Great review with major insight from
SubSonic...



From: SubSonic
Folks,

I’ll be taking a bit of a hiatus from strip-club hopping over the next few months. Thanks for all the good times. I leave you with the following farewell review:

Having not written a Strip Club review in almost a year, and searching ever more desperately for ways to avoid the writing I *should* be doing, I decided to take a short drive last weekend over to this tri-state area club, and share my impressions with you.

I’ve been to this club maybe half a dozen times since I discovered it last summer. My usual modus operandi is to drop in on my way home from the airport after a plane trip. For some reason, I find that air travel seems to stoke the flame of my libido to near-adolescent levels, and I’ve had a surprising number of very satisfying experiences at this club despite the restrictive lap laws. (The lap dances are nude and can be high contact, but the customers aren’t supposed to touch the dancers with their hands.)

I arrived at about 9:30 pm on a Saturday night. A quick physical description of the club: It’s fairly small; there is the stage; some tables and chairs along the wall; a lap lounge (No alcohol is served.) The worst thing about the club is its ventilation system, or lack thereof: it is truly a non-smoker’s nightmare. Not only that, there seems to be some sort of house rule that *requires* all patrons and dancers to smoke; every time I go there it seems like virtually everybody is lighting up.

The men’s room is small and nondescript, no attendant. On this particular night, there was a considerable amount of urine on the floor of the stall; apparently, the distance from penis tip to toilet was too demanding a challenge for certain patrons accustomed to dealing with the more user-friendly urinals. There were also two used condoms on the floor. Now that I think of it, the whole bathroom was a shrine to Bad Aim. Obviously, there was a paucity of smart bombs, and presumably smart bombardiers, in the club tonight. Still, the appearance of splooge-filled condoms is, as we all know, a portent of good things to ... <*ahem*> ... cum — sort of like a shooting star on the eve of an important battle, or the favorable arrangement of entrails in a sacrificed goat. So my faint revulsion at the sight of these rubbers with their foamy contents under the harsh fluorescent lighting was tempered by the friendly and reassuring presence of ‘Bobsmythius,’ the astrological sign of the orgasm.

During past visits to the club, I had grown quite fond of a dancer named, a young, tallish and very pretty brunette who commutes to the club from a considerable distance. Aside from her fetching, girl-next-door facial features, Rita isn’t really my physical type; she’s fairly full-figured and I tend to go for the hard bodied whippets. Still, she’s got a great sense of humor and is a very sensual, teasing lap dancer, so it’s certainly no hardship to hang with her at the club. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to be working this particular night. This was her third consecutive absence during my string of visits, after being an apparent fixture the previous times. Coincidence, or was she gone for good?

I noticed, that Layla was here, and that usually spells trouble and frustration for me. Layla has the kind of body that I crave — petite, firm and succulent (in the intellectual sense, of course), with an ass to die for. The problem with Layla is that her lap dances are utterly clueless. The problem with me is that I keep forgetting this. Or rather — I don’t really forget it, I just can’t bring myself to accept it. So I idiotically drop twenty dollars on Layla every time I visits this place, either out of the desperate hope that Layla has actually learned something since my last visit, or simply because I have a bad case of willful amnesia. Something to do with testosterone re-uptake in the hindbrain, no doubt.

This night proved to be no different. To paraphrase Joseph Heller, even though all of Layla’s dances have lacked distinction, tonight’s dance would stand out as lacking more distinction than the rest. Layla hauled me off to the lap lounge, stripped off her clothes without a trace of sensuality and plastered herself against me. Her thigh was doing something in my groin area, but I had no idea what exactly she was trying to accomplish down there, and I doubt she did either. She rubbed herself against my chest without style or conviction. I felt smothered and bored. Trying to shake things up, I finally said, “You know, you’re a very sexy-looking woman, but I don’t think you’re doing as well here as you could. I could help you make a lot more money.” That got her attention. She stopped her dance. “How?” “Well,” I replied, “You should let me give you lap lessons. I’ll show you what guys like and you can practice on me. You’re wasting your potential right now, but I can definitely help you. And you don’t have to pay me; I’ll do it for free. Hey, I’m only thinking of you.” It was an incredibly obnoxious pitch to make, I realize, but for some reason I was primed to agitate. She snickered and said, “Nice try.” I gently pushed her off me and shrugged. “Your loss,” I said, my voice tinged with mock regret. I handed her a twenty, smiled sweetly and said, “That’s enough for now.” You’re fired, kid, I thought to myself. I cruised back to the main area, took a seat and fended off the advances of half a dozen other dancers. Some were actually quite attractive, but my jadedness was growing by the minute. One came up to me, put her hand on my thigh and regarded me thoughtfully. “Yes, can I help you?” I asked. She continued to appraise me. “I’m trying to decide whether you qualify to be lapped by me,” she answered. I replied, “I have twenty dollars, if that’s what you mean. Do you ever reject guys with that particular ‘qualification?’” I could barely contain my scorn. “Actually, I do,” she said, although it was clear that I had thrown her off her rhythm. She stumbled onward, anyway: “I don’t lap guys with B.O., for example.” No problem there. “Well, I’m wearing Nicole Miller tonight; what do you think?” I asked. She leaned in, inhaled, and moaned into my ear. “Ooooh, that’s nice,” she said, feigning uncontrollable arousal. “Thanks!” I chirped, and headed off to the bathroom. Nothing pisses me off like a tired, transparent pitch that assumes I am a pathetic loser who can be manipulated with false flattery.

I took care of business in the bathroom — there were now even more condoms around; clearly, at least some of the dancers knew what they were doing — and returned to my seat. I was becoming more sullen by the minute. Jeez, what’s happening to me? I used to be a nice guy. Then a miracle occurred. A foxy blonde walked into the club, obviously a late-arriving dancer reporting for duty. Yeow, she’s nice, I thought. There is definitely something about her. I’ll have to stick around and check her out. Fifteen minutes later she walks out of the dressing room. Oh my God, can it be? Oh my fucking God. She’s wearing a white blouse and a plaid skirt. And black thigh-high stockings. She’s a naughty Catholic schoolgirl! My prayers have been answered! A bona fide fake Catholic schoolgirl slut, not ten feet in front of me! I am in heaven. My bad mood evaporates.

She’s coming down the aisle right toward me. Perhaps the slackness in my jaw and the drool on my chin have alerted her to the fact that I am interested. Thank you, O Lord! Sunday School is now in session — let the lessons begin! She stops in front of me and says, “Would you like a —” Suddenly she glances at the guy on my left. “Hey!!” she cries, leaping into his arms. “How have you been?!” I am stunned by this cruel turn of events. She’s hugging this guy ferociously. “This is my first time back in over a year,” she says excitedly, “and I see you of all people! Come on, let me give you a dance.” She hustles him off to the VIP lounge, leaving me high and dry. The pain of this moment is almost too much to bear.

Ah, what the hell, I tell myself — I can wait. One song goes by. Then another. Three. Four. I casually stroll by the lap room and peer inside. She’s working this guy over pretty good. Damn, I want some of that. I am on fire. Another song goes by, then another. It slowly dawns on me: I am being punished. God is punishing me for dissing sweet Layla. She was only trying to please me, however incompetently; why did I have to be such a smartass to her? Or maybe I’m being punished for my callous treatment of the dancer who really, truly found my aroma intoxicating; who really, truly wanted to take me home and make me her lover and not incidentally give me the best head I ever had. Whatever. I’m being punished, that’s all I know.

Two more songs go by. I can’t take it anymore. At last, I see that she has finished her dances. Thank God. But now she’s going to sit and chat with this guy for a while. Two *more* songs go by. I can’t fucking believe it. More than an hour has passed since she almost asked me if I wanted a dance.

Finally, she walks out of the lounge and I practically throw myself at her feet and beg for some time with her. My transformation from arrogant shithead to PL (pathetic loser. - Ed.) is complete. She consents happily and off we go into the hallowed chamber. “I *love* your outfit,” I emote. She smiles appreciatively. She asks me my name and tells me hers, which I immediately forget. She starts to do her thing. My hands begin to wander, and I am gratified to find that she’s pretty lax in enforcing the no-touch rule. Her breath is hot in my ear. “God, I’d like to pull your cock out and suck on it right now,” she moans. It’s utterly unconvincing, but what the hell, I’ll give her points for trying. Besides, she’s here and she’s ‘nekkid,’ so I’m happy.

Except. Except who should be right next to us but Layla, giving a typically awful dance to some poor sucker who clearly was hoping for more. And on the other side of us? Of course — none other than the dancer with the refined sense of smell! I am surrounded by the bad vibes I created earlier this evening. Oh, my readers, isn’t it ironic? Obviously, God isn’t through with me yet. These chicks are definitely harshing my mellow, and I’m finding it more and more difficult to enjoy the ministrations of my darling little faux-Catholic faux-slut.

Still, I remain focused on the task at hand. But it’s hard. Layla is eyeing my slut suspiciously, clearly unhappy that I have been stolen from her. The two girls are side by side, lapping me and this other guy, their cute little butts working away on our groins. I am becoming distracted by Layla’s staring at this chick. Staring. Staring. I’m watching this, wondering what’s going to happen next. I sense an imminent explosion of dancer politics. Finally, Layla says to my dancer, “Hey, don’t I know you from Go-Go Rama?” “Yeah, that’s right!” my dancer says, and the two women begin an animated and friendly conversation as they continue to lap us. The scene is ludicrous; two girls humping away at us, yet completely engaged with each other. I am feeling neglected.

I turn to the guy getting the shitty dance from Layla and say pointedly, “Hey, don’t I know you from Stiletto?” The guy is clueless, but the two girls get the joke and crack up. My slut suddenly becomes all tender. “Oh, you poor thing. I’m sorry, that wasn’t very nice of me.” She turns around to face me. “Let me make it up to you.” Her tongue flicks at my earlobe, then goes into my ear. She starts whispering some amazing things. Whoa, that sounds like fun. She starts kissing my neck, then my chest, then drops onto her knees in front of me. Woody is getting some serious personal attention now. ASSC code numbers are being rung up at an ever-accelerating rate: Ker-ching! She’s really working me over. Then she climbs back onto my lap. It’s a veritable riot of frottage. My faux-Catholic schoolgirl is a very sweet girl. A very sweet girl. I’ll have to remember to act hurt more often around her.

I wonder if Layla learned anything from watching her ...