The Ugly Little Lap Dancer That Could

rudall30 / (Shutterstock.com)
rudall30 / (Shutterstock.com)

I used to frequent a grimy little go-go bar in a shitty town you’ve never heard of in New Jersey. During a particularly depressing point in my life, the flirtatious smiles and nip slips in that hellhole were the only things that kept me going.

The neighborhood dive go-go bar is not the place to go for the glamorous pole dancers of a traditional strip club. You’ll mostly find three types of women there:

1) MILFs

Most of these ladies seem to be strippers who got too up in years for the regular strip joint. Look for C-section scars, stretch marks, and seduction.

2) Immigrants

If you don’t like the mature women from group #1, get ready for girls from unpronounceable countries who don’t understand any English other than “green card.” They’re usually horrible dancers.

3) Weirdos

These are the girls that are either too weird or too ugly to ever dance in a traditional strip club. But they’re fun in the way that watching a horror movie is fun.

Rodentia (name changed to protect the ugly) was the weirdest weirdo I ever encountered in a go-go bar. Standing at just under 5 feet in her heels, she wore a sparkly blue one-piece bathing suit with a thong in the back that made her look like she had just finished posing for the Mutants Illustrated swimsuit issue.

She was a stupendous dancer. While onstage, her horrendous dental flaws and buggy eyes were outshined by her fantastic pole work and fit body. I’m a sick bastard. From the second I saw Rodentia I knew I had to get a lap dance from her.

What I didn’t count on was how much Rodentia would like me.

She sat me down in the private dance booth, set the timer for four minutes, and jumped at my face like a rabid sewer rat. My entire world was jagged teeth and bad breath as Rodentia kiss-raped me, forcing her tongue down my throat for the first minute or so of the dance. The first bit of relief I got was when her face disappeared as she buried it in my neck, slurping and licking hungrily.

When she finally got her fill of my face she actually started the lap dance. She started big, sitting on her knees on my lap, pulling herself up on my neck and coming down in a full split. Now I was getting what I paid for: a private acrobatics session from a leathery-skinned rat/woman hybrid.

In between crazy demonstrations of dexterity, she talked to me while she stuck her tits in my mouth. She detailed her workout routine, which involved lots of yoga and, from the looks of her teeth, chomping on bricks and broken glass.

But I wasn’t done. “Four minutes to save the world” was nearing its end, I was down 20 bucks for the dance, and I was pretty sure I had hepatitis from locking lips with the rat queen. It was time for the big finish.

Rodentia was standing between my legs, facing away from me (thank god). I grabbed her hip with one hand and put my other hand on her upper back. She let out an “ohhh!” as I bent her over in front of me. Flexible as a contortionist, she folded over like a closing book.

I pulled her thong away from her ass crack and pulled her butt cheeks apart, gazing upon the anus of the rat-faced tiny dancer who had taken a liking to me. Time slowed. The seconds felt like weeks as I pondered one of the strangest ironies of the universe. Why would a woman with such a scary face have such a lovely starfish? The spell was broken when I noticed the laughter. It seemed that Rodentia was amused and turned on by my bold examination of her better side. I looked down at her upside-down face between her legs, giggling at me like a gerbil on Molly.

A minute later Rodentia led me out of the private booth, smiling like she had won some sort of Latino prize. I was covering my mouth to hold back laughter that finally exploded immediately after I left the bar.

Most times when I got private lap dances, it was for normal horny-guy reasons. But I had the devil in me that day. I asked Rodentia to dance because I knew it would be frightening, entertaining, and would make for a good story.

I was right. TC mark

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