Slipping, he keeps slipping in the booth, sliding down because he’s humping the air, like a dog on an invisible stuffed animal. He’s also on his tippy toes, trying to reach his knee into my crotch. He tries to rub it against me without lifting his leg off the ground.
He’s almost lying down at this point, his ass hanging of the edge and his chin pushed into his chest. It’s something a lot of customers do. All the girls talk about it and none of us understand the point. We’re not naked, and there’s not going to be any penetration, unless you rape me. So, this air humping makes no sense, and it makes both of us uncomfortable. All it does is make for a shitty lap dance, and a frustrated stripper. It's so desperate. Men, they're such base animals, it’s so weird.
“Are you okay darlin?”
I ask him this to draw attention to the reality of him being seen in this position, by the world around him, and, bring him back, so to speak.
He pulls himself up into a seated position and sits still for about three seconds. Then he’s right back at it. Jabbing the air with his jean zipper, and slipping.
“Ooh, I can feel it! It’s hot!”
“It” being me, or more accurately, my groin. I’m sitting on his knee, and he can feel my body heat.
“Yes, It’s because I’m alive. Another hint is that I’m moving, and speaking.”
He smiles, staring at my panties. He’s not listening. He’s in his head. Top, and bottom.
Customers make mention of my body having heat often. As if my being a red-blooded animal with an internal temperature is a result of his allure, and my being turned on. Rather than my being un dead.
“You like that don’t you. You like my naughty leg?”
Did he just ask if I liked his “Naughty Leg”? I lean into him...
“Sweetheart, I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but why don’t you just sit still, I don’t need any help”
Men, believing we get sexual pleasure from giving them a lap dance, is so bizarre. So incredibly bizarre. It’s never enough. It’s not enough that we’re half naked with our tits and asses are in their face. It’s not enough that we’re sweet, and pretty, soft, and smell nice. It’s not enough. We need to be orgasmic as well. Girls are strippers because they’re aching to be fucked. And they’re aching to be fucked by you. The guy fucking the air in his washed denim.
I almost want to put out a little newsletter…
“Quit the leg squeezing, pelvic thrusting, and the blowing air on us! None of it makes any sense, and it just makes you look even dumber than we already know you are. News flash! If you just look at us, all of us, the way we smile at you, the way our bodies move. If you sit still, keep your hands on the couch, and shut your fucking mouth. You’ll get a lap dance that you can take home with you. You'll get twenty dollar's worth of real-life woman, giving your imagination food for use, on your own time. That's what we sell here. Fantasy, and performance. Take it out on your wife, or your hand, or a warm brick of meatloaf. Just please, no more slip n slide.”