Dollar Bill

As bold and brash as I can be sometimes (and not without some struggle), there are times when I am utterly awkward, shy, uncomfortable, thrown off. D.C., M.C., and A.W. can attest to this, as they've seen me huddled against the side wall of a strip club, afraid to go near the strippers. I can safely say that several more experiences haven't actually changed that. A.W., E.B., E.C. and I decided to hit one (a strip club, not a stripper). E.C. told me I should relax; only ten minutes later did I realize I was sitting with my arms crossed on the table, my shoulders hunched near my ears.

There's always a weird disconnect for me in a strip club. On the one hand, it's kind of exciting to watch women dance and remove what little clothing they have on. On the other hand, in the back of my mind, I know this is exploitative and cheap, when I watch the disinterested stares on their faces, and the workmanlike conduct with which they dance.

It gets even stranger when I go up to the stage, because after a few seconds, I don't know where to look. Face or body, face or body. I could stare at the body, which is a work of art, but also somewhat perverted. I could stare at the face, which is also lovely, but it also humanizes the stripper. And every so often, I'll catch a glance of myself, looking all of sixteen years of age in the mirror, half-smile-half-frown on my face, arms dangling to my sides, and wonder what they're thinking, dancing for what looks to be an underage teenager.

Tonight was no exception. The blonde was (un-)dressed in (the tattered remains of) a schoolgirl's uniform. Her body, slim and tight, no curves wasted on her. Her face, gentle, almost pixie-like, with a girl next door quality to it. Quite comely, and after about three seconds, the only thing I could stare at, because I just felt so awkward. She was naked, but I was exposed, the folded dollar bill in my hand probably quivering.

Whether it was the tense body language, or my poor attempt to smile, I think she could sense how nervous I was (and it felt like waves of awkward energy radiating away from me). So, in an all time classic moment, in the middle of her dance, she suddenly stopped and threw one arm over her breasts, and covered her vagina with the other. Her face was utterly shocked, as if I'd walked in on her changing.

I doubled over, laughing my ass off, and when I looked up, she, too, was laughing her ass off. This only made me laugh even harder, which made her throw her head back and laugh her shapely ass off. This went on for one more round, at which point she approached me and lifted her garter belt off her smooth thigh. I was laughing so hard, I couldn't even put the bill into the generous gap. Took three tries, and I had to insert a "Thank you" in between peals of laughter.

As she regarbed herself in her scant raiment, I approached her again, dollar in hand. Really, all she had to do, the perfect response, was to flash her breasts quickly, then drawn her half shirt around her torso and look shocked again. Actually, I don't think she even exposed them by that point, I think she may have only made a half-open, and exaggerated the close.

When I returned to the table, E.B.'s response: As embarrassing as you think that may have been for you, you made the biggest impression out of anyone on her for a long time. Don't think she'll forget that. Either way, best dollar I ever spent.