Guest blog: My first time in a strip club

Image by the incredible Stuart F Taylor

Regular readers will know that I’m a sucker for first times: I literally have a blog tag dedicated to all the fabulous stories of people discovering a new sexual thing. It’s thrilling. And this week’s guest blogger – Archibald Q Kaboom in comments – after my recent piece on taking my toyboy to a strip club, was inspired to share a first of his own: his first time in a strip club. He writes with such beautiful clarity and awestruck lust about it that I hope it might prompt some of you to take the plunge on a ‘first’ you’ve been hankering after.

My first time in a strip club

I’ve lived in the rust belt essentially my whole life. Maybe it was the atmosphere of my community growing up, or perhaps just my complete lack of social skills before I entered college, but something prevented me from realizing that I was bisexual until I had already graduated.

Either way, I was here now. Twenty-four years old in the big city with a little confidence, a firm grasp of who I was, and a number of dating apps to assist me on my quest to find love and/or jizz. And there was some early success! I had my first kiss a few months in with a lovely Christian man whose parents didn’t know, and even though we stopped seeing each other shortly after that I still look back on it with fondness, remembering the heat of my blushing ears against the cold of that bitter November evening as I walked back to my car.

The following month there were some failures. A rapid succession of them. I was stood up three times in the four weeks that followed my first kiss. Have you ever been stood up for a date twice in two weeks? By the same person? It sucks! I remember driving home feeling embarrassed, saddened, and wondering what I did that seemed to be making this happen. As I was driving down the highway to get back to my apartment, a thought popped into my head. Maybe it was caused by frustration over being stood up yet again, maybe by my desire to finally cross it off my list, maybe because I’d already cleaned myself up nicely for the date and was feeling myself that evening. However it happened, the thought came to the forefront of my mind, as loud and clear as Gabriel’s trumpet: “Goddamnit I’m gonna try to see some titties tonight.”


I pull into the parking lot of the gentlemen’s club. All I really know about this place is that it’s nearby, and has a decent reputation. I open the door and walk in. It’s a small place, with a little stage, and a nice bar right near the door. I sit down at the bar and make a little small talk with some regulars and the bartender. I tell her that this is my first ever time coming to a strip club and she gives me a shot of anything I want on the house. As I down the burning shot of vanilla vodka, I glance over at the stage and try to process what I see. Is it real?

Up on stage is a dancer – dare I say? – a vixen. Dark hair, porcelain skin, plus sized and curvaceous. Strutting around the pole in nothing but a black g-string which she pulls out for a patron’s waiting dollar bill, her C-cup breasts exposed, revealing beautiful brown nipples. I walk up to her, a tension in my gut, nervous and excited and apprehensive, like a kid about to strap into a rollercoaster they’re finally tall enough to ride. She holds out the side of her g-string with her thumb. I slide my dollar in, and with that she gently grasps her hands around the back of my head, leans forward and brings my face into the center of her soft, warm chest, moving my face from side to side – only for a moment – before bringing me back out again. She flashes me an inviting smile, and l look at her like Vulcan looked at Venus.

Walking back to my seat at the bar, a stupid smile on my face I just think, “Twenty four years, and has it always been that simple?” My pondering is interrupted by a voice behind me, sweet and smooth as honey in tea: the dancer from the stage, now wearing a miniskirt and black brassiere. “Any interest in a dance?”

She takes me by the hand and leads me to the back of the club, where an older man is waiting by what looks like a hostess’ stand. He’s wearing khakis and a button down dress shirt with a cream-colored tartan pattern. He looks at me through his wire-rimmed glasses and asks:

“How many songs?”

I look over his shoulder to the sign behind him. Twenty dollars for one song, forty for two, fifty for three.

“Uh, three.” I say, my head swimming in lust and desire. I pay and he hands her a timer.

“Three and a half minutes per song,” she says, guiding me through a beaded curtain into the back room, “that way you know you’re getting your money’s worth.”

The room itself is large, and fairly open for a place that multiple dancers were supposed to work in with different clients, though thankfully for now it’s only the two of us. Mood lighting, a purplish blue, flooding the entirety of the space.

“I should let you know,” I say, “this is actually my first time getting a dance like this so I’m a bit unsure what to do.” I chuckled as I spoke, betraying the nervousness I was trying to hide.

“Don’t worry,” she replies reassuringly, “Just sit back and be comfortable.”

She holds the front of her bra to her chest with one hand, and with the other she reaches back and undoes the clasp in a single motion. She then reaches down to her hip and – without breaking eye contact – whips the skirt away, revealing that beautiful black thong again, “I know what to do.”

I can’t tell you what song is playing – can’t hear it past the heartbeat in my ears, but I know it is the best song I’ve ever heard. She drops the bra and moves towards me like a lioness to her mate. With a devilish smile she spreads my legs and leans forward, bringing her head right next to my ear and taking a deep, lusty, inhale through gritted teeth. She then turns around slowly and leans forward, resting her hands on my legs and her miraculous ass on my crotch, and begins swaying it back and forth to the music. She reaches back and puts my hands on her hips as she continues moving.

“Enjoying the view?” She asks, with a smile in her voice that shows she already knows the answer. “Oh absolutely,” I reply. She stands and turns around to face me, running her hands across her breasts, pinching her nipples in the cracks between her fingers as she does so, and asks coyly, “want one that’s even better?”

She moves towards me again, this time resting herself on my thigh, straddling it while facing me, and begins grinding. She puts my hands on her hips once more, and comes in close again, this time to the nape of my neck. I can feel the warmth of her breath as she exhales softly, a gentle moan escaping her lips. She then pulls herself back up and swings her leg over, so now she’s fully resting on my lap facing me, as I stare at her like I’m looking at God himself. She speaks with the coolness of a professional, and with the welcoming tone of one that knows they’ve already signed the contract, before any ink has been spilled, “You can suck on my nipples if you want. I love the way that feels.”

I bite my lip as I lock eyes with her, trying to gauge her, make sure there isn’t any kind of catch or trick.

“Are you sure?” I ask, “is this really allowed?”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” she responds.

I slowly move my hands up over her hips, one cradling the small of her back, the other resting just below her shoulder blades. I look down from her face and stare at her exquisite bust in front of me, with perky nipples eagerly greeting me. I pull her close, gently kissing her with an eagerness that can only come with an entire lifetime of desire. I wrap my lips around her nipple, sucking softly, feeling the texture of it change as it becomes more erect in my mouth.

“Oh wow, that feels good,” she half-chuckled.

“Feels good for me too,” I return.

I kiss across her chest as I move to the other nipple and bring it in, running my tongue across the tip. I can feel her grip tighten on the back of my head, gently pulling my hair as her hand clenches while she lets out a moan. She pulls away, dismounts, turns around and spreads my legs again. This time resting her plump, glorious buttocks in the center of my lap directly on top of my swollen erection. She begins to grind again, and I’m in heaven.

Unfortunately, it’s at this moment that the timer goes off. The three songs are up, and St. Peter closes the gates.

The only thing I can choke out is “ah, man!”

“Sorry babe,” she says, “we can keep going like this if you want to pay for a few more songs.”

“I would if I didn’t have to worry about rent,” I joke.

That club is gone now, shuttered during the pandemic: just another long shadow eventually forced to vanish with the perpetually setting sun of time. I still have the memory of that night though, of that backroom. Call it what you will: a cheap thrill; a quick fling; a monetary transaction behind closed doors… everyone’s entitled to a fun memory.

At least until the timer runs out.


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