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How I Was Humiliated...

How I Was Humiliated at a Male Strip Club

There was a time when I knew people who knew people who knew people who invited me for Ladies Night at a local strip club. I’d been friends with a group of metal-head guys for most of my teenage years and they often invited me to go with them to the all-female strip club. I have a feeling though, if I’d actually tried to go with them, they’d all have somehow begged off. I think that my presence might have ruined the experience for them a little.

This Place Is a Dump
For what can only be described as morbid curiosity, I was dragged for a night of drunken debauchery at a strip club in one of the seedier parts of town with a couple of my girlfriends. I’d certainly never been there before and was more than a little apprehensive, but being the Good Sport that I am, I tried not to let it show. Somewhere around 8:00 p.m. we showed up at this dump of a bar, half of the structure sagging dejectedly, and I unhappily trudged inside behind my friends, who were cackling wildly. It was like being transported back into the eighties in the way I’d never seen it as a child: all pastels and neon signs and chrome and shiny black glass. I saw etched flowers forever suspended in glass as decorations that had probably been there since I was a fetus. It was dark, smoky, and looked suspiciously like I’d walked into hell.

I Start to Drink, Heavily
Ladies Night wasn’t to begin for another half an hour, so we headed to the bar to get lubed up. At this point, the alcohol was medicinal and I began swigging it back to calm my nerves. At twenty-two, I’d seen my share of naked men, but never in stripper form. While I never exactly found the naked male form to be an instant panty-drencher, I wasn’t opposed to it, but a dude rocking out with his cock out? Not exactly … hot.

I drank heavily up, but rather than having the normal sedating effect on me, it seemed only to make me hyperaware of my surroundings: the seedy bar, the blackheads as big as geysers on the bartender, my own sweaty palms. Finally, over the PA, which had before been playing some crappy club remixes, a disembodied voice vibrated loudly, “Ladies, if you’ll make your way upstairs, it’s time for LADIES NIGHT!”

A Stampede of Horny Woman
While I was now drunk and scared nearly to the point of peeing myself, the stampede of horny women showed me that I was absolutely in the minority, which floored me. I’d always assumed that magazines like “Playgirl” were put together as more of a gag gift than anything else, kind of like novelty penis earrings and penis-shaped ice cubes. Funny in theory perhaps, but in practice, no woman is going to pet the kitty to the sight of Ron Jeremy sticking his erect member through a chain link fence. Toss her cookies, perhaps, but not pat the bunny. I’d thought.

Upstairs now, the gaggle of women assembled in a U-shaped room full of small tables with barstools. I nervously lit a cigarette and made small talk, a sure sign that my anxiety level was creeping toward eleven: I was now chattering on about anything to whomever would listen. Save for a couple of movies featuring female strip clubs, I had absolutely no idea what to expect. And certain what happened next was not it.

Fake Boners in Banana Hammocks
Suddenly through a side door, two well-built meat-heads burst in, crappy hip-hop music blaring, strobe lights flashing, their chests oiled and silky smooth dancing and gyrating as seductively as two meat-heads could to the music. It wasn’t that it wasn’t attractive; it just wasn’t that hot. There was no centralized dance floor, thanks to the poor design of the whole sad building, so the strippers, who had now ripped off their pants and were sporting comically large (read: probably fake) boners in what can only be described as “banana hammocks” were doing the worst possible thing I could think of: they were now traveling table to table, pulling the women to the floor to be molested.

I Enjoy an Occasional T-Bagging
I’d been under the misguided impression that strippers didn’t touch their clients, and perhaps that’s true for female strippers, I never thought to ask, but for we women? Oh, we get MOLESTED. Let’s just say, had clothes been removed, you’d have been watching a live porno. This, this was most unexpected and I was not nearly trashed enough to want to have some guy pretend to munch my box in front of a group of women before he stuck his balls on my face. Much as I do enjoy an occasional T-bagging, I find it more of a turn-on to know the person whose balls rest on my forehead first. I frantically looked around to see if there was any way that I could bow gracefully out of this situation, but no, no exits were nearby. I was going to have to deal with some sweaty balls in my face before the night was through. I steeled myself as best as I could.

He Was Sweating Like a Stuck Pig
And before I knew it, I was led up to star in my own soft-core porn movie. While the guy was sweating like a stuck pig, I was shocked that he smelled rather … fresh, which was good, because immediately, my face made contact with his prosthetic penis as we mimed fellatio in time to the music. As quickly as I began giving pseudo-head, I stopped, and my legs were immediately parted, and he mimed munching my jean-clad box. My humiliation was rounded out by being flipped around like a little bitch and getting dry-humped doggie style while my friends hooted and hollered from the sidelines. Way to show support, guys, I thought, as I slipped away from my molester, feeling more violated than someone who paid money for such an honor should.

Oh well, I chuckled to myself, little did they know that I slipped the guy a twenty to take extra EXTRA good care of my friends.

Payback’s a bitch.

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