You can visit Tristan at her official website, www.PuckerUp.com.
- - -
My Virgin Lap
by Tristan Taormino
"I want to get a lap dance, and I want to know a good place to go."
That's not an easy task these days since Mayor Guiliani has declared war against the sex industry in New York City, and Times Square has turned into an urban Disney World. The world of porno theaters, strip joints, and peep shows isn't what it used to be.
"Well, it depends on what you're looking for," says my friend Mario, the girlie magazine editor I'm consulting about where to have my fantasy fulfilled. "Do you want an overpriced, strictly hands-off dance from one of those high-glam, busty blondes who looks like a porn star? You know, a place like Demi Moore went to research her stripper role? Or you could have it down and dirty, do whatever you want for whatever you want to pay, but some of the girls are definitely junkies."
"What about somewhere in between–not too classy, not too sleazy?"
He ends up sending me to New York Dolls. All my dyke friends are either busy or not interested, so I recruit my friend Ron, a nice Jewish straight guy who's never had a lap dance either.
Seven thick, mean cartoonish bouncers are on guard at the door. The mood is chaotic as we make our way to the only empty table in the main room. A T-shaped stage sits in front of a mirrored wall: a short-haired redhead in a white lace g-string to the left, a bronze-skinned woman with a fuchsia orchid in her hair to the right, and a tall brunette with Betty Page bangs in a patent leather thong on the catwalk. Above the mirrors, the Dow Jones index dances in red dots across a long black screen. It doesn't feel scary like my nightmare of a strip club: creepy men groping wasted runaway girls in some dark, dirty place. We're surrounded by well-dressed men in gray flannel and pinstripes, and about 20 topless women gyrating in g-strings. It's strange to be the only fully-clothed woman, but I'm not intimidated, just curious. No matter how bold I feel, some patrons stare suspiciously. There is a certain alienated camaraderie among all the men here which I have disturbed. They weren't expecting me, and they don't know how I fit into the scene. I don't exactly know how I fit in.
I watch intently as each dancer takes her turn on stage, then moves through the audience seeking takers for a $10 dance. There is a wide variety of women, from blond bombshells with silicone breasts and tanning salon skin to ordinary-looking girls with bright eyes who look like my college classmates. The good ones have a way of connecting with a customer, establishing some immediate sense of intimacy. Making him think she really likes him, that he actually has a chance with her. That the seduction is real.
At first, when the petite blonde gets on stage, she looks really young to me, and I usually don't go for that little girl look. When her dress comes off, she has an arched back and tiny breasts. Then she starts to dance, first in front of the mirror, looking at herself, running her hands over her curves. As she wraps herself around the pole, her moves are sensual, sure. When she struts down the catwalk, she immediately locks gazes with me. She's checking me out and all the men in the place know it. Brazen. When the music changes, she makes a beeline for my table. She doesn't even ask me if I want a dance. She simply takes my hand in hers and leads me over to the leather banquette. I ask her what her name is.
"Sinderella–with an 's'," she coos, "What's yours?"
"Tristan with a 't.'"
She sits me down on the leather seat and tells me to spread my legs; as she says it, her hands slide up my satin pants, and she spreads them for me. Slowly, she begins moving her body in front of mine. Even though I know I'm not supposed to, I want to touch her long blond ponytail.
"Sinderella, this isn't your hair, is it?"
"No, but don't tell *them* that. The ponytail is part of my look, besides I don't want to show my real hair, not here." I picture her then without the hairpiece…her blue eyes framed by short, spikey bleach blond locks. Still cute and naughty, but tougher, definitely more like a dyke.
I suddenly feel overwhelmed by all of it, and I want to ask her so many questions. Some stop by our table and chat. I want to ask them all sorts of questions. How much do you make on a good night? How long have you been dancing? How many hand jobs have you given upstairs in the VIP Champagne Lounge? Why do some dancers ask me if I want a dance but others avoid me–isn't it all the same to you? But all that comes out of my mouth is: "You look awfully young. How old are you?"
"I know. I'm twenty-four." She flashes me a space-between-two-front-teeth smile, and I glimpse a twinkle in her mouth.
"Hey, open up again."
She obeys and I get a look at the round solitaire diamond piercing her pink tongue. Mmmm–that turns me on.
Then she starts to grind against me, not keeping the distance between her body and mine like I watched the other dancers do, but brushing right up against me, rubbing her face against my cheek, kissing my neck and nibbling on my ear. I like the idea that we're breaking the rules.
"I thought you weren't supposed to touch me," I say playfully, letting her know I am absolutely enjoying it.
"Oh, I don't give guys a dance like this," she whispers as her hand finds its way up my thigh and between my legs. I feel a wave of warmth surge to my pussy.
"I like girls, and I like to dance for them." She's playing right into my fantasy that because I'm a woman, she enjoys this more. Or hates it less. After all, we're sisters, I'm not The Man. In real life, maybe it's all the same to her. She turns around and bends over, pushing her firm, round ass just inches away from my face.
The music changes then, signaling the end of the dance. Time to pay up.
"You have a great ass," I say, and I mean it. But after I say it, I think I sound piggy, like all the others. And I think she's playing me just like I've seen dancers play the men all night. She's close to me, but our interaction still doesn't feel real. If I am using her, she is also using me–it's a typical capitalist transaction in that way. But does the absence of cash make for a more intimate sexual exchanges with a stranger in a club? The money clarifies everyone's expectations. We don't have to wonder what the other person wants. No games, no dyke drama. It does feel a little lurid, a little sleazy, a little strange. I slip $25 under Sinderella's garter. I don't know how much of the money will go to the house, to the bouncers, to the bartenders, to the DJ. I want her to keep all of it, but I know that's a fairy tale. She looks surprised for a minute, then she kisses me on the cheek, trots off and vanishes into the crowd–not even an open-toed lucite spiked heel left behind.
Please visit Tristan’s official website, PuckerUp.com.
