By Naija Dyke/ @naijadyke
About a week ago, I went to the strip club. Nothing remarkable, right? I should add that it was my very first time and that I am 25 years old.
It is not that I have been a prude all my life or anything even though I did have that Super Christian phase when I was very certain I was going to be a pastor.
Yup, me. I wanted to be a shepherd of the flock. But not that there is anything wrong with being a pastor, it was just a phase of my life, one where I was trying hard to suppress my real identity and had a bad case of self-loathing.
Needless to say, my eighteen year-old self would be very appalled at just how much of a “heathen” I have become.
But I digress.
The focus is on my strip club experience.
I honestly didn’t see it coming. I went out with a new friend, a dude, to go see a movie. Then he suggested we go for drinks at a strip club and I thought, “Hell yeah!” because I was in my say-yes-to-everything phase.
So that was the first time I went to a strip club and I should probably mention that might the last time.
Or at least the last time I get a lap dance.
It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it.
I did. It was just not the way you’re supposed to, I think. I was more entertained by the fact that I was right there, watching these females do things I only ever saw on TV for just a few measly seconds before they cut to the actual dialogue.
I was enjoying the novelty of it all.
But then I got kind of confused, because it suddenly seemed all the strippers wanted me. Let me stress I am not trying to gloat, not even remotely. I understand that it’s their job to get you revved up enough to want them to grind on you. But there was something different.
I got the feeling it wasn’t just business.
My friend asked me if I’d like a lap dance, saying yes to everything, guess what I said?
The woman I chose seemed especially taken with me. She could only speak a little English, so when she asked me “parlez vous Francais?” and I replied “un peu.”
I think I might have given her a brain orgasm.
“Nigerian’s not speak French at all,” she said. She kept telling my friend, who was a little too lost in between his stripper’s boobies, just how much she liked me. We had an actual conversation about her piercings and where she got them. She told me she’d take me there. I smiled politely and sipped my Orijin.
She got on me and started doing her thing.
I just sat there, like a log of wood. She kept taking my hands and trying to make them grab her ass. I’m not so sure what strip club etiquette entails, but I have always thought you weren’t supposed to touch the strippers.
Everything I know about that, Hollywood taught me.
There she was, grinding and doing stuff, and there I was, wondering what her story was. Not feeling sorry for her, just curious. Next thing I know, hey, there’s a boob! She starts grazing her nipple across my lips.
My firmly shut lips.
Because strip club etiquette.
Also because this really wasn’t turning me on. I noticed that and then fixated on why. So my mind drifted. Perhaps if it were someone I had an actual attachment to, I would feel different.
The poor girl stopped grinding to ask “Why are you not with me?”
She was hurt. I felt bad.
I wanted to explain to her that she was doing fine, and she shouldn’t take my seeming lack of interest personally, but all I could do was smile and make some half-assed attempt at grabbing her ass. Then she got very tender with me, not so as aggressive as before.
She tried to kiss me. But these lips stayed sealed.
I don’t know about everyone else, but kissing is more sacred to me than sex. I’m not sure why, it just is. Also, I could smell her lipstick. One of my rules is If you’ve got makeup on, I will not kiss you.
Ever. No matter how bad we both might want it.
Anyway, she was done dancing, and I tried to slip the money into her g-string, at the waist. She smiled and moved my hand closer down south. I smiled, and moved it up a bit, Naira notes must have been in all kinds of places.
She smiled wider, and moved my hand further down.
At this point I just gave up and slipped it in there, saying a silent prayer for her coochie. She got up to go dance on the pole, with a stern warning not to let anyone else sit by me. That didn’t quite work out, because someone else was there, stroking my hand.
My very unresponsive hand.
By the time the new girl had left, “my” French-and-Broken-English stripper was back, beside me, arms possessively holding me, asking if I wanted another dance.
“Maybe later,” I replied, like my friend had taught me to. She sat there as I watched the other girls dancing. She turned to me and asked, “What you are looking at,” in a tone of voice that made me decide perhaps it would be safer for her ego for me to stare at the ceiling.
So I did that.
Until one of the strippers went so far up the pole that I was staring inadvertently at her.
“My” stripper then leaned toward my ear and said “I really love you.” My mind went to T-Pain’s “I’m in Luv With A Stripper,” and every other song like that. Ironic.
I smiled politely and sipped my Orijin some more.
She leaned in again. “You no like me?”
“You’re nice,” I replied lamely.
Then we just sat there. I could feel her staring at me intently. I looked back. We kept staring each other in the eyes. Deeply. A little too deeply. I could tell if we were alone, she’d jump me. I also realized I just might let her.
Then it occurred to me these thoughts were Orijin-inspired.
Finally she had to go service someone else as this was, lest we forget, her job. In a sad tone, she said, “I know you go when I come back.” At this point I had an overwhelming urge to hug her sadness away. Until I remembered her perfume was a tad too cloying for me. Also, to get a little personal here, I cannot be with a stripper because jealousy issues and my parents would disapprove. I also haven’t officially come out to family yet and not to mention our kids would be bullied in school because one of their mommies is a stripper and…
Woooooooah slow down girl.
“Or you still be here? I dance again for you?”
I smiled. “Maybe later.”
I could tell she knew what I really meant by that. So she leaned down and kissed my cheek, squeezed my hand and sauntered off to the next horny guy.
When I got home that night, it hit me that that was one of the wildest things I had ever done. This led me to realize, yeah, I really need to up my game in that department.
I thought to myself ‘Meh, who am I kidding? I thought, I am as tame as they come.’
Then I beamed. ‘Not tonight, though. Tonight, I smell like fruity pussy. Yeah. Total fucking badass’.
Nope. Not a badass. Not even remotely. I could not wait to hop in the shower.
First published on Diary of A Naija Dyke
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