Thursday, 22 July 2010

Private Dancer.....

As I have mentioned on this blog at least, ohhhh, I dunno, about a hundred times already, I am not a manly man. I cry at films, I coo over kittens, and every third month I lactate. But there is one thing that I have done in my life that does give me a few man points.

I’ve been to a strip club.

Not once. But twice.

Yeah, check out this playa.

Now let me make this clear from the off. I’m not a pervy, lecherous bloke who leers at women whilst making inappropriate comments. So the whole notion of joining the sweaty ranks of men in ill fitting suits who stare lustfully at half naked girls was a bit of an alien one to me. But yes, I have frequented a strip club. Was it enjoyable? Not really. Interesting? Yes, a little.

The first time I ever visited one was about ten years ago. I had planned a night out in London with a very close friend of mine one Saturday night. We had a few venues we wanted to visit and a loose plan for the evening, but to be honest, the idea was to just see where the night took us.

So after hitting a few bars and clubs, it was getting close to chucking out time. Fuelled by a mixture of cheap amphetamines and vodka, we stood outside a club in the West End and tried to decide where to go next.

Almost by osmosis we both agreed at the same time.

Strip club.

It just seemed like the most logical choice. We were young. We were smartly dressed. We had never been to one. The night was about to get massive.

If you want any kind of pervy thrill in London, then Soho is the place to go. So we did. And ended up at a place called The Windmill.

Now please bear in mind, my only experience of strip clubs are in 80’s police buddy movies where the two mismatched cops finally bond over tacky 80’s music and women with really big hair. So to suddenly find myself standing nervously outside one of them with my friend was a very weird feeling.

I’m James Bond. I’m James Bond. I’m James Bond. I kept repeating in my head as the bouncers let us pass and we walked into the dark interior of the club.

Well this is new.

That evening we were the only two white customers in there. Two very young, scared looking, white customers. All the other patrons were either Chinese or Arab looking, and they all had about three or four half naked girls round them.

“Go grab that table over there,” I told my friend. “I’ll get us some drinks.”

As my friend went off to the table, I walked up to the bar and ordered two beers. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned round to find a rather nice lady standing there in her underwear.

“Hello.” She said.

“Hello.” I squeaked back.

“Would you like some company tonight?”

“Yes please.” I replied.

I am, and always ever will be, this smooth.

She beckoned one of her friends over and dragged me back to my table where my friend was.

“If you want to sit here you have to buy a bottle of champagne.” She told me, sitting down next to me while her friend started chatting to mine.

“Oh, right.”

She called one of the waiters over who brought a tray with the bottle and glasses on. As he began pouring, he said “That will be £70.”


“That’s okay, you can pay when you leave.” My new companion told me.

“Wonderful.” I sighed.

So we sat and made idle chit chat. Where have you been tonight? Do you like my bra? That kind of stuff.

“Would you like me to dance for you?” she suddenly asked me, sipping on her drink.

“Er, yeah. Why not?” I replied, my smoothness increasing with every breath that I took.

“It costs £20 per dance. You can pay everything when you leave.”

“Will you be dancing here?” I asked, looking at the tiny area around our table.

“No silly. Come with me.”

She took my hand and dragged me to one of the private booths that lined the sides of the club and almost threw me on the little sofa there. And then she took of her underwear and began to dance in front of me to the music.

Now this dance was costing me £20, but I ended up, out of some misguided form of respect, looking everywhere but the areas I was meant to be looking at. Mainly her.

I don’t know why I suddenly came over all chivalrous. It was two in the morning in a Soho strip club and I had just paid for someone to take their clothes off in front of me. But I just couldn’t do it. She was putting her heart into it, bless her, but I just didn’t find it a turn on. I ended up gazing around the little booth I was in, thinking: Ohhh, those crushed velvet curtains would really go well in my living room.

I could see by the look on her face that I may have hurt her feelings by my lack of interest. I looked to my left and saw a rather swarthy looking business man having a dance next to me. He looked like a pig in a tie.

Did I look like that?

I decided that for all the effort she was putting in to her dance, I had better put in a bit of a performance myself. So I tried to arrange my face into an expression that signified pure animal lust, but then swiftly tried to change it, as she suddenly stopped dancing and looked at me terrified as if I was suddenly going to rip my shirt off, shouting “WE DO FUCK NOW, YA?”

When my dance was finally finished, she asked me “You like?”

“Yes, lovely thanks.” I replied, resisting the urge to pat her on the shoulder. I mean, what the fuck do you say to someone who has basically been gyrating her bits in your face for about 10 minutes?

We spent the rest of the night just chatting away at the table. She asked me if I wanted another dance, but I politely declined. I was pretty drunk and the amphetamines were wearing off and all I wanted to do was go home.

When the club was finally closing, and it was time for us to leave, I was escorted by the girl to a cash machine.

“That will be £500.”

What the fuck!!!!

I mentally tried to add up the drinks, and then my brain decided that it wasn’t having any of it and just basically shut down for the night. Everything was dark and fuzzy and I started to feel a bit ill.

“£500, No problem, “I said, putting my card in the machine and entering my pin number.


I entered it again.


Bollocks. I entered it again.

The words: YOU’RE ENTERING THE WRONG PIN NUMBER, NUMBNUTS blinked back at me in green letters from the ATM machine.

I couldn’t remember my PIN number.

Suddenly a rather large bouncer came over.

“Is there a problem here?” he asked the girl.

“He won’t pay me.” She replied.

“No wait, “I said in a panic as he loomed over me. “I want to pay, I really do. It’s not working!” This was followed up by frantic jabbing of the buttons of the ATM machine. “Look!”

“You’ve got five minutes to pay the girl or me and you are going to have an issue.”

He’s going to rape me! He’s going to kill me, then rape me!!

Suddenly four magical numbers exploded in my head like bursting fireworks. My brain, sensing imminent danger, had suddenly come back to life.

“I remember!” I cried, blinking tears away from my eyes. “I remember the numbers!”

I jabbed them in and the blessed, life saving money came out.

“Here! Here is your money!” I said, waving the notes in the bouncers face triumphantly.

The bouncer grabbed them in a hand the size of a shovel.

“Get out.”

We got out.

So I must say that it was to my surprise, about six months later, that I found myself in Spearmint Rhino strip club with Vanessa shaking her bits at me.

I didn’t want to be there. I had gone out for the evening for one of my friend’s birthdays and somehow got roped in with three others to visit the club.

“I have no money.” I moaned as we queued up.

“Don’t worry mate, I’ve got tonight covered.” my friend replied, waving his credit card in my face.

When we walked in, I immediately sat down at one of the tables and tried to give the impression that I didn’t want to be there.

Didn’t work.

Suddenly someone jumped on me and sat on my lap. It was Vanessa. Sadly, as she sat down, I also had my phone in my pocket, which her arse then proceeded to mash into my testicles.

“Oh my god, my dahlink.” She said in a heavy Eastern European accent “Did I just sit on your peppers?”

I didn’t know what was worse, the fact that I had now turned white and was flopping around in my chair like a half dead fish, or she had just called my testicles “peppers”

“No,” I whispered hoarsely “Your fine.”

As the girls could see we were young and had cash on the hip, we were a fair draw. Suddenly all of us had girls on our laps.

“Do all you boys want a dance?” One of them asked us.


“Most definitely.”

“Ah, go on then.”


Everyone looked at me.

“Yes?” I replied meekly with a shrug.

Vanessa took my hand and led me to one of the private booths. I was getting to be quite the veteran of this now. She removed he clothes and pushed me back on to the sofa I was sitting on.

“You’re going to enjoy this dahlink.” She said seductively.

I’m bloody not I thought.

So I sat there and watched while she danced for me.

She was good, Vanessa. She danced and moved in time to the music much better than my first experience did.

“Do you like my tits?” she said, thrusting them in my face.

“They’re very nice.” I replied to her nipples.

She then straddled me and covered my head with her long frizzy brown hair. I have no idea why she did this. I ended up looking like this man.

And then she started doing something very odd. She began blowing in my ear.

Now as I am deaf, my ears are very sensitive to me. So I certainly bloody didn’t like this at all. Every time she did this, I flinched away.

Finally my dance was over.

“Thank you,” I said. “That man over there will pay you.” This was followed with a point to my friend with the credit card, who was sitting back with a dumbstruck expression while a lady with breasts the size of my head
waved them in his face.

I sat down at our table on my own, my friends still away having their dances. About five minutes later, a blonde dancer sat down next to me.

“Listen, “I said. “I’m gonna be honest, I’m absolutely potless right now and I just want to sit here and have a drink.”

“That’s alright,” she replied. “I’m bloody knackard anyway.”

The next 20 minutes were my best experience ever in a strip club. We spent the whole time talking about our favourite books.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Go on.”

“Why do you do this?”

“Why shouldn’t I? The moneys great, I have some good friends here. 50% of the blokes here can be alright, the other 50% get chucked out when they turn twatish. I’m proud of my body. I like the job. So why not?”

“I guess. What’s the question you get asked most by the blokes here then?”

Why do you do it?” she replied with a smile. “Have a nice night.”

And she left.

So how can I best sum up the whole experience? I guess some people like it; they wouldn’t be so popular otherwise. Not really for me to be honest.

And what was with that thing with the ears??

Saturday, 3 July 2010

New Chums…….

I have rewritten and reread this post many times and I still can’t stop it from sounding a bit gay. But you know what; I’m actually okay with that. In fact, I’m going to test the gayness of this post by adding pink points to the gayest parts (represented by this symbol gay ) followed up by a rating on my gayometer.

As I have been working in my current job now for around six months, our little team has grown by many numbers and has now added a pair of men to the equation, which has helped me out no end. gay gay

Now please don’t get me wrong, I have loved working with the group of lovely ladies on my team so far, but being the only bloke on our programme has, at some points, left me feeling very isolated. So it was a great relief that I immediately bonded with our new additions and can, I hope, count them as friends. gay

Nearly everyone I am friends with in my life has always said that they hated me when they first met me. Apparently it’s because I am as about as approachable as a burning fireworks factory that is surrounded by landmines, velociraptors, and fundamental Christians. Which is, of course, not very approachable at all. But I totally get where they are coming from.

But once people actually get to know me, they find out that I am actually a lovely person and immediately take me to the bosom of their hearts where I will remain for the rest of their lives. Always there. Lurking. Watching. Waiting.

In many ways, becoming friends with me is very much like taking a trip to Ikea. At first you really don’t want to be there, but after having a good look around, you find there is a lot of interesting things going on in all the nooks and crannies and realise that this is the best place you’ve ever been too. But then as you leave the store, filled with the joy that this new found discovery has brought you, this feeling will then fade in time to be replaced with bitterness and despair until you are left alone, crying silent angry tears into the instructions of a shattered Rutundra coffee table and wondering where it all went wrong?

Actually that is a really shit metaphor. I have absolutely no idea why I just included that. I am nothing like Ikea.

When you were younger, making friends was a simple as going up to someone on the school playground, kicking them in the ankles and pulling a mong face at them and then asking “Do you want to go look at some worms?”

Unfortunately you can’t use this approach as an adult (though it would make meeting women much more interesting), so making friends is a lot more difficult when you're older. It always helps if you have something in common, which is most definitely what I did have with the new addition to our team (a really funny bloke with the dryest sense of humour going), that thing in common being playing childish practical jokes on one of the long suffering girls who we work with (who, I hasten to add, has taken it all in very good spirit and has only threatened to mutilate our genitals only once).

So far we have managed to pretend have an argument, stuck hundreds of small furry toy creatures all over her desk when she wasn’t in, and most impressively, prised off the keys on her PC keyboard and rearranged them, so when she came in the next day she thought she had turned dyslexic overnight. All incredibly childish and immature, but that is most definitely the level I operate best at. And it was a great way to become good friends with the new guy, which I hope I have done. gay

*Note- When I am actually doing these practical jokes, in the thick of it so to speak, you will normally find me giggling away to myself like a schoolgirl. When the recipient of the joke finds out, and the cries of “Who the bloody hell has done this?” rings round the office, you will then find me at the back of the rapidly forming crowd with my arms crossed, shaking my head in disgust at how some people can be so childish. Now you may call this the coward’s way out, I just call it cunning.*

My other new BFF is a guy who works in our sister office in Stratford. He actually reminds me of a younger, cooler Woody Allan, which is in no way a bad thing. For some reason we clicked straight away and I am comfortable enough in actually counting him as a good friend already. Although everyone else that we work with has now started to rip the piss out of us by saying we have a bromance going on, so we have had to stop things like holding hands on the office and calling each other “Babe”. gay gay gay

They just be playa hating.

The good thing is that we have a very similar sense of humour, which basically means we just laugh at each other’s jokes while no one else does. No one. At all.

We have all been out for teams drinks and so forth, which is really good, but now just me and him are arranging to just go out for a drink after work on a “Man date.” gay

Now the legendary “Man dates” have to follow a set pattern. To prove that two blokes going for a drink alone are in no way gay for each other, there are only three topics of conversation that are allowed.

1) Football.
2) Boobs.
3) Personal insults.

So a simple line of a conversation would be: Went West Ham last night, saw a bird with really big boobs......You massive twat.

So just keep rearranging those sentences anyway you want, and keep repeating them until drunkenness kicks in, and by then you are allowed to go a bit gay anyway because you normally end up slurring: You know what mate? (hic) I bloody loves you.

What you most definitely don’t want to do return to your table with both hands pressed to your cheeks just after putting a song on the jukebox and then proclaiming loudly “Oh my God! This song is sooooo about me!” and then spend the next three minutes miming the lyrics to ABBA’s Dancing Queen as it plays out around the pub.

Believe me; I’m not making that mistake again.

I once went on a man date with a bloke from a football forum I go on. We arranged to meet up for a drink before the game, and, as I had never met this bloke before, I was actually pretty nervous. I kept on having random thoughts running through my head. Will we run out of things to talk about? What if he thinks I’m a dick? Will he think my hair looks pretty?

Lucky for me, we actually got on alright and just spent the afternoon playing pool. But the whole notion of making new friends is still a personal minefield that can sometimes blow up in your face spectacularly.

But that is, I guess, what friends are for?
9X gay = GAY 2