From: QL <quantumleap01@hotmail.com>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.strip-clubs
Subject: ASSC : AFTSD  - Meat Me in St. Louis
Date: Tue, 02 Dec 2003 21:44:57 -0600
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Meat Me In  St. Louis


THE PAST

There have been two homes-away-from-home along the yellow brick road, 
with more than a few Dorothys, good and wicked witches, and even a few 
wizards - 

WAGG, north of Toronto, where Patrice and Amy taught me the true 
meaning of ATF - dancer and waitress with killer looks and hearts of 
gold.  

And, in a place far, far away, where B. & Friends, along with 
a cast too large to mention, had me spending all my spare time and 
money in a modest club that became a welcome and regular retreat 
from an endless trek facing the same hotels, restaurants, and 
airports for years on end.

Then, in a nightmarish reincarnation, Deja-Vu invaded. Gone were the 
four island stages that once provided up-close, legs-over-the-shoulder, 
gyno dances, second only to Roxy's. A single stage replaced them, 
waaaay down at the uninhabited end of the club, elevated too far 
off the floor for any real stage-side mileage. Ferret-like management 
geeks prowled with terminator-like obsession, beady eyes glowing with 
relentless determination, sights set on disciplining the few remaining 
dancers that hinted at any stage-side mileage or customer contact. 
Couches were removed, replaced with a sterile row of tiny open lap 
booths with chrome and vinyl 50's style kitchen chairs. Management was 
rude, or clueless at best. The dark ages were upon us. It seemed like 
a good time to retire.

THE PRESENT

Now the sign has changed once again. The building has a new facade, 
a clean no-glitz addition stretching the entire width of the club. 
The lot is jammed. I circle for 5 minutes until a spot opens up, 
grab the space, and wander toward the new entrance with familiar 
ambivalence. 

Inside a new spacious lobby greets me. To my left, a wall of fame. 
To the right, the Erotic Boutique, a brightly-lit quick-mart of 
videos, sex toys, and lingerie. I choose the middle path, pay my 
$10, and forge onward into the emerald city.

It takes some getting used to. Entirely redecorated, the immediate 
entrance seems much brighter and cleaner. The bar is still ahead and to 
the right, so I go in search of real beer. A familiar face there - 
nice surprise. She grins at me when I hop up on the stool, then 
rushes away to the cooler. Seconds later, an ice-cold Sam Adams 
sits facing me, with Cathy still grinning from ear to ear. 

Things are looking up.

The god-awful main stage still sits high up at the far end of the club, 
but - god-bless-em - TWO of the island stages are back. They're a bit 
smaller, and they've replaced the old bubble-light poles with brass 
ones, but they're low enough for some close-up audience participation.

It's a weekend night, so the large room between the bar and the main 
stage, still filled with lounge tables and low chairs, is packed. I 
take my old seat at the end of the bar and enjoy my Sam as I look 
around. Cathy and I chat about old times, and as usual, her computer 
woes.

"My computer is crap, but I can't afford a new one."

"What do you have now?"

"I dunno - the same one, but it's still crap. Crashes all the time."

I ask her which OS she's using, get a blank stare, and another Sam. An 
equitable exchange.

I drop a few dancer names, and she beams.

"You gotta stay for a while - B. might be in - she won't believe 
you're back!"

Well, we'll see.

Next song is a t-shirt dance - dancers roam in search of prey willing 
to drop $30 for a private dance and a club t-shirt. I fend off 
all offers - until.....a petite brunette edges between my legs. Wide, 
liquid eyes, a Laura Petrie look-a-like promising me that Rob hasn't 
touched her in ages and she's hot for some real attention. Did I just 
say yes? This soon? Christ. I should know better.

She leads me into the lap area, a newly designed maze of black 
corridors and alcoves in the new addition just to the left of the 
entrance. Very dark. Very private. I'm pumped. Hehheh - back in the 
saddle again...

I begin to get unpumped when she starts the dance mid-song. A full 
minute of air, then some light, uninspired lapping. She lets me explore 
some, legs and ass mostly, but when I run my fingers over her neck then 
through her hair, she jumps up, glaring at me. 

"Dooon't - you'll mess up my hair!"

The song ends.

"Here's your t-shirt. Aren't they nice? That'll be $30 please."

Fuck. Maybe I'm just out of practice.

Back at the bar, I'm a little pissed now, so more Sam is in order. Two 
more, to be exact, before a tall, lean, Nubian Princess stops in front 
of me, backs up between my legs, and reaches around behind her, giving 
my equipment a robust test-drive. Well - now this is what I remember 
here. Some of my best mileage has begun at the bar. She bumps the 
action up a notch, still not uttering a word, switches to an advanced 
skill set, then turns to face me. Now smiling coyly, leaning close, 
she whispers some nasties in my ear. 

"I think you're glad to see me," she breathes, tonguing my ear for 
added effect. "Wanna cum play?"

She's wearing this little white transparent two-piece number, a halter 
top with a long see-through skirt. Nice little washboard abs, slim 
little arms and delicate shoulders covered with chocolate satin skin 
that rises just slightly with full curves of firm muscle underneath. A 
hardbody's hardbody. I'm fucked. In a good way.

Once in the lap booth I'm relieved to learn that Princess was true to 
her promise. She keeps her long, lean body molded to mine for three 
dances, her hips undulating like a finely tuned machine, all the while 
performing an experienced exploratory of my lap with the agile fingers 
of a hungry goddess. Her chocolate skin is as soft as it looks, and her 
belly and breasts quiver under my touch, firm and willing. After three 
$20 dances, I'm panting and soaked with sweat, hers or mine I'm not 
sure, and don't care. Doubt turns to optimism. Anxiety to hope.

Back at the bar I suck down another Sam and check my wallet. I expected 
a quick trip - a few beers, some familiar "wannadances" from a parade 
of passing sharks, and an early trip back to the hotel. I'm a little 
light, but my luck couldn't continue, right?

As I stuff my wallet back into my pants, I look up toward the main 
stage. M. is there, with a new friend. They're both high up on 
side-by-side poles, posing, twisting, magically held to the brass as a 
dual ballet progresses. I stare. Perfectly synchronized, they spiral 
slowly down each pole, each one arching, changing poses, two nude 
sculptures floating flawlessly together in zero-g, stopping midway, 
rotating together as the poles themselves turn like gleaming spindles 
of some mechanized display. Then they share a single pole, both 
climbing effortlessly to the ceiling, both now twisting together, 
separated by inches, then by nothing at all, naked twins spreading and 
stretching, somehow finding just the right time for a touch, a lick, or 
a graceful embrace. From this distance, their flesh glows pale under 
the stage lights, clenched thighs and arched necks so alike they could 
be clones, New Dresden, Anytown perverts closing in for one last joining, 
nipple to nipple, crotch to crotch.

Hundreds of noisy customers are now hushed, then break into thunderous 
applause when the song ends, and the two dancers gather their tips, 
wave, and make their way to the dressing room. I'm a little stunned. 
I'd given up being entertained by an actual performance long ago. Are 
those Munchkins singing in the background?

So I'm sipping my last Sam at the bar, when M. walks by, stops, does 
the stripper-double-take, and gives me a hug. Up close, she's much as I 
remember, except her eyes. I never noticed how blue they were from the 
side of the stage - and with an oddly attractive innocence, a come-
hither look that has me a little shaken. We drink together for a while 
and talk about old times, mutual dancer friends, small talk - Christ, 
what am I supposed to do? She keeps running her hands over my chest, 
telling me how good it was to see me again, giving me those warm, 
tight hugs like she didn't want to let go. 

"We have bed dances now."

So I'm fucked again, in a much better way.

Embarrassingly, I only had enough cash left for one, at $30 per. So, 
WTF, what are old friends for? She leads me into the same dark lap-
maze, this time taking a turn or two that led to a cozy nook complete 
with - a bed. Comfy bedspread, two pillows, and very dark. Will I "bed-
dance" and tell? Maybe, a little. She was surprisingly demure as she 
squirmed on top of me, not at all the dominatrix image she used to use 
as her trademark. Talented? Very. The little cries and moans next to my 
ear were real enough; the grind was so genuine that whether she rode me 
between her thighs or pressed me into the mattress with the full length 
of her body, all sense of disbelief vanished for the length of a song. 
She let me explore her hair with no complaints as she nuzzled, and gave 
me freedom to roam elsewhere. It was almost as good as simulated sex can 
get, at least for one dance. I tell her so. I promise to come back later 
that week. More hugs goodbye. But work interferes, as it often does on 
the road, and I can't return. But I think about her all week. If that 
counts. Probably not.


THE FUTURE PRESENT

I return, funded to do some honest damage, pulse pounding as I approach 
the front door across the crowded lot, this time riding my own wave of 
deja-vu. It's another Saturday night, and the sense of potential is 
palpable as I work my way through the crowd to my spot at the bar. 

The atmosphere is circus-like. A mouth-watering assortment of blondes 
and brunettes twist and writhe on all three stages, every one a near-
master on each of the four rotating brass poles. A thirty-foot run of 
couches lines the far wall adjacent to the main stage, elevated a few 
feet above the main floor. They replace the former row of tasteless 
narrow open lap booths with the Ricky and Lucy kitchen chairs. Now, 
heavy white Doric columns line the couch area at eight-foot intervals. 
They stretch to the ceiling, graced by diaphanous white draperies that 
hang in pleated parabolas, then cascade down along the columns' sides. 
Half circus, half Roman orgy, at least twenty dancers circulate through 
the crowd in various states of undress, while the stages showcase some 
of the finest talent I've seen since WAGG.

I take in the scenery, finish my $6 Sam, and when I turn to order 
another, a familiar face smiles at me - full red lips centered between 
sleek, shining sheets of newly styled platinum hair. She grins 
wider, gives me her girly finger-wave, and in seconds has me in her 
familiar hug. She's still giggling.

"I've been watching you - I was beginning to think you wouldn't notice 
me."

Right. You see, B. isn't just an old friend, she's an institution. 
This bare-footed six-foot three-inch party-girl never goes unnoticed, 
especially in six-inch heels. I've chronicled our adventures more than 
once here - let's just say she's always ready to party, always up, 
without a hint of the unpredictable dancer moodiness that can make 
your night memorable in a bad way. 

Drinks are in order, for old times sake. Hers is the usual double 
Cuervo. She licks a patch of salt from the side of my neck, throws back 
the liquid fire, then opens wide while I feed her the wedge of lime. 
Some things never change, thank god. 

Then she's leading me through the dense crowd, up a few short steps to 
the couches, where we settle into a nest of oversized pillows. Two 
dancers, one blonde, one brunette, slither over the stage floor directly 
in front of us, tentatively lapping at each other until the crowd cheers 
them on, then as if on cue, dive deep, munching with all the enthusiasm 
of a pair of hungry ferrets. Meanwhile, we watch from our ring-side 
loveseat, revisiting the good old days here, then explore a few new 
frontiers. Drinks arrive with scheduled regularity. The stage before us
pulses with light, alive with writhing bodies, framed by two jutting 
columns and glowing white draperies that move in a dance all their own. 
This is Caligula's court. I'm really there, swilling the royal ale, 
hypnotized by naked handmaidens kept and trained for a night's pleasure. 
Until - B.'s fingers find my nipple, give it a sudden hard pinch, 
then move slowly deeper beneath my partially-buttoned shirt. More 
Cuervo and Sams arrive. A lot more. We play, watch the throbbing orgy 
thriving, then growing around us, then play some more.

At some point I'm being led through the crowd toward the VIP, 
a towering shock of platinum hair just ahead, whipping to the side now 
and then to make sure the hand she held was still mine. We find her 
favorite bed. The light winks out at her command. And I find myself
pinned beneath a woman possessed. If I was hungry, she was starved.
A full-frontal attack starts with a crazed cowgirl, then an endless, 
deep-tongued, body press complete with the most desperate grinding 
ever to grace these poor old bones. I'm not sure when she did the 180.
As she drops her bare cootch to my face, my own nether-regions are
worshiped with equal vigor. It is, uncontrollable abandon - simply,
fucking, amazing. 

Eight dances later we emerge, limp and sweaty, Joan and Jonah 
regurgitated from the belly of a most hospitable cetacean. She 
takes a long look at me, laughs, runs her hands through her hair, and 
says - something. I give her the "duh" look and put my hand to my ear. 
She leans closer and tries again.

"We have the look - freshly fucked."

Later, as I go to leave, she grabs my hand again. Between our 
palms I feel a slightly damp scrap of paper.

"Call me when you're in town again. We'll go out - do something."






A sliver of sun appeared on the horizon as I drove back to my hotel. 
The landscape was orange-red instead of emerald green. But I had 
found the ruby slippers again, at least for a night.

There's no place like home - there's no place like home...


-QL