Power of the Pole dance

This started as something else. I thought I was going to do another 'confession of a bootlicker' entry. But as the story developed, I realized it was something else. I'm worried that it's a bit self indulgent, kind of the standard fantasy that most men have when they go to a strip club. But then again, it IS a fantasy.

This is technically a request, but it was a request for me to write something to my own fetish. She suggested a man at a strip club seeing the boots. And that's all I needed, I guess.

Morgan makes a Convert out of me

I was not a fan of strip clubs. It's not that I have anything in particular against them. I just always felt like they were a waste of time, for me. I guess I'm just not the intended audience. If I wanted to look at something I find sexy, I could just sit in the union on campus once the weather gets cold, and watch girls walk around. All I cared about, after all, was the boots.

It was Lyle that wanted to go to the club. That I understood even less. Lyle's wife, Rebecca, was the most gorgeous woman I think I'd ever seen.

So why, with her being so incredibly gorgeous, would Lyle want to go to a strip club? It's not like it was a one time deal. He was a regular. I asked him about it. He said that it was about 'priming the pump.' Basically, he would go there, get teased, get excited, and then go home to Rebecca and they would fuck like rabbits.

I tried to tell Lyle I didn't want to go. I tried to refuse. But he would have none of it. He wouldn't take my excuses, just told me that I had to come with him. Just this once, he said. I told him I had no interest. He said he'd pay. He reminded me that I wanted to try new things. Whether it was the desire to experience more, or the offer for him to pay the cover, I'm not sure. But he convinced me, finally, and off we went.

I had all of two dollars in my wallet. But I wasn't intending to tip anyone. I was just there for the conversation. I didn't think I'd care about anything else.

Lyle was immediately having the time of his life, pulling out a wad of singles and instantly grabbing the attention of the women working. I'd like to say it was all about the money, but honestly, Lyle was a good looking guy; girls tended to flock to him any time we were in public together. So he got all the attention, and I sat and sulked across the table, chatting with Lyle whenever there wasn't a girl hanging all over him.

They were pretty girls. Nicely shaped bodies, pretty tattoos that trailed along the lines of their bodies. They all had small breasts, which was fine by me. They had nice legs and pert asses, and they had muscles that rippled under their skin in that wonderful way. But the longer they danced, the more bored I got. I don't know; it just felt like once they got naked, there was nothing left to the imagination. There was no more tease. Nothing worth watching, not really.

So started playing with the dollar bill I had. I started folding it around, and taught myself to make a ring out of the dollar bill. Lyle kept getting up and going to the back room for a lap dance, leaving me behind to teach myself origami.

“Not having a good time?”

I looked up at the source of the voice. She had just gotten off stage, I suppose. She was wearing panties, but pretty much nothing else. At least, nothing that I could see. Her skin was sparkling with glitter, and her hair had that shaken out almost-wet look that seems to be standard issue around here.

She smiled at me. I shrugged at her. “Not my scene,” I said.

“Gay?” she didn't ask with any hint of disapproval, taunting, or judgement. She just seemed to honestly want to know.

I shook my head. “No.”

“So you like women, just not strippers?”

I almost just blurted out the answer, but the way she asked made me stop and think. I looked at her for a few seconds, my eyes not even flickering down to her nudity. She had pretty eyes, a nice light hazel, and she seemed both surprised and a little impressed that I was looking into them.

“I think that's more or less it,” I said. “But not in those words.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not suggesting that strippers aren't women,” I said. “I don't like that part. I'm just saying that I'm more interested in who you are as a person than just to watch you flip your way around a pole with glass platform heels.”

She laughed at that. “Not a fan of the pole?”

"Not a fan of the heels," I said. "I prefer boots." Morgan raised an eyebrow at that.I shrugged again. “I'm sure there's skill involved,” I said.

“A lot.”

I smiled. “What's your name?”

“I go by Morgan,” she said. She smiled. I smiled at her.

“I go by Brian.”

Morgan smirked. “I bet I can make you like the pole,” she said.

I looked down at the dollar ring in my hand. “I can't pay you,” I said. “All I have is this ring and one more dollar.”

“That's fine,” she said. “So long as the ring fits.”

Then she stepped back onto the little stage in front of me. It wasn't the main stage, and there weren't many others around watching. There might have been, actually. I just don't remember noticing anyone else. It was like the room was just the two of us. Me sitting awkwardly in a chair next to a platform, Morgan stepping confidently up the stairs to that platform.

Her heels clicked on the steps. My eyes were drawn to the sound. I saw her knees come up above the line of sight first. Then, just below the knees, there was black. Leather. Boots.

They were tight against the skin, laced up with string barely thicker than wire. It was hooked around shining silver grommets that ran up her shin. Her toes curled into a wicked little platform, and the heel behind was a stiletto so pointed it looks like it could cut through time.

Morgan swayed to the end of the song, not even touching the pole until the next song began. Lenny Kravitz started pumping out the beats for American Woman, and Morgan wrapped her hand, finger by finger, on the pole.

She did a gentle turn around, letting me see her boots from every angle with agonizing slowness. Then the boots were flying up, over her head, looping around as she twisted around the pole. She pressed the boots against the pole and leaned away, only the leather in contact with the pole. She curled her spine and slowly slid around, a piece of art rotating with her gorgeous eyes on display one way, and her stunning boots the other.

I could feel the breath caught in my chest as she leaned back further, her spine bending farther than a human being should be able to, and put her hands on to the pole. The muscles in her arms looked like steel ropes as she kicked her feet out, the boots coming so close I thought I might be able to kiss them. But there wasn't time. She had them up above her head again. Her legs spread out into a split, then pulled back together and she walked through the air, bending her arms behind her until I thought her shoulders would dislocate.

But Morgan wasn't done. She reversed her walk, stepping backwards against gravity, slowly pulling herself back up and wrapping her ankles together at the very top of the pole. She shook out her arms and began the slow corkscrew back towards the ground.

The song went on, and I'm sure Morgan's movements matched up with the beat. But honestly, I don't remember. I wouldn't have noticed if there was a marching band blaring in my ears, or if there had been an airshow just a few feet behind me. There was no sound. The stale sweat smell of the club was gone. The taste of the cheap beer I'd been nursing was completely forgotten. All that was left, all that existed, was Morgan and that pole.

I saw the sweat glistening on her skin. I saw the muscles in her thighs and her calves like I was taking an anatomy lesson. I saw the gleaming pole as her fingers wrapped around them again, and saw her kick off the pole and start to spin around and around. She had one hand up high, the pole lining down her arm, then her other hand pushing most of her body away from the pole. Her head was back, hair floating in the wind she seemed to create with her movement. Her knees were bent, and she curled around the pole, spinning past with her boots very clearly displayed. She had one foot practically on the other knee, so it was like an unending stream of leather that kept whirring past me. At first it was fast, but started going more slowly and more sensually as she got closer and closer to the base of the platform.

There was applause when she finally finished, and she was breathing heavily. I wasn't the only one applauding, I don't think. But it didn't matter. There still wasn't anyone there but me and Morgan.

She picked up a bit of the cash that had been tossed onto the platform, and went around and let a few other guys stick cash in the string of her panties, at the top of her boots, or just held the money up and let her take it out of their hands with her teeth.

Then she came back and sat down next to me. She held out her right hand, fingers spread, daintily showing me her nails. I slid the ring up her first finger, the little number one showing where a jewel would be.

She looked down at it and smiled at me.

“You have another one?” she asked.

I pulled out my other dollar. “No,” I said. “But I could make one.”

She put her foot on the chair, right between my legs, the toe just barely touching me in a wonderfully, perfectly inappropriate way. “Just slide it into my boot,” she said, breathing heavily and smiling down at me.

As I did, my hands on the leather of her boot, looking up at her, I finally got it. I finally understood what people see in strippers. I looked up at her, and Morgan was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Are you a believer?” She asked.

I nodded.

“A convert?”

I chuckled. “A worshiper,” I said.

She flexed her foot a little bit, and I jolted in my chair. “I like that,” she said. “You have a real way with words.” Then she smirked at me. “A talented tongue.”

I want so say I had a slick and clever response to that. But the way she said it, the way she stood, the way her boot pressed against me, I pretty much forgot the entire English language.

“Come back tomorrow,” she said. She leaned in close. “Buy a lap dance, and I'll let you put that tongue to good use.” She looked down at her foot down between my legs. “They get pretty dirty, after all.”