Some time ago, I was working for a sales team that promoted businesses through privilege cards; schemes that allowed users special discounts on services. One of our best campaigns was for several bars and a strip club in Bournemouth. There were numerous 2 for 1 drink vouchers and free entry to the strip club. Needless to say, several of these cards were claimed by team members for their own personal use via the unofficial staff five-finger discount scheme. Consequently, after work drinks inevitably involved unlimited half price drinks followed by the company of ‘exotic’ dancers.
I hate strip clubs, but if there is free entry then I can be persuaded to follow the crowd. The dancers soon learn that I genuinely prefer to talk to them rather than paying for a private dance. And I find the gullible regular punters more entertaining to people watch than some half-hearted wriggle by strippers who constantly check out their own reflections in the mirrors. I define paying £10-20 to have a lithe naked girl who I can’t touch, dance centimetres from my face, to be masochism.
Having said that, it has been known for me to try it, just for research purposes of course. On one such occasion it was my birthday and, armed with the privilege cards, we gained free entry to For Your Eyes Only and my colleagues bestowed me with a free dance. Unwilling to turn down their gift, I chose the dancer who I believed to be the least mentally damaged, as I personally find a man-hating scowl to be off-putting.
I knew the rules: sit still and no touching. It was a bit like my love life at the time, so I couldn’t foresee any problems. As a new track begun, Porsche started her routine in time with the beat. I didn’t know where to look and found it uncomfortable, but feigned a smile (I figured a thumbs-up gesture to be inappropriate). My upbringing taught me to look a girl in the eyes, but I thought that maybe she would find it weird if I didn’t look at her body, so I opted for a roughly 50/50 split between eyes and body, making sure to yawn only if her back was turned.
Need the end of her dance she leant in to set the teasing to maximum. I could feel her breath against me. It’s amazing who’s an asthma sufferer, I thought. Then she draped her hair over me. It felt so ticklish that I couldn’t stand it. I had to do something. I took my chance as she leant away slightly to bring my hand up quickly and attempt to move her hair off my shoulders. At that moment she unexpectedly moved in closer. I unavoidably made contact with her breast. I’d accidentally given an uppercut to a stripper’s breast.
She let out a surprised shriek and stood up abruptly. Mortified, I apologised profusely, whilst anxiously scanning the club for nearby bouncers. I envisaged a forcible ejection and prolonged shoeing from security. Thankfully she quickly realised my mistake and laughed at me. Lucky I chose her rather than one of her more flaky colleagues.
I’d learned my lesson. If there is a next time, I should sit on my hands and take the torment like a man. Never, ever, punch a stripper in the breast.