I was busy finishing a project. Besides, until today, every day since the 2nd have sucked: I don't like to be a hypocrite. Anywayz, this is something I wrote after my first LA SC experience. I intended to post but never actually did. Considering my naivete, I'm glad I didn't at the time. NOW, I can join in the laughter at the dumb newbie... :) In deference to SK, it has been edited for length. *****-------------------------***** The First Time, Ever I Saw So Many Parts *****-------------------------***** Jan 8th, 1997, Dave's Laser Emporium, Studio City, CA There she was. Demi Moore. Hundreds of Demi Moores. All of them staring at me. All of them nearly nude. All of them pleading with me to have sex. With her. There. On the floor, on the rack, on the cash register, on top of the collected sermons of Robert Schuller. Yep, 'Striptease' had come out on laser disk. I breezed through the checkout line, broke several traffic laws on the way home, slid the disk in the machine, and propped the cover where, with a slight shift of my eyes, I could look at it when she wasn't on screen. Ok, so the movie was pretty weak, but I still loved Burt as the sleazy Senator and Demi has made my little winkie pay attention since her pre-enhancement days in 'Blame It On Rio'. Later that night I was talking with a bud about the film and that brought up the subject of a new nude club not far from my place. He wasn't sure of the name or location, but he wanted to pay it a visit if only because of their slogan: 'Hundreds of Beautiful Girls and Three Ugly Ones". The next evening the tube was dead and I'd already watched 'Striptease' three times [not counting all the time in freeze-frame]. I thought to myself, 'Self? Maybe I outta check out Deja Vu.' I'd been to a couple stripper bars in Iowa and Nebraska and a few ladies were worth the money spent. Very few. There'd been a couple of tasty women at a club in Ames, but most of them were of the 'rode hard and put away wet' variety. The worst was a mother-daughter act in Nebraska. ewwww.... This is LA: they GOTTA be better here. I was new to the net [i.e. I didn't grok all it's search capabilities] and was too lazy to try the Yellow Pages. Ron was sure it was on Saticoy in North Hollywood: that was close enough. I drove from the Burbank airport to the Van Nuys airport and found nothing more risque than a couple of clubs that touted dancing: none mentioned 'GIRLS!' anywhere in neon. It was getting towards 10pm and, not having a clue how late these clubs were open, I headed towards one I knew existed; the newly renovated 'Valley Ball'. I pulled into the valet parking and paid the attendant's $2 extortion. It was either that or park a white boy car on the street in a neighborhood that doesn't welcome white boys after dark. Once in the door I paid the $10 cover to the guy behind the thick glass window [bulletproof? YIKES!]. He muttered there was a 3 drink minimum [$4.25 and UP per drink] and something about at least one drink per hour. Nodding like a plastic chihuaha in a barrio wagon, I pushed against the turnstile and got wrapped up in the black curtain. Oh yea, *I* am one cool dood. Picking myself up off the floor, shook it off, recovered my cool, and sauntered up to the bar. I asked the bartender for a drink: something non-alcoholic as I was driving. She must have caught my act at the curtain and this confirmed her suspicions I was a newbie. To her credit, she didn't even break a smile as she replied that there wasn't anything alchoholic on the premises. I opted for iced tea. 'That'll be $5.50' Thank GOD the guy at the door had forwarned me about the drink prices: my jaw only dropped a foot. Demonstrating my ugly habit of overtipping, I let her keep the change from $7 on that overpriced drink, then took the pile of $1's she gave me for change out of my $20 and headed for a table in a dark corner. I've seen enough war movies to know you send out the scouts first to get the sitrep, then move into action. You see, I was interested in observing, scouting out what goes on, and making the $75 I'd brought with me last as long as possible. I walked by a table where a beautiful blonde was doing what must be one of those billed table dance's. She was sliding all over a table, rubbing her ample breasts in a customer's face, giving him a close-up view of her endowments. Not familiar with the protocol and not wanting to encroach on his 'privacy', I just snuck a few curious peeks. On the stage, a dancer would step out for a couple of songs, move about, remove their few clothes, then move off to make room for the next dancer. The men gathered around the rail were getting lots of attention as each dancer would play with them, staring them in the eye as she fondled her breasts, tracing a finger around her quim and backdoor, trying to be as seductive as possible. Several were quite seductive, some were just trying hard, and I was quite hard. The occasional lass was a feast for the eye and the libido, leaving in her wake a wealth of straining zippers. Variety was the name of the game. There seemed to be some that were favorites [the ones that fit the mainstream definition of beauty], but there was nary a lass that walked from the stage empty-handed. I'd been watching for about 20 minutes from my dark corner 20 feet away when the DJ announced a 'Ladies Choice'. This is where all the available dancers wander out among the tables and try to talk customers into lapdances. I felt a brush on my arm and my nostrils were treated to that subtle scent of a dancer as a velvety voice asked, 'Hi. My name's Volga. What's yours?' I turned around and saw a lovely vision that had only moments before been swaying erotically on the stage. My voice caught as I told her. 'Would you like a lapdance?', she inquired. SHAWINNG! My brain shut down and moved to lower quarters, but it did take time to check the status of my wallet first. 'What's the prices?', I stammered. '$20 for a table dance, $25 for a lapdance', she coo'd. My dick has no financial responsibility but does know the thickness of my wallet: it advised I pass - at least for the moment. 'Maybe later, ok?', I choked out. She smiled and said, 'Ok'. Giving my arm a gentle squeeze and looking in my eyes, she assured me non-verbally that I was the only man she wanted in the whole place. Her buttocks swayed seductively as she took the 3 steps necessary to ask the next gentleman the same question, and I enjoyed every second of the lovely view. Several other women repeated that same bit of dialogue, some even came close to eliciting the same response from me, but it was about an hour and 3 more 'Ladie's Choice' specials before I decided I would take Volga up on her offer. By this time, the ladies all knew I wasn't doing lapdances, so I had to stop her. No problems, no worries, this isn't like the real world! Just because you turn a dancer down the first time doesn't mean you won't ever get a second chance! I opted for the cheaper table dance and we walked back to the appropriate booth. It had 3 walls that were about 5' high and mirrored along the top half with a 'Dutch Door'-type piece that closed when the dancer was inside, separating the dancer from the customer. She began doing a slow strip, putting her lovely nipples within a hairs-breadth of my lips and waving her quim so close to my mouth that when I blew gently at her clitoris she reacted with a gentle sultry smile. We played with each other, our eyes locked most of the time unless she was directing my attention to some portion of her anatomy. My peripheral vision kept her sexy body well within cognitive sight and I wasn't about to miss out on the sultry, 'I want you NOW' looks she kept sending my way. One song went by and the DJ announced that was the one the lady was 'buying' and now it was the customer's turn. The next three minutes both crawled and flew by. Both the shape of her 'plumbing' and her lust-filled looks will forever be ingrained in my mind, yet it was over all so quickly. I paid her the $20 and took a seat, vowing I would get a lapdance from her next time. A tall statuesque blonde had been walking about the club, and altho it was late and I had to get up the next morning, I wanted to at least watch her dance first. I nearly gave up [as I had only enough money left to tip the valet] when the curtains parted and she walked out on the stage. Here was a woman that was so beautiful and curvaceous she could easily have graced the centerfold of either Playboy or Penthouse. She struck a pose and I jumped to full attention. Her movements were fluid as she leaned against the pole, feet planted about 3 feet apart, calves perpendicular to the floor, and her thighs spread wide, as she leaned her head over to her shoulder as her lips shaped 'OOohhmmmm'. Her long delicate fingers traced along her inner thighs, meeting together at her carefully shaved mound, gently tracing across her pouting lower lips. She slowly slid down the pole until she nearly sat on the floor, then started humping up and down, her head moving back and forth as her body rode an imaginary lover. I was entranced. Enthralled. Engorged. Had I not been broke by this time, she'd have cleaned me out on that one stage dance. The rest of her dance was a blur of poses as she moved gracefully from one position to another, sometimes humping the air doggy-style, other times on her side. Sure, she was simply doing what most of the other dancers had done all night: the difference was she was doing it as right as you could possibly get. As she left the stage, I headed for the loo to try and recycle some of the tea before the half-hour ride home. After her dance, it was a battle. It was hard getting to sleep that night. B ------------------------------------------------------------ If it appears now and then I have forgotten women have a brain, it is because I'm so distracted by their other end.