A motley crowd, we work hard and we play hard; a motley crowd, the common denominator a shared boisterousness, lack of pretentiousness and a healthy dose of hedonism. Puritans we sure as hell are not. We arrive the penthouse suite singly and in pairs. I am late, the “party“ is in full swing. The air is pungent with smoke from different brands of cigarettes and a mix of different perfumes; it smells like the lobby of an expensive hotel and I think it is very pleasant. A range of alcohol to suit the most finicky of tastes, an ambience that only familiarity with, or the willingness to submit to, can evoke and the mood is set.
We smoke, we drink, we banter; do women cheat now more than before or they are now bolder about it? Head, finger, penetration; blow job, hand job, penetration—choose any two you most prefer with reasons, every question carries equal marks—it is hilarious and we are feeling daring. The alcohol has done what it was employed to do and we are hot, bothered and raring to go. It is a beautiful night out, and everything is possible.
We pile into two cars and head to a strip joint. I have never been. Twice I almost did. The first time, I fell asleep. The stories I was regaled with convinced me that I would go at the very next opportunity. The second time I made it all the way to the club, but for some reason, my friend and I found it tacky and not a little depressing and we never got past the lobby. Now here I am in the right place, with the right people and a blogger to boot, I would say at the right time!
Before we left for the club, girlfriend had complained that she wasn’t high enough. Two bottles, different flavours of Absolut Vodka were solicitously thrust in her face and she emptied a glass. Let’s just say she shouldn’t have. She passed the night in the car and not a peep out of her. What a yawn!
We enter the club and I am the only novice in my group – I think. My eyes widen as I struggle to take it all in at a glance, but there’s no hurry. We have all night. I went to a boarding school and naked female bodies are not new to me. Difference is, the naked bodies in the dormitories, those were guileless, artless (pre)pubescent teenagers. These here bodies are the shi for shizzle (I don’t even know what that means but it sounds about right). These women are grown and you’d better take my word for it; rounded breasts, flared hips and a woman’s ass, I have the evidence. They are stalking around like panthers, sleek bodies catching the streaks of iridescent light that glance off their skin when they wander close to the stage, they look like goddesses. Barely clad in thongs and wisps of silk and lace, they don’t leave much to the imagination. A dark, slim girl with a crew cut and red stilettos strolls past me with a tray of drinks balanced in the crook of her elbow, her expression serene. I sit.
The music is loud enough to hear, nod to and give rhythm to the dancers, but not so loud as to be considered intrusive. All around the room, the lights are muted but up on stage, swirling neon lights, casting the dancers in shadow briefly, and then painting them now green, now orange. And the dancers! Some are exotic, some are not; some have skin smooth as buttermilk, some have ripples on their thighs and ass (hello cellulite?); some have the haughty faces of high class call girls, some have the self-effacing, servile air of a person who’s grateful for the job; some are brazen, some are shy and retiring; some throw themselves wholly into the performance with evident effort, some glide, twist and roll their waist and hips seemingly effortlessly; some look like they’d fuck you for two bucks, some look like they wouldn’t fuck you for all the money in the world. It’s a beautiful potpourri. What they do all have in common? They are half naked, getting naked, or fully naked.
At every point, two girls are on the stage. There are full length mirrors that give the illusion that there are more than two people. And to cater to variety in tastes, there is always a slim and a not so slim, or outright fat girl. In the first show I meet, I fancy the slim girl like mad. Her face is expressionless and her body is taut like drawn elastic, she makes you feel like her next move would take you by surprise, like she’d break into a more energetic dance than the slight undulation of her hips and ass, opening and closing her thighs which she has been doing for many long minutes. I wait in vain. The other, the fat one, I feel sorry for. She is wearing an awful turquoise blue swimsuit and she is shapeless, well, unless of course we remember that round is a shape. Cellulite clearly etched in her ass and thighs like dimples, I remember why I work my ass out at exercising.
Then it gets interesting. The clothes start to come off. I beg the fat girl in my head, please don’t! She pays me no heed. Off comes the suit in a series of very inelegant moves but I shrug. To every man his own—every woman too. If I ask around, half the room probably prefers her to my skinny favourite. Who has high breasts with dark nipples and areolas, a pert bum, long legs and a bored sultry look. They are stark naked and I realise I had already stripped them with my eyes, so apart from specifics like the dark nipples, there is nothing new and I am getting bored. Oh, and I cannot gossip with my phone ’cause what do you know, the moment I whip out my phone, I am told very menacingly by one of the bouncers to put it where the light don’t reach. Sigh.
The girls are replaced by two others and I realise that my preference is not so much the size as the elegance and carriage of the person. This time, the slim girl is just there. But the big one, she is all kinds of flexible, contorting here and there and I finally get to see the pole used, it is her specialty. She hooks a leg on the higher reaches of the pole supports it with the other, and slides down on her back, but my favourite is when she throws one leg into the air, ballet-like and circles the pole as she descends. It is beautiful. It is musical.
Meanwhile, my friends have been busy. Someone is getting a lap dance beside me and I am later told that I looked like I wanted to be anywhere else but there. I thought I had mastered a straight face. Babe’s rocking back and forth in her seat as the stripper attends her, making gyrating, sexual movements with the girl on her laps, playing with her tits, squeezing her ass, name it. I am intrigued and not a little embarrassed. I am looking everywhere but at them, using my fading peripheral vision for all it is worth. My friend helps the girl wear her panties and clasps her bra when she is done. Then it is my turn. Someone has paid for a lap dance for me and I am not so much obliged to take it as that I am given no choice. Gracious, I lean back in my seat and prepare to enjoy the show.
This girl is light-skinned and small boned but rounded in the belly, and a small head supported by a thin, long neck, or maybe the gel packed ponytail is to blame but she looks like a beaver. She’s sweet though, enthusiastic and obliging. I am nervous and in a flash I remember the early hours of December 31, 2011. My ex and I are coming from a night club, quite drunk and looking for some trouble. We see a hooker at the trunk of a parked car repairing her makeup and we pull over and beckon on her. We ask her how much for her time, we want to know if she will come home with us and teach us some tricks and so on, all the while laughing and having a ball. But the girl is indulgent and sweet. We expect her to hurl insults at us and give us a chance to insult her right back, increasing our enjoyment of the evening. But she answers us cordially, smiles a lot, shoos us away, encourages us to go on home as we are obviously a couple and well, let’s just say she was not supposed to behave that way. Maybe it was the alcohol. But suddenly, the thought she IS a person flooded my mind and I started crying. I just started crying it was so stupid. And I cried all the way home and my boyfriend kept saying he was sorry but I couldn’t even explain what happened. Since then, I keep away from hookers, I don’t want to remember that they are not animals, I don’t want to hear their reasons, to lend legitimacy to what they do, to remember that they are here, night after night, under rain and in the cold, that they are routinely rounded up by unscrupulous policemen and raped to secure their bail every week, that they are a walking catalog of disease as the system will not provide for them by legitimizing their profession. No, when I pass by hookers, I look the other way.
But here is one in my lap squirming, twisting, stripping, rocking, making lewd faces at me and all I can think is trouble has come home.I am afraid to disrespect her, I am unconvinced that she wants to be here, entertaining me for money. I cannot make myself believe that my pleasure is her pleasure even if my wish is her command. She is selling but I am not buying. When she comes to me, she is scantily clad in a black bra and tasseled, sequined skirt. As she undresses, I follow her motions with my eyes. Off comes her bra. Her boobs are large, firm with a slight droop, just the kind I like and when they plop out in my face, I swallow nervously, feign indifference. Next off is her skirt. At this point, she is sitting on my laps and my hands are lightly spanning her waist—I don’t know where else to put them and her waist seems like a good place. I realise I have been rocking my hips very similarly to my friend and I now understood that it was nothing sexual at all but that she had been rocking to the music. As the skirt comes off, my hands follow the trail and spread across her ass. She stands to pull off the skirt and panties, fold them neatly and make to keep them for her. It is weird this strange desire to act all chivalrous and respectful, yet enjoy all that she is offering. But she retrieves them and stashes them herself where she can see. Suspicious or superstitious, she is cautious.
As she resumes her position on my laps, I pull her head back and tell her “please tell me what I may or may not do. I don’t want to touch you inappropriately or do anything you don’t want, okay?” She whispers, “you can touch my breasts and ass but don’t finger my pussy.” This I can very well do! As though to drive home her point, she lifts my hands from her hips and places them on her breasts and squeezes. My hands feel frozen to me but I smile and turn around and wink at my friends. This is good, I enthuse. I keep asking her if she is alright. I feel like a wimp. I remind myself it is my first time.
She mounts the table before me and throws her legs wide open, she fingers herself and smiles, winks at me and I wonder whether if I put my finger in there, it would be wet. I doubt it. I smile and smile and my heart is laden. Nobody can convince me that this is more than a job, her enthusiasm I appreciate but I don’t believe. I wish she would throw in a moan or two to try to convince me some more. I wonder how she really feels dancing for a girl—is she usually attracted to girls? The question is too much for me alone to carry so I pull her head forward and ask her if she usually does girls. Me, I am thinking of my blog. She smiles broadly and says yes, I should just come to the changing room and ask for . . . I don’t get her name. Or would I rather she gave me her number. I smile at her gently.
Up on stage, the dancing is getting ever more interesting. The girls substitute each other like in a football match, each new pair bringing with them their own costume, dance steps, sexy or not so sexy moves, body types and they all get naked. I still can’t believe it. This is Nigeria! Unmasked women strutting their stuff in a room full of strangers—who are they? Who are their parents? And in this nation of hypocrites, who are the patrons? Do they just dance? Or do they fuck? My girl here, she fucks, obviously. When she tells me she does girls, I wonder where the reality of her sexuality ends and the exigency of work begins. She’s still bouncing on my laps and my hands are idly stroking her breasts, running up and down her legs. . . and her legs, her skin, her body, smooth and she smells damn good. I tell her so. I find out later that in the little room off to the side of the hall, the girls bath, change and perfume after every act. What wonderful service delivery! Many entrepreneurs could learn a thing or two here. Anyway, I am tired of lapping a grown woman and just as I begin to wonder just how long one act is, she begins to dress. I hand her her things. I thank her. As she leaves, she tells my friends that she likes me. I wonder if it is gratitude for my politeness, or this is more marketing strategy.
I visit with my friend across the room and since in the space of a few hours I am beginning to feel like a pro, I proceed to give her a lap dance of my own. I fancy myself a stripper, I see myself gliding down a pole, I want to be nothing else in this life than a stripper. As they say, shayo na bastard and I am still high and a little unsteady on my feet.
Did I mention that porn movies have been playing on two screens all night, just in case the real life nudes are not doing it for someone. I go to use the restroom and pass by a table where an oyinbo is getting more of a breastfeeding than a lap dance. SMH
It is 3am, time to go home and I realise I am disappointed. Not in the evening, that has been great. But some trivia; my friends who went before tell me that two girls did some heavy petting and one was a squirter. Maybe we are leaving too early or that is a special show or something but it doesn’t happen.
We pile into the car and head back to the penthouse suite. The strip club has done what it was employed to do and we are hot, bothered and raring to go. It is a beautiful night, it is early yet and everything is possible . . . .