Eee-yikes. Xeni emailed me this morning, about the Alabama sex toy case ruling setting the precedent that *the Constitution does not include the right to sexual privacy.* This is really bad. All this about a vibrator — and a vibrator sales sting operation, nonetheless! I wonder, was it called “Operation: Barefoot, Pregnant and in the Kitchen.”
But last night is what I really want to tell you about. After work, a friend and I swung by Good Vibes and we whisked over to North Beach, SF’s famous Italian district. Last night was the kickoff of the Jazz festival, which I think is the best Jazz festival in the world. It’s totally free, whereas other Jazzfests charge you $50 or what have you, and the music happens in bars, clubs, galleries, doorways, everywhere all over the neighborhood’s restaurant area. And the music is incredible, it always is, and last night I heard the straitlaced Marcus Shelby Orchestra, randomly discovered a smokin’ trio called Jilool (sounded like hip 60s movie music with jungle beats), and finished off the night with my favorite SF band (sorry EA), the 19-piece Realistic Orchestra. A trip to SF is complete when you see Realistic; with four trombones, four trumpets, a fat handful of saxophones, vibes, a DJ and a rapper, there’s nothing like them.
But though I had a blast hearing incredible live music for free, and my dinner at my favorite sidewalk cafe (cafe Prague) was terrific, the true highlight of my evening was the moment I finally lost my lapdance virginity. I may never be the same. (I don’t count my trip to the Mitchell Bros. as a lap dance — having a hard-titted stripper hump my belt buckle really fast and then jump up to say how weird it is to dance "for a girl" *so* doesn’t count.)
My friend and I were going from bar to bar, band to band, cocktail to cocktail, when we found ourselves walking by a club called the hungry i. We stopped and remarked that neither of us had been in this famous club, where Lenny Bruce made his name in 1959 — and with the promise of more cocktails and topless girls inside, I was compelled. I’ve always wanted to hang in a cheesy bar with scantily clad girls dancing in the background; it’s the influence of all those Russ Meyer films and the best worst movie of all time, Showgirls.
And I got the cheese I hoped for. Comfy, stained chairs beckoned inside the small club that was the size of the Good Vibes store, but with a stage along the side backed by mirrors and flanked by two brass poles. As we sat in the second row of chairs I realized that there were more women than men in the club — then I noticed that none of the women were porn Barbies, but a gorgeous array of sexy regular women. No silicone. It was a big surprise, and I noted that many of the women looked like Suicide Girls models, but without the tattoos and piercings; there were Goths, a rockabilly… was this for real? The fake smoke and garish lights only enhanced the atmosphere as I watched a very bored brunette lazily dance around the stage chewing gum while lackluster male patrons tossed a dollar or two on the stage. She was boring, but it was perfect, know what I mean?
Every once in a while a girl would come by and sit on my lap, or my male friend’s, and chat with us, but there was little pressure to buy anything. We were just hanging out, and the women were really nice to me. Way different than the all-business attitude at the Mitchell brothel, or when I got ignored at the Musty Lady.
We watched a bunch of different girls hit the stage, some were really fun to watch, some were not. Then one girl came on, and she was magnetic. Her body was a lot like mine, so I was instantly attracted to her, and under her schoolgirl attire she wore cute little hip-hugger boy shorts. Her dancing was slow and outrageously sensual; she closed her eyes and knew what felt good to show the audience.
She made eye contact with me, and held poses that looked like erotic photographs. I don’t even remember the music, but I’ll never forget the way her breasts looked when she pressed her chest to the stage floor and coiled her back up like an “S” Not explicit dancing, but very arousing nonetheless.
After, she came over and sat next to me and asked if I wanted a dance, or if we wanted one together. My friend offered to pay for me, but he had to get funds; the dancer — named Apple — sat with me. Apple! Her name was Apple.
She leaned in close, and we talked about a lot of things, including Lenny Bruce (“when guys are rude, I channel Lenny”). Apple was very excited to be my first lap dance, and moved me to the little half-couches in the back hall, directing my friend to sit away from us, but still within sight. Then she asked me about what brought my in, what my experiences with strip clubs had been like. After talking with me for a while to relax me, she told me to keep my hands at my sides and started. It was like I was the stage, and she slowly moved all over me, wrapping around me and touching the small of my back; pulling down my bra straps; leaning back on me and kissing my face, my neck. I bit my lip as she ground her beautiful, round ass into my crotch, and I fantasized that I was wearing a strap-on under my clothes — and about fucking her with a strap-on.
She did this for several songs, then slid over to sit by me again, ending the lapdance. I thanked her. Then we talked for a long time, about all kinds of things, from porn and filmmaking to dating girls and guys. She got prompted several times by staff to move on; I don’t know why she stayed to talk with me but I really enjoyed it. Then she walked me back over to my friend, told us she’d be happy to dance more, and off she went to work the room. The bartender brought me another beer, on the house. I was really worked up, and regrouped with my friend and my beer before heading over to the Velvet Lounge to see Realistic. And they were incredible, like Apple.
