Black Hockey Jesus: Dance, Dance V

This is Dance, Dance V. You should read I, II, III & IV, lest you think BHJ is just some dithyrambic pervert who has violated my blog with salacious filth. I mean, he is, and he did. But I am too, and I did first. Now…revel in the brilliance that is The Black Hockey Jesus. *cue choir of angels*

I am in the strip club. Again.

However, it feels different this time. Like big ripe breasts, the night is ripe with possibility. It’s young. The night, I mean. But so are these dancing girls. And restless. Like a dancing girl strung out on cocaine, the night is restless and edgy. That was a brash generalization. Just because a girl dances for a living, that doesn’t automatically make her a coke whore. I do know for sure, though, that I am high on cocaine. Like me then, the night is restlessly high on cocaine. And edgy.

Tonight there is a farm theme and the dancing girls are wearing red bandanas around their necks. They also have freckles painted on their faces. The farm girl thing is making me hot. I find a chair next to the stage. There is a watermelon on the stage in front of me. I am slightly confused by this, but not overly concerned. I place a hand on the watermelon and smack it with my other hand 3 times like I am smacking an ass. I think this is clever, but there’s a part of me that thinks I will look back on this and feel stupid. The topless girl on stage tosses her head back and laughs but all I can hear is Girls Girls Girls by The Crue. Her cowboy hat falls slowly to the stage like an autumn leaf falling from a tree. Like a fond memory recalled in a hot tub.

The watermelon tactic has worked. She is so into me.

I wait for the DJ to announce ½ off lap dances. Then I find her and softly grab her elbow from behind. She bristles, probably at the thought of grinding out yet another lap dance for a pickled old man, but her face visibly brightens when she discovers that it’s me. It is as if her expression exclaims “Hey! It’s the watermelon guy! Ha Ha Ha!” There is a star like twinkle of light in her eye. Do you remember Pretty Woman? That movie broke so much ground. It hit me like a revelation when Julia Roberts masterfully embodied that humanitarian insight: prostitutes have souls too. And they will fall in love with you if you are nice.

She stands on 2 coffee tables on either side of my chair before slowly lowering herself into my lap. I ask her if her name is really “Tangerine”. She says her name is whatever I want it to be. I tell her “Tangerine” is fine, though I thank her for her extraordinary hospitality. I detect an above average passion in her rhythmic humping. Her sneer is telling. This is not your every day run-of-the-mill lap dance.

Has our unspoken connection risen beyond our shady transaction? Does her enthusiasm for my lap indicate her desire for me to rescue her from this degraded squalor. $40? I could’ve swore the DJ said $25. What time does she get off work? Would she like to come to my place? And shower? And clutch coffee cups till morning while discussing the way we had plans? Our big dreams. Our lofty aspirations. The things we had hoped for that never came to pass.

I come in my pants. Turns out my former self was right. I remember the watermelon. And feel stupid.

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• Different.
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Tagged as: dancing, exotic dancer, freckles, funny, Julia Roberts, life, sex, strip, strippers, stripping, USD