Union Jack’s

12 May

I'm not big on strip clubs but when I wanna blow money for women who won't sleep with me, I go to Union Jack's on Burnside.

Normally I’d think spending Valentine’s Day at the strip club to be depressing.
But it wasn’t. Maybe because this club didn’t feel seedy and slimy like most of the strip clubs here. Hell, it was Portland where strip clubs were on every corner like donut shops.

I always got bored at strip clubs,
once you’ve seen more than twenty vaginas, then you’ve seen them all in my opinion
“oooooh look at that, two breast, two legs, a pair of butt cheeks, and a vagina. Wow amazing, every woman has the same set?”

This club, Union Jack’s was a little different. Cute girls, natural looking, some had tattoos,
some didn’t. Good variety, and great music.

I had a buddy who knew a girl who worked here, so it wasn’t like we were just hanging around, we were visiting a friend at her job.

We were just talking to her when this beautiful Israeli gal strolled by wearing nothing but panties, high heel shoes and a fur coat. She was pretty engaging, we were just talking, I had no intention of spending anymore money at the club. I’d already bought some food and had a drink.

But she leaned in and said in on of the most suggestive manners possible, “Would you like a dance?”

I stammered, then for some reason my mouth opened and I saw the words “yes, let me go to an ATM.” float out of my mouth.

I’d never even considered paying for a lap dance in the thirteen years I’ve been strip club eligible. For some reason this seemed appropriate. When was I ever gonna have another chance to get a lap dance from a beautiful and exotic Israeli woman? The odds were slim. Even if I made it to Israel for a visit, it’d be quite a few years from now, and the circumstances would be quite different. I’d probably be on a family trip with my wife and sons or something.

Or maybe it was just the way she said it.

Two songs she gave me for 20 bucks, and it was the best 20 bucks I’d ever blown in my life.
It wasn’t just a lap dance. It was a performance. She was fluid, and in control, no herky jerky, but the grace of a belly dancer.

She made me feel like a rich businessman, a Dallas Cowboy, or better yet a sheik.
She rubber her brown nipples in my face, smacked herself on the ass, and rubbed that beautiful bush right against my nose.

Every time she sat in my lap she made sure to lean against my neck and breathe really hard. It was so hot and she had the best body I’d seen on a live woman by far.

I could do nothing but take deep breathes and not behave like a first timer, country bumpkin.

When the songs ended, I tried my best to calm myself down, but the flush leaving my face was obvious.
She laughed and told me I was cute. I wanted to marry her, and if not her, then go to Israel and marry a gal who looked like her but didn’t strip for a living.

Could it be true? Was I turning into one of those guys? Was I in love with a stripper?


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