Strip Me Bare (2 page)

“So a male strip club would have been a no-go
with him, huh?” Jill asks sarcastically.

“Like I need to answer that.”

I’ve known Jill most of my life and she’s
fully aware of my family situation; my father, the strict, detached
man who has stern expectations of his daughter, which includes an
impeccable social image. Me, going to a male strip club? No-go is a
drastic understatement, and she knows it.

“My uncle has very firm views about how his
daughter should act,” Emily says annoyed. “What she should wear,
who she should date,
how she should breathe
. And he’s colder
than damn ice. I swear I don’t know how our fathers share the same
DNA.” Both our fathers are prestigious figures in the law
community. Mine is a superior court judge in New Jersey while
Emily’s is a big shot lawyer in New York City. They both have a
reputation to uphold, but my uncle John is very personable and laid
back and he and Emily have a great relationship. My father is the
exact opposite; stringent, disconnected, career driven. I don’t
even think he has emotions. And we have no relationship.”

“So no little lost strippers following you
home then?”

“
Jill
.” I roll my eyes.

“Not unless they have a seven figure paycheck
and republicans as parents,” Emily adds wryly.

Everyone in the limo looks at me and I’m not
exactly sure what they’re thinking; it’s probably a toss-up. They
either feel incredibly sorry for me or think I’m some tight ass
who’s going to ruin the fun. If they take one look at my dress they
should know it’s not the latter.

As we drive through Times Square, the lights
on the billboards are flashing and droves of people are walking.
The city is always so alive, bustling, moving, churning. I love it
here. And I’ll love it even more when I live here. I start law
school in three months, and I can’t wait.

It’s nearly eight o’clock when the limo pulls
up to Culture, the only all male ladies club in the world. At
least, that’s what the website boasts. Already, the line is around
the corner with eager women waiting to get in. All six of us step
out of the limo into the New York air. Along with Emily, Jill and
I, there’s Beth and Liz the groom’s two sisters and one of Emily’s
roommates from college, Jen. The smell of hot dogs and pretzels
drift in the breeze from the street vendors as we make our way up
the sidewalk. There’s a secondary entrance that has a street sign
with several shirtless men that reads ‘Male Revue’, and when I look
closer I catch some fine print scribbled on the bottom that says
‘lip smackin’ dick’.

Oh man, maybe I am too straight laced for
this.

Emily nudges me as we wait in line for the
doors to open. “Sorry about Jill,” she whispers.

“Why are you apologizing? She’s right,” I
cross my arms. “I do need some action between my legs. I just have
to build up enough nerve to actually let someone in.”

“That’s not the only place you need to let
someone in.”

I bristle, “Em, I don’t want to dwell on my
past. At least not tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” she concedes, the penises bobbling on
her head.

“Are you going to wear those things all
night?” I ask incredulously.

“No, I’m just going to wait until Jill is
drunk enough not to notice I took them off.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be wearing them for too
long then.”

Emily nods zealously in agreement. I think
she likes the shock value of her headband a little too much.

It’s early May, so the temperature in the
city is comfortable. No one needs jackets or scarves or pants, and
I think even underwear is optional. As the line behind us grows
rapidly the bouncer finally gives the okay to go inside. I’m
bouncing in my shoes trying to muster enough nerve to actually walk
through the door. I’m a little out of my element here. We file in
one behind the other, all walking carefully down the dark stairwell
in our designer heels, making our way into the club’s private
room.

The room is dark but not cold; there are
black leather couches and coffee tables spread out in front of a
small stage that’s maybe a foot off the ground. Very intimate, very
close and
very
personal. We all sit down on an L-shaped sofa
to the right of the stage, and a few moments later someone is
popping open a bottle of champagne and handing out plastic cups
with pink bubbly liquid in it. I’m suddenly all nerves as the
realization of what’s about to happen kicks in. I gulp the
champagne; I don’t think I am going to like this one bit. I glance
around anxiously at all the excited women in the room. A few have
sashes or tiaras that say bachelorette or birthday girl. Emily fits
right in with her headband. She seems relaxed; I think I’d be
hyperventilating knowing some guy is going be grinding all over me
in a few minutes.

I take another sip of champagne.

I watch the bartenders as they mix drinks
behind the bar, hear the muted conversations of the girls around me
and feel the temperature rise as the room fills to capacity.

What the hell am I doing?
Just before
I get up to go get some air, a smooth male voice washes over the
crowd. “Ladies, ladies, ladies,” the MC announces.
Shit
.
He’s short, with caramel colored skin and big green eyes; very
handsome and very charismatic. He introduces himself as Hugo,
walking back and forth across the stage like he owns it. He tells a
few dirty jokes to warm up the crowd, some of the women firing back
fueling his raunchy lip service. “Okay my fine females, this is
what’s going to happen,” he says with a tantalizing edge to his
tone. “There will be a group performance and then private dances,
and then one on one time, where,” he smiles wickedly, “you get to
mingle with all the fellas.”

I really think I need a cigarette
.

Hugo tosses the mic to someone on the side of
the stage then disappears behind a door to the left that’s barely
noticeable. It’s been painted black to blend in with the wall. The
DJ pumps a hard core club mix of Rihanna’s
Rude Boy
, while
smoke blows over us from different corners of the room, it’s cold
and smells bitter. Then that little back door swings open and four
men with no shirts, ripped bodies, and black tuxedo pants file out,
bumping to the music. The room goes absolutely berserk. Women start
screaming, bouncing up and down and waiving dollar bills over their
heads as the four guys bump and grind and hump around the stage in
a sexed up routine. They’re hot, there’s no denying it, but I can’t
help but wonder how anyone can do this? Don’t they feel like a slab
of raw meat?

When the Chippendales’ demonstration is done,
the dancers disappear into the camouflaged door, leaving the crowd
hot and bothered and apparently ready for more. The lady sitting in
front of us is actually panting.
Really?

I glance at Emily as Hugo reappears. It looks
like she’s really getting into this, which I’m silently thankful
for. Emily’s not a prude by any means, but I think even this could
definitely push her limits. It’s certainly pushing mine, and I’m
just watching.

Hugo calls the first bachelorette onto the
stage. Lila, I think her name is. She’s a cute young girl, almost
innocent looking. She’s wearing a tiara and a pink sash that says
bachelorette. Her fake blond hair is loose with curls and she has
on a white button up shirt and jeans. Not very club couture, but
whatever. Her entire party is called up on stage with her, and Hugo
instructs them to decorate her body with dollar bills. The group
sticks money where ever they can, in her pants pockets, between the
buttons of her shirt, in her collar and under her sash; she looks
like a walking ATM by the time they’re done. Then Lila sits down on
a folding chair on stage. The DJ hits the music again, a fast
version of Sean Paul’s
Temperature
pumps through the
speakers as a guy dressed in a cop’s uniform explodes onto the
stage, all high energy and sexual, popping his body as he jumps
right in front of Lila. He looks legit in his navy blue uniform,
aviator sunglasses and officers cap. Sergeant Striptease wastes no
time working it; he gets right in Lila’s face, bumping his junk to
the rhythm of the music.

I can’t believe I’m watching this
, I
think as I down more champagne.

He rips his shirt off displaying his defined
chest and six pack abs, then he straddles Lila with his face
towards the crowd, taking her hands he runs them down his front,
over his pecs, stomach and hips. His skin glistens under the stage
lights.

I’m not really sure what’s more shocking, the
stage show or the reaction it’s getting. Women are bouncing
exuberantly on the leather seats, shrieking and clapping almost
like a bomb went off.

Sergeant Striptease then stands Lila up and
rubs himself all over her; moving up and down against her body,
grabbing the dollar bills out of her shirt with his teeth. Lila
laughs nervously as she holds on to him by his very nice shoulders.
Very
, nice shoulders. Then he does something that takes
everyone, especially Lila, by surprise. He grabs her waist and
flips her upside down, her crotch ending up right in his face. He
slashes his tongue between her legs, causing most of the women in
the room to scream.

Like, bloodcurdling screams.

I’m not even capable of an auditory response;
my vocal cords have shorted out and my jaw has dropped to the
floor.

Raunch-y
.

Then he puts her down and whispers in her
ear, she nods back at him with a smile; her eyes wide and alight.
He sits her back down in the chair and proceeds to take off the
rest of his clothes, which is actually just a quick tug of his
pants. All he has on underneath is a black g-string with, holy
shit,
tassels
covering his penis. Where do you even find a
get up like that? He does one more bump and grind on Lila,
practically naked, and then the show is over.

Emily looks over at me. Her eyebrows lifted
high - like she can’t believe what she just witnessed.

“Yeah girl, that’s all you,” I yell to her
over the music and she laughs.

I wonder how much laughing she’s going to do
when it’s her on that stage.

Hugo reappears, announcing the next girl,
Holly, and she looks absolutely petrified. She too, has blonde
hair, but I think it’s natural; no dark roots. She’s wearing a
white eyelet dress and fresh faced makeup. She looks almost
virginal and I feel sorry for her already.

Holly sits in the folding chair, wound
tighter than a spring and littered with dollar bills all over her
body. I couldn’t do it. I could never sit up there and have some
guy I don’t know hump all over me. It would just feel wrong. For
me. I admire the other women in the room who are rearing to go.
Maybe I am a prude?

The lights dim as Holly sits alone on the
stage, but no one comes out the camouflaged door. There’s low
haunting music playing and smoke curling up from the floor. Then I
notice Holly’s face. She’s gone pale. Everyone turns around to see
what she’s looking at. And there, sauntering toward the stage is a
guy dressed in black leather pants and a mask covering his whole
head, a whip in his hand.

Holy BDSM.

“Ladies, the Dominator,” Hugo announces and
Holly absolutely shits. I can’t say I blame her. All I want to do
is run up there and rescue her.

The Dominator gets onto the stage and starts
doing a seductive dance over Holly, grabbing her hair and yanking
her head back as he straddles her with his mask on.

My mind goes numb as I watch; it feels like
an out of body experience, it’s so far out of my sexual scope of
understanding. The Dominator then pulls Holly to her feet, bends
her over and starts smacking her ass, hard. Then he mercilessly
pumps her from behind and I have to look away.

I think I’m scarred for life.

After that he sits her back down in the
chair. It looks like she’s just smoked up, she’s so starry eyed.
Then he rips off his mask and starts again with the intense
humping; his crotch right in her face.
Good lord.

He’s not bad looking with his bald head, big
light eyes and a really nice smile. Like, really nice. Almost
endearing, which is weird.

Then he does something that actually
impresses me. Somehow, he gets his feet over her head, planting
them against the back wall of the stage, his ass facing the crowd
and humps her from upside down. For a guy who’s tall, bulky and
muscled, he’s limber, I’ll give him that. Then he kicks himself
down and pulls Holly to her feet. He picks out all the dollar bills
with his teeth, and then plants a huge kiss on her cheek. She was a
damn good sport. I would have bolted the moment I saw him walking
my way. Given you could actually pay me enough to get up on that
stage in the first place.

Now it’s Emily’s turn.

“Okay ladies,” the charming Hugo announces.
“You’re in for a real treat,” he says as Jill, Beth, Liz, Jen and I
dress Emily in dollar bills. She’s by far the sexiest and most
trendily dressed girl in the room. She has on a tight black body
suit that’s short sleeved and high collared. A flared mini skirt
and a pair of black stockings that give the illusion of thigh
highs; hooch couture is what I call it. With her tiny little frame
she rocks the outfit perfectly. We were able to get twice as many
dollar bills on Emily compared to the other girls. Even her black
bootie high heels have Washington’s sticking out of them. She looks
like a scarecrow stuffed with green straw.

“Next up is one of our premier dancers. So
get ready, set, wet for Jack the Stripper!” he says as he hops off
the stage.

The beginning beats of Ginuwine’s
Pony
blasts through the speakers as a shirtless guy with a cowboy hat
and eye mask grooves his way out of the black door. Now him I could
be into. He’s tall and lean, totally toned, with sun kissed skin
and a hot looking mouth. Emily got lucky with this one, thank God.
I watch as he dances to the stage in a pair of loose fitting blue
jeans with rips in the thighs and knees, the elastic of his
underwear peeking above the waist of his pants. As soon as Emily
sees him, a big smile spreads across her face and I breathe a sigh
of relief. She’s into him. And seriously, who wouldn’t be?