From: jimcat@panix.com(Jim Kasprzak)
Subject: ASSC dreams bring back a lost soul...

 Well, I guess I have to blame you folks for it. 

 Over the past couple of days, out of a combination of boredom and 
curiosity, I started leafing through ASSC again, for the first time
since, ummm, jeez, sometime in July I guess.
 
 Last night -- or, more accurately, this morning (ever notice how
the most vivid dreams occur after you wake up early and then go back
to sleep?) -- I dreamed an ASSC'ing episode. And damn, it was so real
that I was almost considering bagging work and going back to sleep to
try to get one more lap dance. (-: But after my conscience got the 
better of me, I decided to do the next best thing and post about it 
to this group. Who knows, maybe one of you will be able to find it in
your own personal Slumberland.
 
 The club was somewhere out in the vicinity of Albany, New York, on
some semi-main drag off of Central Avenue that I know doesn't exist in
the waking world. I'd taken the bus there several times when I lived 
up that way, but this time I had borrowed or rented a car from somewhere.
I remember being bummed out that I couldn't have a beer while I was 
there (my principle is to stay strictly dry if I'm going to be behind the
wheel of a car -- annoying, but I'd rather err on the side of safety).
I arrived at the club itself, a large, rambling single-story building 
that looked as though it had once been some sort of warehouse, sitting
in a weed-grown dirt lot. Cars were parked rather haphazardly around the
building; I tried to pick a spot where my vehicle would be least likely
to be hit by any entering or leaving traffic.
 
 As I was walking in the door to the club, I noticed a girl who had 
entered right in front of me. I only saw her from the back, but what 
I saw, I liked: a tall, slim body with the most perfectly shapely limbs,
wearing a forest-green oversized-shirt sort of garment that came down
to her upper thighs, but still couldn't conceal the shapeliness and 
seductive sway of her ass. Bare legs visible below that. A sensuous
cascade of chestnut-brown hair that reached to midway down her back. 
As she turned to the left to enter what was apparently the ladies' 
dressing room, she removed her top and I caught a glimpse of some sort
of metallic-colored bra or chest covering. I decided then and there that
I was going to have to get a dance from her before I left. I never did
catch sight of her face, but I was sure I couldn't fail to recognize 
her from what I had seen. God doesn't give a pair of legs like that to
just anyone.

 Going straight ahead where this delectable vision had turned, I entered
the main stage area. Let me try to describe this place and its inhabitants.
The center of the room was dominated by a raised stage. There seemed to 
be some sort of "beach party" theme going on when I walked in: the stage
was covered in vinyl and slicked down with water, and a few girls were
scooting around it on inflatable rubber mini-rafts or inner tubes, dressed
in colorful bikinis. But most of the action wasn't taking place on the 
stage. It was on the chairs and floor around it that the real fun was 
happening.
 
 All of the walls were lined with chairs, and between one wall and the 
stage itself was another double row of chairs placed back to back, one
facing the stage and one facing the wall. Between this double row of
chairs and the wall was a large stretch of bare floor space, wide enough
to permit dancing. Several couples of guys and dancers were using it thus,
in dance styles ranging from club/disco to close waltzing to topless, 
upright lap dances. Other customers were getting lap dances in the chairs,
or just sitting and watching and/or chatting with dancers or each other.
One lucky fellow was getting a double lap dance from two short-haired 
brunettes that was such a writhing mass of limbs that it was impossible 
to tell just waht was really going on there. In the chair next to him, 
a guy was watching and quite openly jerking off. Although everyone could
see this, no one commented or seemed to care, except when he spewed all
over himself, at which one girl made a sneering comment of "...shoulda
brought a fuckin' umbrella." And, most remarkable thing of all: the lights
were full up, no dark bar atmosphere, just normal room lighting. Everything
and everyone was visible.
 
 And the girls! The most remarkable thing about the dancers there was the
variety. These weren't just cookie-cutter Barbie dolls, there were skinny
and fat girls, short and tall ones, black and white, older and younger. 
They were real women, some with wrinkles, some with flat chests, some with
fat bottoms, but none of them seemed to have any trouble finding customers,
and every guy there looked as though he'd found one he liked.

 [Note from the waking world: aside from the bright lights and open 
masturbation, the layout and population of the club seems to have been 
inspired by my one visit to the Harmony Theater on Church Street in Manhattan.]

 After strolling around for a bit, exchanging smiles and a few words with
one of the girls, one approached me who I thought would be fun for a dance.
She was about 5'6", with bright blue eyes and dirty-blond hair in a shaggy
cut that hung down in bangs in front, and to mid-neck in back. She had a 
bit of extra padding on the legs and thighs, but not so much to be a turn-
off, and nicely shaped, handful-sized breasts. (At this point I remember 
worrying about money, recalling that I only had about thirty bucks in my
wallet, and wondering if I was going to have to leave after one dance. 
Nobody had approached me for a cover charge when I entered.) 

 We started out actually dancing on the floor. For some reason I'd been 
carrying a sweatshirt and an extra pair of shoes, and I put these down on
a fortunately empty chair. We danced closely, our hips together, grinding
against each other to the beat, she rubbing my back and shoulders and I
stroking her back and occasionally letting my hands wander down to her butt.
After a few minutes of this, she led me to another chair, where I sat down
as she removed her top and then crawled into my lap. We kept up a steady 
patter of conversation during the dance that I don't remember much of; she
told me her name but it must have slipped away from me. At one point, as 
she was engaging in some serious rock-polishing, I jokingly asked if it 
was okay to open my zipper. She smiled mischievously and said "Not _here_."
So, feeling bold, I asked her, "When can I see you at home, then?" She 
replied "Sunday between 11 and noon. But you'll have to take out my garbage
and wash my dog." We both laughed.

 After this dance finished, the crowd started thinning out, as both dancers
and customers started to leave. Apparently I'd arrived just before the 
dinner break and shift change. I asked someone when the club was open, and
got the answer that its hours were from 10AM to 1AM, with breaks for lunch
and dinner. Apparently, the daily dinner party was a big event, and often
turned into a food fight. [At this point, some realization that it was 
probably a dream crept in. I remember being amazed that a) the place could
serve free lunch and dinner to all the customers and dancers every day, 
and b) with all the knives and forks being distributed around, that the
"food fight" never turned into anything more violent.] I also distinctly
remember trying to absorb as much information about the place as possible,
so I could make a full report of it to ASSC. 

 I decided that I didn't want to stick around for the dinner and food fight,
so after a brief conversation with a woman in medieval costume that looked
like it had come straight from the local Society for Creative Anachronism,
I headed back out for the door, realizing at this point that my dancer had
neglected to ask me for any money for my dance. I was actually leaving a 
strip club with as much money as I'd come in with! [Now some part of me
_knew_ it was a dream.] As I left, I noticed an amazing variety of stuff
left behind on the chairs and floor as the customers and dancers congregated
around the stage, which now doubled as a stand-up banquet table. There were
bags, briefcases, pocketbooks, jackets, loose books and notebooks and papers;
all sorts of things that someone could easily pick up and walk away with, but
no one seemed to be worried about it.
 
 Walking back out past the dressing room, I looked around for a men's room,
but couldn't find one at first. I asked some of the girls who were hanging
around there, and they said that the men's bathrooms were all in pretty
crappy condition, and only one of them actually worked, but I was welcome 
to use the ladies' room if I really needed to. I decided it'd be best to 
take my chances with the one working men's toilet, although once I got in
there, I could see why they'd made the offer; it was pretty disgusting in
there. I did what I had to do and got out as quickly as possible.

 The last thing I passed before I left was the DJs' booth and "control 
center"; this was on the right as I went out, and would have been the first
thing I saw on the left as I entered, had my eyes not been glued to a more
attractive sight. (I recalled with regret that I'd not danced with, or even
seen again, the beauty who'd been ahead of me when I came in.) The DJ booth
was a large, well-lit room that looked a lot like a professional recording 
studio's mixing center (or whatever they call it; I don't have much actual
experience with professional recording studios, so it may have just been 
my dream of what such a thing would look like). Thousands of slide levers,
dials, digital readouts, a couple of video monitors for computers, and a 
couple more showing camera views of the stage area. The whole room was 
visible through a large glass window in the wall. Two bearded DJ's wearing
white shirts were on duty; I nodded to them and one waved to me as I left.

 At that point I was rudely interrupted by the sound of the street cleaner
outside, and realized with regret that a) it was 6AM and time to get ready
for work, and b) I wasn't going to be able to go back to the place later.
Well, maybe if I'm very lucky, I might do so after all in some future dream.
Anyhow, even if it wasn't a "real" ASSC'ing episode, I felt a moral 
obligation to share it here.
 
[Notes from Jimcat's real life, if anyone gives a shit: I lost myself in
a frenzy of workaholism over the summer, sacrificing Usenet, strip clubs, 
and my more "normal" social life in exchange for enough working hours to
seriously pare down that odious Visa balance incurred by, among other 
things, an overdose of ASSC'ing in the early 90's. Thanksgiving should 
see me debt-free for the first time since '91. For sanity's sake, I did
allow myself a couple of trips to Flashdancers, but kept a strict eye on
my budget. There was also a chance encounter on a train that led to a 
couple of weeks at higher mileage and lower cost than any strip club, 
but that, as the academics like to say, lies beyond the scope of this 
article.

Regular ASSC'ers -- you know who the hell you are, I won't try to list
you all for fear of leaving someone out -- good to see that so many of 
you are still here and still playing the same parts. Someday I may join 
you again. There's plenty more bites to be taken from the Rotten Apple.]

 -Jimcat, rumors of whose death have been greatly exaggerated.