Lap Dance Confessional
Springtime causes people to feel a slight acceleration in hormonal urgency. Females shed sweaters for their annual warm weather display of cleavage. Clans of frat boys roam downtown, stricken with intoxicated hunger. To them, the hot dog aroma polluting the air smells deceptively good, even if the vendor’s hands look as filthy as the city. Amid this commotion, I am celebrating another birthday.
Strolling into the 418 Club with a pocketful of singles, I immediately flirt with dancers. Their backsides are undefended countries begging for a hostile invasion. One is Puerto Rican with Filipino eyes, an exotic female who would ordinarily have nothing to do with me. However, tonight she claims that I’m the cutest guy in the building. My temperate smile shows tolerance towards her lie.
It’s not the strippers that I hate, exactly. It’s what they’ve become, brokers who pimp desire into a competitive advantage. But I admittedly enjoy them standing naked before me, vulnerable yet dominant. The best ones are fearless. They stare into my judgmental eyes while their bras pop off and never flinch as fleshy nipples taunt my tongue.
Dancer hoists her frame, glossy and tight, onto my lap and grinds with the lustful rhythm of cervical jazz. Eyes shut, she imagines someone else underneath her, perhaps an abusive live-in boyfriend. She whispers temptation, periodically using my name to make her bullshit seem sincere. Her gyrations inevitably cause arousal. My cash disappears, clasped between sleek skin and thong, a charitable donation toward unpaid community college tuition or groceries for illegitimate offspring.
Afterward, I head home alone. Perfume and sparkle dust haunt my clothing. I enter the doorway wondering whether the stripper could sense my emptiness. Maybe she noticed the gaping hole in the fabric of my reality, but decided that it was best to simply dance around the issue.