By Seth Kushner

Everyone had a g-string clad girl crawling on them.  Stan had several at once, but he was the one getting married.  Jimmy was just talking to his girl, probably about his ex-girlfriend, not wanting to miss an opportunity to tell someone who hasn’t heard it all before.  Kevin, who was married to his high school sweetheart, kept passing twenties to the same blonde Russian girl to dance for him over and over, monogamous even with his strippers.  John had bought a drink for his, and Tony was trying to explain to his that the two-dollar bills he was attempting to feed into her panties was indeed “actual money.” Alberto had a large breasted Latina on his lap, and I was next to him with a tall, thin Asian girl shaking her ass in my face.  I must have looked particularly transfixed, because Alberto loudly said, “Look familiar, Kessler?” straining to be heard over the thumping bass of Jay Z’s 99 Problems.  He was referring to any one of a number of my ex’s.  Yeah, it does…thanks dick.

Sitting so close to Alberto, I was able to hear her say to him, “For twenty dollars you can suck my nipples.”

“I can suck his for free,” he responded, pointing to me.  She gave him a look and got up and left.

I don’t usually frequent “gentlemen’s clubs.” I have nothing against them or looking at naked ladies, but the air of desperation of the men who pay for attention and the women who attempt the sell their wares make for an odd and potentially expensive experience.  Some might argue such places are where “men can be men” and drink beer and ogle titties with their buddies, and that might be true, but I’ve always felt uncomfortable.  We’re taught by society not to stare at women and treat them as objects, but here it’s not only permitted, but encouraged.

It was Stan’s bachelor party – a special occasion. We were fueled by a big steak dinner—manly men food—and we each had a pocket full of cash, having hit up the ATM outside, it’s exorbitant fee surely not the last overpriced expenditure of this societal “rite of passage,” as our friend John had called it.

Past visits to such places had all occurred when I was attached, so it was simply harmless fun.  This occasion found me single, and months away from the last time I had been touched by another human being, and I was in a place where the women’s job was to pretend she is interested.  I was vulnerable.  I knew I needed to keep reminding myself that I was simply another customer with a bulge in his pants…and more importantly in my wallet.

Alberto must have noticed me starring particularly moony eyed at the strongly perfumed, perfect-breasted Asian on my lap, because he asked her, “How much to marry him?”  She laughed and looked me in the eyes said, “I don’t know him well enough yet.”

In a room full of bare-breasted glittery goddesses, all bathed in flashing magenta and yellow light, I was reminded by the expression, “water, water, not a drop to drink.” I had to remember the transactions here were “business”, not speed dating.

“I can tell you want another dance, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” I said.

“You know, we can get a lot more comfortable in a private room.”

“Yeah, that sounds great….but that might be out of my budget.”

“How much can you afford?”


“Can you afford a hundred dollars?” she asked cooing and with her hand rubbing my chest.


She re-tied her metallic blue bikini top and took my hand and led me away from my friends and through a door to a long, dark hallway filled with doorways with curtains closing them off from the outside world.  She chivalrously held one such curtain open for me, inviting me in to a small room, lit only by a single blue bulb on the wall. There was a bed on the other side where she instructed me to sit and when I did, I discovered it was more like a table you’d find in a doctor’s office, but without the waxy white paper covering.

“I hate to ruin the mood, but I need the money upfront. They won’t let me start otherwise,” she said. The pulsating bass of the club’s music was muffled, but the voice of singer Vince Neil was still audible

I fumbled for my wallet and took out five twenty’s and handed them to her.  She thanked me, fed the bills into the machine under the blue bulb, and the business portion of the experience was over.

She turned to me and asked my name and I told her and she said,  “My name is Ecstasy, but you can call me Stacey.”  Ecstasy then sat down on my lap and spoke softly into my ear.

“Usually a hundred dollars gets you a topless dance only, but we can do full nude,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Touching is allowed…anywhere except my pussy.”


She began dancing in front of me, slowly.  The blue bulb was behind her, so until my eyes adjusted, she appeared dramatically silhouetted.  She turned around, facing away from me, and removed her  bottoms, bending over slowly as she did.  She turned and came in close, pushing my knees apart, and parking her right knee in my crotch.  Then she shoved her too-perfect, possibly surgically enhanced breasts in my face and untied her top from behind, all the while rubbing me with her knee.

“How’s that,” she asked.

“Good.” I said.

She then mounted me, sitting on my lap, and began slowly grinding.

“Is it true you’re a virgin,” she asked whispering in my ear.

“What?  No!  Where did you hear that?”

“Your friend told me.  The Spanish one.”  Damn that Alberto!

“He was kidding.  He thinks he’s funny.”

“Oh okay, good; that takes the pressure of me,” she said, while her grinding was threatening to take the pressure off me.

“Don’t be shy,” she said as she took my hands and put them on her breasts.

“So what do you do…I mean what else do you do?” I asked, pretending to not feel awkward.

“I’m going to school for cartooning.”

“Really?  Who are some of your favorite cartoonists?”

“I like Mike Kunkel.”

“Me too.  Herobear is great.”

“I also like J. Scott Campbell.”

“I never read much Gen 13, but I really like his Spider-Man covers.”

“I love Danger Girl.”

She then dismounted and turned around and sat on me, facing away and again placed my hands on her breasts, as she rubbed her rear against my nether regions.

“So what do you like to draw?” I asked.

“I like Manga characters,” she said


“What do you do?”

“I’m a photographer.”

“Really?  Like weddings or school photos?”

“No, I shoot celebrities.”

“Wow.  That’s awesome!  Do you ever shoot models?”

“Sometimes.  I think you’d make a great model.”

“Aw, you’re sweet,” she said as she intensified her movements.

The conversation felt like the getting-to-know type of a first date and maybe that was how this all worked, or maybe…NO, this was a “business transaction,” not a date, and I would do well to remember that, I told myself as the beautiful Asian on my lap continued to entrance me.

She got up and leaned in close and in my ear asked, “Would you like to lay back?”

“Yeah,” I said as she rubbed my crotch with her hand.

“You’re sure you’re not a virgin?”

“I’m sure.”

I laid back on the bed/table as if awaiting an examination.  Ecstasy climbed atop me, and began basically dry-humping me, at first slowly, but soon vigorously.

“Are you here for a bachelor party?” She asked.

“Yeah, I guess you can tell from the large group of guys I’m with.”

She was half  in blue light and half in shadow.  I wanted to take a picture.  She turned around, now facing away, and the outer-course continued.  I watched her ass as she rhythmically moved it back and fourth on me.

“What else did you guys do tonight?” she asked over her shoulder.

She guided my hands back to her breasts and I held them while she rode me.

“We had dinner at this really good, upscale Asian place downtown.”

“You mean like P.F. Changs?”

“No, not exactly.  Much better than P.F. Changs.”

Soon, she turned around again, facing me, and was rubbing her bare vagina against the excitement in my pants, with some vigor.  She took my hands and placed them on her hips, motioning me to pull her to me as she thrusted against me, harder and harder.  It was getting intense and she was moaning softly, and as we faux fucked she was making sounds of…well, ecstasy.  It felt amazing and intimate.  She seemed to climax, which was the one part of this I didn’t appreciate, because I wasn’t going to fall for the stripper ruse of her pretending to have an orgasm.  But regardless, it felt good, so I didn’t care.

The song ended and we got up and she gave me a tight embrace, as if sealing our experience.

“Thank you…that was the best ‘dance’ I’ve ever had,” I said.

She wrote her email on a small piece of torn paper and handed it to me.

“In case you want to come see me again, or just talk about comics,” she said.

“I’d love to see your work,” I said.

Hmmm…maybe she liked me, I thought as I walked back down the dark hallway towards the main part of the club.  Could she have actually liked me?  No, this was all part of the exotic dancing “scene”, I told myself.  I could see how some less intelligent guys could be lured in and trapped, I thought while trying to think of some justification to email her. This world confused me.  I needed to leave.

I walked back to my friends, who were mostly sitting around looking exhausted, broke ready to go home, except Stan, who still had three girls on him. As I approached, Alberto asked, “How was it, Kessler?”

“Great,” I told him.

“Did you have your pants open?”

“No, why?

Well, not that I’m starring at your crouch, but what’s that white stuff?” he asked pointing.

I looked down, and there was some sort of white substance all over the crouch of my pants.

“Oh shit, she nutted on you!” my friend John said.

Maybe she sincerely had an orgasm? Or just a discharge? Maybe she really liked me?  Regardless, I felt proud and special.  I felt like a man.  I felt like I needed a dry cleaner.

–Seth Kushner