Just cuz she dances go-go

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by RTFQ, Oct 11, 2005.

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  1. RTFQ


    ...it don't make her a ho, no.

    Strip joints. There must be more to life, but I can’t for the life of me think what that would be.

    The first time I ventured into one, I was at the trembling age of 18 and 14 days. That’s an awkward age for a bloke to be, as you try to convey an aura of experience and worldly knowledge to your peers - all the time aware that the only tangible life-skill you’ve actually learned so far is the ability to undo a bra single handed.
    At the time I would have been hard pressed to identify the clitoris with one of those metal telescopic pointers, but when a bunch my mates from training started proclaiming that we were “going to the strip club to get some pussy” I acted cool and went with the flow. When you’re 18, acting cool and going with the flow bizarrely means becoming slightly Jamaican, bending your knees, moving a hand to an area near (but not touching) your groin and saying “yeah, cool” in a manner that belies the fact that you have seen exactly 3 naked women in your entire lifetime. And that includes your mum and the time you stumbled in on your mate’s mum when she was having a shower.

    We’d stopped to get some cash from the hole in the wall; to be honest the whole issue of money worried me. Sandhurst myth had it that a bloke from Blenheim Coy had spent a night in a similar establishment that had resulted in his being escorted to the ATM by large men of diverse ethnicity to withdraw £1500. I got paid £375 per month at the time, and that’s not in Old Money, so I was beginning to ponder my chance of surviving the night. The one member of our party who had previously been anywhere near strippers was loudly proclaiming the wealth of his knowledge, like some fat ginger kid at a theme park who knows where all the best rides are. My confusion was compounded by the fact that I misheard his advice that we pay the girls by putting folded notes in their thongs (due to the fact that he was striding meaningfully ahead and I was still trying to walk like an unconcerned Jamaican at the back). I spent the entire journey there thinking that I had to poke the notes inside the girls. Too much beer and too few years under my belt began to really take the shine off the evening. I was in a very un-Jamaican cold sweat by the time we reached the club.

    We descend into what my C of E guilt was trying forlornly to portray as the 7th pit of hell. C of E guilt is like an effeminate version of catholic guilt. It doesn’t actually stop you doing anything, or feel bad for doing it - but when I’m around old people and people in cardigans I get flashbacks of the time I smothered Jenny Mc*****ty in Ben & Jerry’s and left dodgy stains on her parents’ carpet. It’s like PTSD and I blame one or all of the 4 times I went to church as a child. We pay our entrance fee and walk into the main bar like a squad of intergalactic soldiers walking into the cavernous nest of homicidal aliens: agape, huddled together and with weapons pointing outward.

    My ‘naked women seen’ figure immediately became multiplied by, erm…lots. One of the ladies walked up to me and introduced herself in much the same way as a Lioness introduces herself to a lame Widlebeest. Her name is ‘Sapphire’. “Cool name” says I, sounding more Welsh than Carribean. My ‘number of life skills learnt’ figure doubles as I buy a simply breathtakingly stunning woman a drink for the first time in my life. I’m still blissfully unaware of how all this works, and my newly-promoted 18 year-old brain is trying to work out how I’ll get back to RMAS from her apartment at the end of the leave weekend. The pathetic nature of my lust is dispelled as the bar lady (‘Skye’ – “You guys have all got such great names” says an RTFQ who still really isn’t with the program so much) charges more than a day’s wages for the drinks. As I pay, I notice the platoon of gorillas overseeing the business with a latent air of violence.
    With my life skills increasing by the minute in that place, I realise I’m out of my depth and explain to ‘Sapphire’ that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. How I miss those days – ten years later and, if I were to say that to a woman nowadays, it would immediately be followed by the screaming sound of a burning spitfire headed for the ground. Back then it was hugely endearing. ‘Sapphire’ takes it upon herself to educate me on how to ogle naked, gyrating chicks. As it turns out, I’m a bit of a natural. A brief, confused look plays across her face as she tells me never to touch the ladies unless invited to (good advice generally, I’ve since discovered), to which I reply: “But how will I put the money in you?” She lets it lie and soon, the whole lap dancing experience becomes clear. She commented that my big sh1t-eating grin and joyous tear running down my left cheek made a welcome change from the sullen, almost menacing leers she normally got from young lads. I’m so impressed that I extend an offer to dance for her, which she accepts with the caveat that should I take one piece of clothing off, the bouncers will remove me and rearrange my significant features – a warning that has since been repeated to me prior to numerous weddings and a christening.

    Even better was that once I was done and I bought her what seemed remarkably like a post-coital drink, she brought over ‘Daisy’, who had started work that day after her training course (they do a course!). I ended the evening with a dance from the recently TOS girl; two newly deflowered youngsters feeling their way through the grubby world of vice and sin. It was beautiful.

    I spent the rest of term 1 secretly wanting to jack it all in to run my own lap dancing bar. “RTFQ’s” would look good in neon eh?

    Come on then, let’s have your lap-dancing stories, and don’t you girls start gobbing off, I’ve taken more than one woman to a quality establishment on Tottenham Court Road who had a whale of a time.
  2. ... what about 'Tiffanys' in Aldershot then.
  3. RTFQ


    Tiffany's is not a gentleman's establishment. It's a pub where a few ropey birds get their kit off every so often. I'm talking about the quality purveyors of fine dancing and astounding pole-centered gymnastics, not poorly disguised, pox-ridden knocking shops. Although they speak highly of you. Sorry, let's not start that again...
  4. Diamond Lils and Ace of Clubs in Plymouth, Lils shut down ages ago but I believe Ace is still going strong, spent many an evening in both establishments in my youth and very educational they were! :lol:
  5. ... I would call you a scaley-dicked, languid donkey member, who rims goats and fcuks fat chicks, but I won't as some people may get upset and start the oestrogen tsunarmi again. - Although glad they remember me - it is nice to still be appreciated after all this time...

    ... so you've been to Tiffanys then... <boik!>
  6. Sin Bin - first encountered in late 83 and never to be forgotten. Always remember a lovely red headed lady dancing away to Christopher Cross' Sailing.

    She was also able to get into the fantastic position of being able to lick her own arrse (double jointed maybe?) and I remember feeling extremely jealous. I would have loved to do the same to her as a favour and with no charge.
  7. simply the best lap dancing bar i've ever been in was a place called "nemo's" in Prague.

    stuffed to the gills with jaw droppingly gorgeous eastern european types, with legs that simply went all the way to ... er... their hips ..

    i had a serious "waynes world" moment in there (you know the bit where garth sees the babe and jimmy hendrix proclaims "foxy lady" ) ,as this sylph like goddess clad in not much, with those strappy ankled high heels that REALLY do it for me, i could of sworn someone was pointing a wind machine at her to billow out her long blonde hair
    as she approached me ... never losing eye contact i felt myself begin to unexplainably blush ...

    " you like the way i dance for you" she said to me seductively

    "yes" .. i squeaked

    "perhaps for you would like to take me upstairs in here and make with the f ucking with me " she said

    "..es" .... i squeaked again.

    and the rest my friends is stored deep in the recesses of my grubby little mind for those lonely winters evenings :D
  8. ahh the Sin Bin, don't forget Cheetahs though! Apropos the tale above regarding escorting individuals to ATMs have had to assist brothers-in-arms in jordan on their way to or from Iraq... As for London try For Your Eyes Only, owned by a friend and "soldier friendly" - perhaps we should visit on the 3rd of december?
  9. maninblack

    maninblack LE Book Reviewer

    The Rocket Club in Birmingham city centre.

    Most excellent, fifteen quid and a hoop inches in front of your nose........allegedly....so I was told....errr.
  10. OK, I’ll bite, here’s my story.

    The army decided one day, all of a sudden, that I was going to be a leader. I remember the ‘phone call well, I was on leave but was informed by the voice on the other end to get my arrse down to Catterick ‘you are going to be a leader'. I wasn’t best pleased, I was between postings and had all sorts of things planned which mostly included alcohol, women and spending my money as quickly as I could.

    I packed my kit and it was with a heavy heart that I headed to sunny Yorkshire. For the next 4 weeks we were thrashed to within an inch of our lives – mentally and physically before being informed that we were to go on some ‘adventurous training’ – in the lakes.

    We gave each other that bemused look, you know the one where you know that something isn’t quite right! We duly arrived at the campsite – in the middle of nowhere – and spent the first few hours erecting, what can only be described as a tented city, there was only about 30 of us FFS! The DS that arrived with us were there for the first of about 20 consecutive camps and needed a bit of luxury to see them through. Us potential leaders were the ones chosen to provide that luxury (lazy barstewards – they should take the hint that because they’re employed as part time civvies that they can’t do the real job they were signed up to do and as such were an official waste of rations).

    No sooner were we finished than we headed up the mountain, quite scary going across striding edge when you looked down both sides you could see the clouds below! Quite typical for May the local Sherpa informed us!! What wasn’t typical though was the snow that duly chucked down on us – in our tents – in the middle of May – in the Lake District. The camp went on for an incredibly long time, amazingly it was officially only 4 days at the end of which we were called together to receive a briefing.

    We were to embark on an initiative weekend – we had until Sunday night – with no money and wearing the rancid clothes in which we stood to accomplish a set of tasks. It was an individual effort and we were each given a primary task, additionally we had to complete as many of the other tasks as we could – and remember, the course staffie shouted out as we bomb-burst’ed out of the place, ‘with style and panache’. I emergency halted and checked by profile in the nearest muddy puddle. I looked like sh!t, dressed like a tramp, unshaven for 4 days, dirty due to a complete lack of running water and without a penny to my name – oh stacks of fvcking style and panache!!

    Once out of view of the camp I immediately met up with my oppo whom we I was going to individually do my tasks with. ‘What have you got?’ he asked as I remembered the brown envelope clutched in my grubby mit. I nervously tore it open and pulled out the sliver of paper inside, my heart froze as I read it. ‘You are to interview a stripper’ (pheeeeeew!, you wondered when I was going to get to this bit).

    My life flashed in front of me, although older than RTFQ, I was still terrified at having to encounter a brazen woman, I was only used to those types that laughed at my jokes as I plied them with drinks on leave with a fistful of BAOR LOA in my local boozer. We headed towards civilisation (basically any direction was civilisation compared to our current location) and through blagging ended up in Northampton (my oppo had a sister there and she gave us a wad of dosh which we had to repay by the following week). We went to zoos to clean elephants, blagged a flight in a light aircraft, were interviewed by the local radio station even took confession and read the sermon in the local church.

    The moment came when it had to happen, down to the local working mens club to interview the lunchtime entertainment. I was bricking myself, she did her turn and we headed backstage. She was worse than gopping, stretch marks are just so off-putting on a large middle aged black lady with a daft accent. My stomach churned the whole time. She got right into it though, offered us a freebie – quickly declined and as we left to go she reached over and kissed me full on the lips, I nearly chucked up there and then but held on bravely. She shouted – ‘ere, you’ll need these to prove it’ and threw me a pair of her drawers, big feckin g string affairs with a skid mark.

    Linford Christie couldn’t have beat me as I exited the joint – still gives me mares decades (Christ – was it really that long ago?) later.
  11. RTFQ


    Oh come now Shortfuze, you've got to play hard to get otherwise you're just being exploited.

    The correct answer to
    "umm, dunno, have you got any friends who would like to join us?"

    You're not a piece of meat man!
  12. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhh the seedy world of strip clubs and lap dancing:

    1975 1st yrs of my apprenticeship was over I could sally forth and get a job in a LONDON Hotel for 6 wks. Me and Basher E got ourselves a gig with a large hotel in Park Lane, called, Park Lane. After a 2 week stint of split shifts, 18hr days and being called cnut in a number of languages by very large chefs holding pointed metal things, (during my 2nd yr I found out they were called knives and that I should have bought a set at the beginning of the 1st yr), we got paid. Oh yes we got, wait for it, £68.78 for two weeks, before deductions, and there seemed to be a lot of them. We spent the lot in one day of drinking and watching top class strippers in the Moulin Rouge, now sadlly closed.

    Me and Bash decided to celebrate by taking ourselves of to Soho for the day, and thereby I became addicted to watching young ladies taking their kit off for money. We were guided around Soho by an Irish Pastry chef called Danny. Danny knew every illegal drinking club, whore and dealer of whatever you required at that time, thereby I have never experienced the delights of being marched to the bank to collect the £250.00 you owe George from the Archer Street club, or the Flamingo. I have always kept to the same two clubs:

    Sunset Strip in Dean street, and the Sunset Boulevard in Berwick street, both safe but noooooooooo lap dancing.

    It would seem to me that the quality of stripping has declined rapidly in recent years and now, with the advent of pole dancing, the art and the 'tease' has disapeared.
  13. Ahh I only recently had my first experiance of such an establishment, slightly more CofE guilt than RTFQ mixed with a fear of the matriarch of my family had kept me from such places.

    So I enter Purple Door in Hull, with a non plussed air, followed by numerous innocent freshers. I'm not there to have a lap dance I'm confident.

    I go sit by some of the ladies and strike up a conversation. The lads all seem to have taken great interest in the hair on the back of their hands. Shocked I drum them into action, with Fatty boy McFats even having one (although with the ugliest stripper there). I felt good, I'd made sure the lads had a good time and the ladies made money.

    Then I made a fatal error. I chose to have one myself. It was all rather stimulating and... well let's be honest it's dirty filthy but so very good. For £10 it was a bargain, i paid with a 20 and kept one in the bank.

    Another lap dance later I was quickly heading towards legend status amongst these innocent lads. A wiley older, but still attractive, stripper asked me if I'd like a dance. I was trapped. I felt it would be rude to say no and that I wanted one with another lady, flashes of making this lady feel old and inadequate came through my mind.

    So I accepted. She made up for her 30ish age with a LOT of gusto.

    Then I met the temptress in a lepard skin bra and panty combo. I was lost. My card was put to use. By this time I was getting concerned looks from my friends. Especially as most people had moved on to the nightclub nearby. Oh no I continued.

    It all ended in a marathon £60 splurge where I just told her to keep going and going.

    Did I regret the bill in the morning? No. Did I regret the odd looks every nubile young fresher in the place gave me for a week after. Maybe a little.

    My greatest regret was that I was later told for the end amount I spent I could have had 3 strippers all doing their thing for me, for half an hour, in a private room. Missed opportunities. :(
  14. RTFQ


    Had a fairly matriarchal moment myself during an impromptu stolen weekend in London while based in BFG. Friday was spent in a certain club that catered for the debonair young man-about-town. My card was exchanged in return for a display of some skill by a flexible aussie girl. Not for me you understand, but for a mate whose bithday it was. Card comes back with a curt "it didn't work" from an angry looking man wearing a dyed 12x12 instead of a dinner jacket. Mate pays for his own present and we leave - I was a little bemused as with the LOA and consecutive duties I had recently pulled had ammassed a sizeable amount of pheromones (aka cash) in my bank account. Not 5 steps outside the club, my phone goes. It's my mum: "are you in a strip club in Soho RT?"

    Holy sh1t! Has she developed powers or something?

    "Erm...no mum, I'm still in germany on duty" I must stress that I hadn't been back to the UK for a long time at this point, and was under orders to visit home as soon as i did. Lechery and lying to my own mother - didn't I turn out nice eh?
    "Well your bank just rang - they said they couldn't get through to you - and said your card is being used in something called the "Raymond Review Bar" and I told them it couldn't be you, as you're in Germany, so they stopped the transaction"
    "Good call mum, they must have cloned my card. I'll call my bank"
    "Good idea, any news on when you'll be back in the UK, I can't wait to see you" oh my heartstrings, she's killing me.
    "Hopefully next month mum" I manage through tears of shame.
    "See you later then Love you RT"
    "Love you too mum"

    My mate asks "where to next" to which I slump my shoulders, wipe a guilty tear away and say, I'm calling it a night mate. By the standards of most major religions, I'm going to hell.
  15. Lightweight - you were already off to hell so should have just cracked on. Hope you paid him back for his prezzie?