial or contrived, and it keeps him going. That hug, as it was for Robert.
A good dancer who allows a guy who forget his troubles and just feel good for a few songs is doing precisely what no one else could do: make me relax, make me happy, make me sane again. I’m sure sometimes it seems raunchy as the woman in class described it, and maybe it is, but for guys like me . . . it’s all we’ve got.