The Pole Dancer 1

It's my turn to sit in the chair and watch. I feel a little queasy, which surprises me. It's not as if I've never done this before. I used to feel this way when I first started coming here, but I've been a regular for over a year now and I wonder why I'm so nervous. Not everyone has the privilege of watching scantily clad women dance for them. In this place, especially, there are unspoken rules - an etiquette to follow. That's if you want to be welcomed back.

She stands in her shadow waiting for the music to prompt her out. "Come my lady, come come my lady..." Crazy Town sings what I am thinking in the chair.

Her silhouette reveals sensuous curves. As she steps from her shadow, I am taken by a vision of erotic promise. Her auburn curls caress her silky bare shoulders, while just below, her full breasts strain against a corset of red satin and midnight lace. Each breath teases as her breasts seek to push over and beyond their constraints. She lifts her right hand to grasp the top of the pole and propels herself around it by wrapping her right leg around the cold metal shaft. She scans us all with careful neutrality and stops her spin gracefully by planting the tips of her toes on the floor. Her legs splay open to reveal the red sliver of her thong.

The beat pulses the air. Slowly....slowly.... she bends backwards in an arch, sliding head first towards the floor. Crotch facing me. Still grasping the pole with her right hand, her left struggles to get loose from her tangled hair, hungry to explore the rest of her body. Fingers draw the contours of her delicate face, travelling down the side of her neck and steadily downwards. The tips of her fingers brush the tips of her nipples which stand erect at her touch. Her thumb catches the metal zipper on her shorts and rests there. Lingering. Waiting. Not knowing where she will go next. She decides to move her hand away and rests it on the of inside her creamy thigh before moving on. She melts onto the floor like piping hot fudge being poured over ice cream and stretches out on the floor arms spread out, legs waiting to spread.

Turning on her belly she crawls on all fours towards me, arms reaching into my space. She moves beneath the beat, supremely confident in her ability to make us want more. I feel so lucky to be in that chair! My fingernails scratch the cording of the chair arm, anticipating the weight of her body on mine. Her body moves to the rhythmic beat of the music slowly, sensually, creating a tension palpable in the room. Lithely pulling her way up towards me, she draws me helpless into her web. I am paralyzed but the whistles and cheers of "Oh YEAH!" interrupt my trance and awakens me to reality.

Kneeling in front of me she takes each of my hands and plants them firmly on the arms of the chair. I remind myself, no touching. Those are the rules. She nuzzles her head between my legs, teasing them apart where she settles her knee in the space between my legs. She climbs onto the chair and straddles me, hovering over me like a hawk. I remind myself to relax into the chair -- unsuccessfully trying to control my breath. I lean my head back and close my eyes as I turn my face up towards her. She smells sweet, like honeysuckle, as she rubs her head against my neck. Her lap dance is by turns controlled and wild. I am lucky to sit in that chair today and she knows it. Her tits move over my face as she brushes them across my face. I hold my breath trying to control my body's reactions. Like a mantra I whisper to myself, "No touching. No tasting. No reaching out." Only yearn, want, need. Accept the gift of the dance. Revel in her offering. I am starting to relax and give out a slow relaxed breath when she descends down my legs leaving me shuddering and cold as she crawls away from me.

The g-string she picked to wear today is held together by a silver snake with eyes of green glass. Eyes that cast a cold glare as if stating who is in control. Wanting to see the impact of my loss, she turns and takes one last look at the damage she left on the chair. The corner of her mouth turns up in a flirty smile as her eyes turn from inviting to distant as the music ends. I realize now why I was so nervous. I'm finally admitting to myself that watching these women dance makes me wet. I think that's against one of the unspoken rules.

Claps and cheers follow. "That was HOT!" the instructor says, giving her the supportive feedback that we all come for. "I love the way you ended it! Good job - I love the way you took your power and slowed down this time. You didn't rush through it and I see a big difference from the beginning of this session. Keep it up I'm really happy for you!" The next one in line moves to take my place. I have secretly regained my composure so I vacate my chair and make my own way to the dance floor.

Pole dancing classes have been my escape and my refuge from my life in the confines of the suburbs and responsibility. I love my family and the choices I've made in my life but I've discovered my need for the edge. The edge gets my blood flowing and gives me the endorphin rush I crave.

Remembering my first class and how nervous I was, I can hardly believe I've been at for almost a year. Before my first class I had to pop a pill to open myself up. Seems crazy to waste a pill on something like this but it turns out I was good at it. And I got better as I released my inhibitions. My first lap dance was the hardest thing I ever did. I had a routine down but I had never before been so close to a woman in silk panties and a bra. Now I do lap dances without thinking twice about it, each dance has become a meditation on breaking down my walls.

That's when I knew I was ready to take on the pros. I surprised my husband on our 7th anniversary by taking him to a strip club. I had been taking pole dancing classes for a few months and wanted to see how the pros do it. Having never been to a strip club before, I thought it would be something fun and risqué to do with him. There was some deniability too since I brought it up to him as some 'research' that I was doing. I went even further by offering to buy him a lap dance. He knew what I really wanted though and instead bought me a lap dance. I was a little high -- deniability again -- and was up for anything. "I'll do it for you," I said. He smiled knowingly, "Yes, do it for me." "Her?" I pointed. "Yes." But first, we watched her dance.

The girl on the stage had skin like ivory, small tits but tight pink nipples partially covered by nipple shields. She was clearly experienced, but wasn't nearly as skillful as the women in my class. But I guess here's less invested in making a dance look pretty when it's mostly for men and it's all a transaction. The difference is this: we dance for ourselves.

These girls should dance for women who truly appreciate their sensuality, who can give what they get. It's an emotional and unreasonable thought. Of course I know that's not what they want. For them it's about money and the brief control they exert over desperate men. But oh, how much more glorious they could be! I'm not putting down how they take and exert their power though. I understand the money is good.

After all, who am I to judge?

Next chapter:

Behind Red Velvet Curtains