Notes from a N00B at the SC

(A mostly true PG-rated story.)

I am a newbie when it comes to strip clubs. I have only been to a handful. I'm not saying I'm better or worse than anyone here, but those are the facts. I did a lttile homework here on tuscl, and here is my report.



As far as this story, I like to tell myself I wasn't being played, and that there was a glimmer of human interaction instead of just transaction. I like to tell myself that the attraction wasn't just one way.

I was going to Atlanta for a conference, and of course I knew what Atlanta was famous for. The Atlanta gentleman's club I chose,let's call it the "Panther," had an ironic self-description, calling itself an "upscale strip bar," one of the funnier descriptions I had heard in a long time. I took the bait.

I walked in alone and pays my $12, feeling a little sheepish as the middle age woman at the counter took my cash. I probably don't look like the typical customer. Did I detect a slight look of disapproval on her face, or did I just see my own reflection?

The entrance looked innocuous enough, a red carpet and velvet ropes. After rounding a sharp corner, it's actually somewhat bright. The main stages are in a U-shape, a large room with a lot of tables inside the U. There are a few patrons here and there, maybe 7 or 8 girls scattered over three stages. The bars are backlit, and the glow of the stage lights up the girls from below. No poles, no pounding music, no making it rain. As I said, this club considers itself classy. Of course the seats were occupied by mostly dudes, but there were more women custies than I expected, may 10 % of the crowd.

I glanced around, trying to get comfortable on some pretty uncomfortable chairs. A bottle blonde with some miles on her came over. She had the sagging sallow skin of a smoker, and the telltale creases of some who partied a lot -the party quite wasn't over yet, but getting close. I guessed she wouldn't be working at this job too many more years.She looked like she has been taken on more than a few test drives, but no one had ever signed on the dotted line.

"Do you want to have some fun tonight?" she asked in a thick Russian accent. She didn't smile. Her breath was terrible.

"No thanks," I replied.

"Come on, baby. Don't be boring."

I refused again, and she moved on without looking back.

I went back to perusing the ladies, glancing around while trying not to look like I was craning my neck. Finally I saw one, coming into sharp focus. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed her before. She was clearly all natural: clean skin, long legs, and an ass that had the delicate but ever-sharpening curve of a fish hook. She swayed rather than danced. She moved with just a touch of self-consciousness that suggested she hadn't been doing this for very long. After I came out of my trance, I stepped up to the stage and slipped a few dollars into her garter. She smiled sweetly and said "Thank you."

After a few more songs on stage, she came over to where I sitting and asked if she could sit down.

"Where are you from?" she asked, in what I assumed to be standard stripper banter.

"Florida."

"What's your name?"

"Anything you want it to be" I replied. She smirked. Gerry Anne was her nom de guerre. She comes down from Chattanooga on the weekends. She said she worked as a choreographer during the days, but I didn't believe that for a second. The club music was admittedly terrible, but this girl was not someone who loved to dance. Somewhere in Chattanooga, there are more that a few guys that would love to date her, and even more who would be shocked to learn why she makes the 2 hour drive down to Atlanta every weekend.

I slipped her a $20 and she slowly stood back up. As a newbie, it’s awkward trying to decide what you want to look at, while she watche you. The song seemed shorter than most songs seem to last.

She sat back down. "Have you been here before?" she asked.

"Nope. First time in Atlanta."

"Would you like to take a tour of the club?"

"Sure," I said.

I stood up, and she did too. In her high heels, she was a good 3 inches taller than the tip of my 5'9" frame could touch. It was strange walking behind such a tall woman, but the view was spectacular.

I had wondered where the VIP section was. It was in a separate part of the club. We actually walked back toward the entrance, where patrons were coming in, their eyes hungry.

She slid a card into reader, and two glass doors whooshed open. She strolled around, showing me some semi-private leather couches. "It's $150 per hour for the room, and $75 for half an hour of dancing." She stared at me with a pregnant pause.

This was quite a step up from the $10 dances out on the floor.

"Maybe a bit later. Let's see the rest of the club," I deferred.

She walked next to me, back to the main part of the club. She teetered back and forth on her impossibly high heels, occasionally brushing against me. I wasn't sure what to make of the contact.

I sat back down on a chair.

"Anything else?" she asked, a slight grin on creeping into the sides of her mouth.

"Not for now. I'll catch up with you later." I meant it.

"Ok. Thanks." She sauntered away, her hips swaying in the way of a woman who was used to being looked at.

As a personal policy, I do not drink alcohol at strip clubs. The price is a major factor, plus there is already enough visual stimulation to keep one at full attention. The waitresses were friendly enough and didn't seem disappointed when I ordered only water.

I spent the next hours looking, trying not to ogle, discreetly shifting my gaze when one of the dancers would make eye contact. Some girls would smile demurely when our eyes met. I think some of the women like being watched. To be desired, even if only visually desired, is at least a tacit approval of some sort. It would certainly seem to boost one's ego.

After a few glimpses of Gerry Anne here and there, I had almost given up hope. I had stayed a lot longer than I had planned, spent more than I planned, and I would have to wake up for my conference in a few dwindling hours.

Finally, she appeared on the stage behind me. I turned my chair to get a better view. Her clean good looks had not gone unnoticed by the other patrons,the compliments slowly swelling in her garter as the night wore on.

As she slowly twirled, I thought she saw me. Her small grin revealed I had been right. I watched and watched, and her songs finally ended. She teetered off the stage. I had contemplated walking to wherever she was going, but she made a direct bee-line toward me. She walked directly to where I was sitting, startling me.

"You're still here," she said with slight surprise in her voice.

"I was waiting all night for you,"I replied. I hadn't lied yet. "I'll take another dance." I slipped her another twenty, and she slyly smiled. Her bra came off. Her breasts were of the age and perkiness that suggested they didn't need the full support of a bra just yet.

She was a little more sultry for the second dance, making a little more contact with the inside of my thighs. She looked directly down at me, smiling sweetly. She had misty grey eyes that I couldn't quite look into for too long without having to turn away to catch my breath.

I felt a little self conscious looking from her eyes to her tits, to her perfect hips, and finally just looking right down at it. It was perfectly manicured, a neat thin landing strip that had obviously been trimmed just before she got to work. Her thighs were just taught enough, and her stilettos- white, spiky, but not too flashy- brought out her every lower curve.

The song seemed to last for 15 seconds, and when it was over, she sat down again next to me, her arm draped casually over the back of my chair.

She hesitated for just a bit.

"Would you like to go out for a cup of coffee later?" she asked me. She smiled sweetly, with just a hint of hope in her voice.

I was partially stunned, not expecting to be the one who was propositioned.

"Oh, I was supposed to leave an hour ago! I was just waiting to see you one last time. I really have to go," I blurted, unthinking.

"Are you sure?" she said.

I wasn't.

"You're sooo pretty, but I really do have to go," I stammered. "You'll never see me again."

"Okay. Well, maybe in our next life," she said, her voice trailing off just a bit.

"I would really, really like that," I sighed.

I walked out of the club, a little dazed. I was not familiar with any of this. Was she propositioning me, or did she really want to go out for a cup of coffee afterwards? That would have meant leaving the club at 3 AM, and the conference was slated to start at 7:30 AM. I was supposed to fly home to the monotony at 5:30 PM, later that day.

I went back to my hotel, unsure of what to make of her offer.

I did not doze during the conference. In fact, I spent the rest of the conference dreaming about not just her body, but her. Was she really interested in me? A woman as beautiful as that? I am not a bad looking guy, but I would have killed to even walk down the street holding hands with a woman who looked like her. My mind ran wild with what could have happened, but I strangely had no intention of even having sex with her. I fantasized about being her boyfriend for 24 hours, going on a date, taking her out, humoring her. It had been a long time since I felt interest from any woman, and to have a woman that beautiful ask me out was the most fulfilling part of my
night.

As the days and weeks wore on, I titillated my mind with the idea of taking on a girlfriend, a girl who was actually interested in me, a beautiful girl whose every curve I had memorized. This was every man's dream - dating a girl who knows how to use her sultry body, without the nightmares of social interaction with a damaged psyche. She seemed like a "good girl." The fantasy she presented was worth more than the few 20 dollar bills I slipped her.

I eventually settled back into my routine at home. I thought about her a little less every day. I never saw her again.