From: nightfile@aol.com (LazLong)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.strip-clubs
Subject: AFTSD LA Story
Date: 2 Dec 2003 21:53:59 -0800
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"Are you a guest of the hotel?"

"Uh, no…"

"On the guest list?"

"No…"

"Well, I'm sorry…"

"But I'm meeting some people who are already up there…" I said,
referring to the rooftop bar cum cool hangout on the top of "The
Standard" hotel in downtown LA.

"Oh, well if they want to come down and get you, then we can give you
a wrist band," said the 20-something scrawny attendant who had deemed
my "cool" factor to be below standards of "The Standard".

"OK, I'll give them a call" My buddy came down the red padding-lined
elevator to rescue me from velvet rope hell. Soon we were riding back
up the elevator. He was telling me about the woman he'd ridden down
with who'd said the elevator reminded her of the inside of her vagina.
We were in. I could experience being cool in LA.

The crowd on the roof was subdued this night. It was quite cool,
chilly really and the tall gas flame heaters attracted clots of
partiers. We met up with our dates and ordered another round of drinks
while recounting my embarrassing attempt at the velvet rope. A movie
(The Nightmare Before Christmas) played on the side of a building
across the street. No one was in the pool, but the Pods were crowded.

The Pods are red plastic cone-shaped enclosures housing a large (7
foot diameter) waterbed with cut out openings for access. There were
three of them and they were all occupied by groups of two to seven. We
paid for drinks (wow that's expensive—more than I've ever paid in a
tittie bar!) and began to convince our dates that they needed some
time in the Pod.

"C'mon in, the water's fine" said Jerome. He was in the middle Pod
with his two women. A twenty something black man, he appeared to be in
peak condition, and the women were obviously into him. The four of us
piled in, cigars in hand and soon we were best friends with Jerome and
the gals. When he learned that my buddy and I were college professors,
the conversation turned to what some students are willing to offer for
good grades. We swore that we'd never had the opportunity…

I turned to my date and began to massage her back and shoulders. She
was enjoying a buzz from all the drinks she'd had over the past
several hours starting with the blow out party back at the convention
hotel. She purred softly as I slowly worked down her back. Had she
been a dancer, I'd have made sure to massage her butt, but since she
was a civilian, and we didn't know each other well, I skipped to her
calves. Removing her shoes, I worked on her feet; the purring grew
louder. Before long, the dates began to make noise about going back to
their room. They were too drunk, too tired, and had early meetings. I
tried to hide her shoes, but she was on to me. A quick peck on the
lips for me, "Thanks for the massage!" And they were gone.

My buddy and I lingered on the waterbed in the Pod for a while,
finishing our drinks and cigars. We were deflated by the sudden
departure of our dates, but weren't yet ready to call it a night. Back
down the red velvet vaginal elevator and out into the night.

"Wanna go watch Nick Cage make his movie?" I said referring the film
shoot going on a few blocks away.

"No, let's go to a strip club" said my buddy definitively. "I'll ask a
cab driver".

We jumped in the cab. Correct that, I jumped in and my buddy staggered
to the driver's window to negotiate. Soon we were barreling through
the empty LA streets to a destination unknown. The driver said, "$15
flat rate, I have to run the meter for something else". Yeah, he knew
he had a couple of live ones this night.

Shortly, out of the fog appeared the bright lights of the Spearmint
Rhino. "I've heard of this place," I said, trying hard to remember
anything I might have read about it on Zbone's web site or at ASS-C.
Nothing came to mind. The cab driver parked. I soon realized that he
was going to collect his finder's fee.

"Make sure you tell them I referred you," he said. Yeah, whatever. He
got $20 from us. Inside, the doorman let us know that they were
closing in half an hour. We were on a mission, and that was no
deterrent for my buddy. He plunked down two Jacksons for the cover and
we were in.  He continued to stagger into the joint. Nicely furnished,
it looked like a pretty classy place. The girls were pleasant on the
eyes, and there were only a handful of other patrons present. A large
number of dancers were seated in the wings, and two pounced on us as
soon as we sat down. They expertly separated us and began to sell the
fantasy of dances. It was too quick, and we dismissed them both. But
there wasn't much time.

My buddy suddenly stood and walked gingerly a few feet to where
another dancer was seated. She was more his "type". She was blonde,
with a very large chest. I watched from a distance as a quiet
conversation took place. They were off to a side room to get more
intimately acquainted. I watched the girl on stage. She was
laconically completing her set, clearly ready to get home, or on to
her next venue.

Another opportunity presented herself in front of me. She whispered
huskily "If you get a dance from me I'll let you touch me anywhere you
want." She appeared in her early twenties, slender, with red hair and
bright green eyes. Natural boobs, I like that. I bought the come on,
it seemed clever in my inebriated state, and maybe it really was. Off
we went to a different side room.

Some dude with a clipboard followed us in. He made an annotation and
then vanished. My dancer explained that nude dances were $40/song,
while $20 bought a topless dance. But "you can touch me wherever you
want" she repeated. Ok let's try the $40 variety. She stripped quickly
and went into her routing. "Not bad" I thought, comparing her
gyrations to my usual gold standard laps in Houston. Not bad at all.
Close contact, some play with Mr. Johnson, and she meant it when she
offered the touch anywhere clause. "This is fun." I was thinking as
the song ("Do It Again" by Steely Dan) reached its midpoint. I was
exploring liberally when the song ended abruptly. Damn, they cut the
songs short here. It's always something. Forty bucks for two minutes,
that's pretty steep.

"Do you want another dance?" she inquired in a husky whisper, her lips
caressing my ear.

"How can I refuse such a nice request?" I asked, and we were off
again. There was that pesky clipboard dude again. She offered a repeat
of the first dance, maybe a little better, with more attention to Mr.
Johnson. Whoa, this could be nice, but it's way too much money, and
there's the clipboard dude… Another two minutes of music and I was
ready to call it a night.

"Do you ever work outside the club?" It's almost routine for me to ask
these days. Almost always, the answer is no, but not this time.

"Not often, but if you're in a hotel nearby, I'd be interested. Let me
give you my number." As we walked back to my seat, I pulled out $80
and handed it to her. "What, no tip?" she said in her best innocent
schoolgirl voice.

I held my tongue and pulled out another Jackson. Christ, $100 for 4
minutes? I must be really drunk. I sat waiting for her return with her
number, thinking I'd be crazy to call her. She came back with here
name and number on a napkin and went off to see if she could drum up
more business in the ten minutes left ‘til closing.

At this moment, my buddy, clearly having trouble with his balance,
dropped into a chair next to me. I asked my standard question, "So how
was that?"

"Expensive," he responded. "But I got a nice handjob from her for
$150." Now I felt really embarrassed. I had no inkling that extras
might be available, and my buddy, who I consider much less skilled in
the art, had done very well indeed. He'd had a longer session and
stress relief for only a few dollars more than I'd spent. Oh well, I
had a phone number…

Back at the hotel, I debated for a nanosecond before tossing the
number aside and getting into bed. The next day, my buddy had no
recollection of any of the events that occurred after our dates left
"The Standard". He did note that his wallet was considerably lighter
than he'd expected. Damn. He got off and doesn't even remember it.
Well, I still had the number. For a lark, I called later that day. I
had a hard time understanding the man who answered, but I think he
said "Jake's Bar".