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I fail at that too.
For the fifteen-minute drive, I fail to make intelligent conversation, to laugh, to joke, to do anything but play out scenes of Daphne in my lap.
The gentleman'sclub is back in downtown Las Vegas, near Freemont Street. We only pay twenty dollars to enter the dark room (a bargain, apparently).
The place is straight out of a cop show from the nineties. Dark lights, blue leather, mirrored walls.
Men in dark clothes gather around the stages in the middle of the room. Each house two poles and two dancers, in various states of undress.
The school girl in a pink plaid skirt and pigtails thrusts her pelvis against the pole in time with a hair metal song. She looks exactly like my image of a stripper or a porn star. Bleach blonde hair, tan skin, huge fake breasts, slim waist.
The dancer sharing the stage is her opposite. A slim woman with small breasts in all black. A leather bodysuit, thigh-high fishnets, stiletto boots. A cropped bob, black lipstick, thick eye makeup. The picture of a Domme. She even has a whip in her hand.
On the other stage, a woman in all red and a woman in blue harem pants dance their respective poles. The first is a short, athletic Black woman. The other is a curvy Asian woman. They seem to move together, doing matching inversions.
"Fuck. That's amazing." Daphne's jaw drops as the woman in red cops an upside-down pose, back arched, legs spread, tight curls falling toward the plastic. "How does she do that?"
"Practice," I say. That's the way anyone does anything.
The place is more crowded than clubs are on cop shows, but it's not rowdy. The guys sitting upfront toss bills onto the stage with little passion. The men in back share the same mellow vibe.
There are a few female customers, all half a couple, with a boyfriend probably.
That's how people see us. An open-minded woman with her lucky boyfriend.
A cocktail waitress in bridal lingerie stops in front of us. "We match." She smiles at Daphne.
Daphne struggles not to stare at her huge fake breasts. They're barely hidden by her white and blue baby doll.
"Sit wherever you like," the waitress says.
"My friend wants a lap dance." Daphne's eyes stay on the woman's breasts.
"Your friend, huh?" The waitress smiles. "Just your friend or the two of you?" Her voice drops to an even flirtier tone. A put-on, of course, but who can fault her in this particular venue?
"The two of us," I say.
"What a fun bachelor-bachelorette." She smiles. "Do you have a dancer in mind?"
"You're not…" Daphne stares at her.
"Sorry, honey, no, not tonight. Long story." She shrugs, apologetic. "Take a look. Find someone you like. The stage changes every three songs." She puts a hand over her mouth and stage whispers, "Mercy is my personal favorite. But I do love Aphrodite too."
Mercy must be the woman in bondage. But which dancer is claiming the name of the Greek goddess of love?
The waitress doesn't point it out. She jumps straight to her job. "A drink while you wait?"
Daphne nods. "A Moscow mule, please."
That sounds reasonable. "Two."
The waitress struts to the bar.
"How does her top stay on?" Daphne looks around the room with wide-eyed wonder. "There's so much here… why do men come here as a social bond? The appeal of a naked woman is obvious. The appeal of a naked woman in your lap too. But the rest… you're a man."
It's not a good idea to continue this line of conversation, but I say, "I am," anyway.
She laughs at her own questions. "Sorry. I know you're a man. It's not up for debate. I just…"
