Milf diaries part 2 — Lies, more lies and lap dancing

Kitty Valentine
Jul 23, 2017 · 31 min read

As a child, we are always taught not to lie. Honesty is the best policy and so on.

The internet is full of quotes from George Washington to Mark Twain as to why we should always tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

My parents instilled in me a fine sense of right and wrong from an early age and lying was definitely on the sad face side of the sticker chart pinned up on the fridge.

So consider my constant disquiet at having to now base my whole life on a web of lies. I have a minimum of three different names, two different disguises, at least four jobs and a plethora of marvellous ways to deflect and divert any conversation that may come close to probing anywhere near the truth.

Now before you get all righteous on me and say just go and get a ‘normal’ nine to five job, one not involved in the sex industry where I am required to cover my tracks at every turn and lie to all those around me, I have been ‘normal’ in previous lives. I have a degree, I have run three of my own businesses and have been very successful in making my way in the world. However, I have also been very unlucky. Unlucky in the medical sense as well as unfortunate in other ways. Without asking for sympathy (no violins required) I have had periods of incapacity due to physical issues that required nearly seven years out of work (with no pay and only parental support to keep my ass off the streets). I am now burdened with chronic migraine, a condition which results in over fifteen days of migraine a month making me virtually unemployable by any normal standard. How else can I bring in the dough and pay the rent but be creative in any which way I can? If these ways have ended up in me spending much of my days wearing nothing but lingerie then so be it.

So my disguises are required, to protect those I love and to defend myself from the judge and the jury that are too quick to criticise, hate and form an opinion on what sort of person I could be.

The image of my parents faces often haunt me as I imagine them finding my adult images online, having been told by someone at the golf club just what sort of ‘modelling’ their daughter is doing these days. Or the horror of them finding my twitter page and linking to my webcam site to discover my secret world of sordid entertainment for men.

The twilight world of the modern day online ‘peep show’ where I encourage my audience to ‘wank themselves dry’ or tell me their deepest darkest taboo fantasies while I watch them live via their webcam link. I tell ma and pa them that I am an online PA, and I am typing up memo’s and taking phone calls for a ‘virtual receptionist’ firm. In that respect, I am actually not lying. I AM taking phone calls, just ones where I give jerk off instruction instead of messages for the chairman of the board.

An even bigger dismay would be if they learnt that their daughter, whom they come and have tea with on a Sunday afternoon, would kiss them goodbye and then dash in the shower, carefully do her hair and make -up and then drive to do an outcall to make sure she can buy food and petrol for the week.

On the flip side, I am self-sufficient. I harm no one and I pay my way. I also make an awful lot of people ‘happy’ in their own way too.

The first time around when I faced the predicament of no work and a cash shortfall I embarked on my first adventure, living a double life and honing the skills of covering my tracks and hiding the truth to those around me.

Fatally I saw the film Striptease with Demi Moore. The film itself was pretty fatal in itself, box office wise. I think the fact that we saw Demi’s tits were the only thing that saved it, to be honest. It certainly wasn’t Burt Reynold’s disgraceful blond toupee that’s for sure.

Like everyone else though, I utterly intoxicated with her first scene on stage in the club.

Annie Lennox, ‘Money can’t buy it’ pumping in the background. Blue haze surrounding her as she flips her head under the trilby. Her cheekbones sharp. Eyes piercing as she struts with total sexual control to the sound of wolf whistles, stands poised, then flicks the cigarette away before she rolls those hips rounds and swoops the infamous gold pole.

‘My angel’ he whispers ‘my angel.’

I was hooked.

The power.

As she straddles the tie and works it between her butt cheeks I hit the rewind button. Over and over again.

Believe it or not, in 2003 the internet was still fairly new stuff… it wasn’t by any means the first port of call for information. The yellow pages was still at least two inches thick!

My first laptop was a high tech, high spec Apple iBook that looked like it was made from jelly with a see through cover and perspex handle. Despite being the epitome of cool, combined with the new broadband AOL, it took a dial up speed of approximately 5 minutes to get on the internet, never mind FIND anything!

After many Yahoo searches (Google had not taken over the world at this point), I discovered the ONLY place in the entire country that did any sort of pole dancing lessons was a club in Mayfair called FYEO (For Your Eyes Only).

Now we have pole fitness, pole angels, pole competitions, pole toddlers, pole on X factor, pole on Britain’s got talent. Pole then was for strippers. It was exclusive for taking your clothes off and synonymous with getting tenners stuffed down your thong, not done in bare feet to tone your midriff with your best mate on a Monday night at the local sports centre.

The price for the course was horrific. Literally hundreds. I had no money. I had to somehow get to London one evening a week for 5 weeks. I had no money. I signed up. I had no money. Speculate to accumulate. Nothing like putting pressure on yourself to succeed. If you are, then you are gonna be hungry to make it work.

Long drive for two hours from Nottingham to London.

I was buzzing though.

It was a divine little club. All plush velvet. Anonymous doors with no signs and discreet acronyms of ‘FYEO’ everywhere. I got the same heady rush I got before all those years ago of sex, taboo and power when I used to hang around Soho when I was a student and was dating a doorman. I found the inner confidence that never comes out to play for any other scenarios.

There were a handful of other girls all squeaking, nervous and giggly. I was probably the oldest by at least ten years.

One mousey little thing called Hannah who was doing it to be ‘more sexy for her boyfriend’ (although I suspect it was going to be a waste of his money). Then there was Suvinda, a mumsy lady closest to my age who was carrying more than a little excess weight but seemed to have a rather exciting looking holdall of garments bulging through the half closed zip, including something that looked suspiciously like red PVC.

Jemma was the most stunning black girl I had seen with a booty you could balance a tray on. She was gonna be earning big money if she took this up as a job I thought….. and lastly, a blond girl called Layla. So far up her own backside, it must have been dark, but if you are that much in love with yourself, I thought, then who needs friends?

Our ‘hostesses’ for the evening were ‘Charlotte’ and ‘Electra’ and of course, they told us the first rule of table dancing was to use an alias and never to reveal your real name or anything about yourself. So from this night onwards, I became the first of my many alter ego’s ‘Alex’.

The dressing rooms of strip clubs are interesting places in themselves and we all piled in with our various bags and cases. They are usually painted black and with a bank of mirrors around the walls and bar stools at formica dressers running the entire length of each side. The lighting is always terrible and you can never see well enough to do your makeup, the toilets are always tiny and the Tampax machine is never working. Period.

Inevitably there is a collection of shitty dance shoes on the bottom of a forlorn broken hanging rail somewhere in the corner for the girl that forgets her pair and a few lone dresses that have been abandoned or ripped. Stripper’s shoes were once very expensive and difficult to get hold of. Not so much now as you can buy them cheap as chips off Ebay.

I mean stripper’s shoes as in the perspex heeled platform version that make you look six feet tall with ridiculously shapely legs and don’t come flying off at the first spin of the pole.

Sadly at this stage I hadn’t been exposed to such delights and could only lust after such decadence (despite their tardiness) and had to make do with my four inch New Look black satin strappies much favoured by a boyfriend who had no doubt spunked over them many times (he had a real thing about Kylie AND strappy sandals, so I was only happy to oblige and stand on the Ikea coffee table while he wanked ….)

We all giggled nervously as Charlotte and Electra suggested we get changed into an outfit we felt comfortable in. The initial email had told us to take something ‘sexy, classy and which you can peel off easily and drop to the floor’.

Again, you have to appreciate that eBay was in its infancy at this stage and I had not yet discovered charity shopping and car boots as the main stay of my dress up wardrobe, so the thought of letting any of my party dresses repeatedly slip to the floor was enough to make me wince.

I spent an afternoon in front of the mirror frustratedly trying on the few garments I had to go with the spunk stained strappy’s, pitifully rolling my hips and trying to lower them seductively to the floor. Believe me, it doesn’t work with that many types of clothing as a surprising number of zips, straps, buckles and design features just are not compatible with rapid removal in a seductive manner…and this, I thought gleefully as I eyed up the other girls ( in particular the anal Layla) was something the others had not thought to practice!

Layla did indeed look rather splendid in her glittery clubbing number with its spaghetti straps and low cut draped cleavage, but I knew from experience in front of my mirror, that she was not going to be able to get it back on over her heels in a hurry.

I eased on my ruched red dipped hem little number from Lipsy. Yes, Layla. Plain I know, as she eyed me in a pityingly, ‘you’re old enough to be my mother’ type of look, but I know how it looks around my ankles darling, and I won’t be tripping over it.

I bent down to fasten my buckle and gave her a view of my tight fit thirty something ass. Nothing like a bit of competition to spur me on to succeed and sharpened my claws while I was down there.

As I stood up I was greeted by both the sublime and the ridiculous. Jemma was a goddess in deep emerald green velvet. My mouth opened in sheer bi-sexual lust as her pendulous breasts swayed gently in a halter neck dress. The velvet stood high at her neck then scooped away at the sides so that it barely contained her sweet and joyous mounds. As I stood up I could almost lick the side of her breast as the fabric cut away towards her stomach and the dress then flowed back to cover her beautiful booty. Full and pert. The velvet caught the light as it barely skimmed under her cheeks to finish in a delicate fluted section that made you just want to accidentally drop something on the floor just so you could peek through your false eyelashes. I was almost light headed with the smell of her perfume (Opium) and the sight of the nap of the velvet rising slightly where her nipples were erect under the fabric. I lingered too long and she brought her hand to her breasts, self-consciously brushing herself of non-existent fluff.

I cleared my throat and flicked my hair then fumbled in my bag for my hairspray before straightening up, turning and getting an eyeful of a fully decked out Suvinda.

‘Do I look ok?’

‘For fuck’s sake!’

‘Oh’ said Suvinda ‘May be not then’

‘Er……’ I tried to recover quickly from the shock

‘Er…… great!’ I squeaked but my voice was a little too high pitched to be genuine.

The large holdall that had made its way in with Suvinda was indeed harbouring some very dark secrets indeed.

What I had suspected might be red PVC had indeed turned out to be pillar box red PVC. A LOT of red PVC. I could smell it. A fresh and heady mix of cheap vinyl chloride. Oh, and a lot of zips. And ruching. And buckles. I caught her at a bad moment I think. Just as she was folding her buttocks into the pants. Full backed pants in red PVC with a zip running under the crotch (for ease of access? For giving birth?) and ruching along the elastic sides. For all the wetness in my crotch caused by Jemma, my pussy all but shrivelled at the sight of the brave Suvinda unpeeling the plastic packaging from the new outfit bought specially for the occasion.

I caught sight of Charlotte roll her eyes at Electra and pull one of those ‘oh my god’ mouths but she forgot there were mirrors on every wall so we all saw it including Suvinda who looked like she was going to burst into tears at any moment.

‘Nice outfit!’ I said a little too cheerfully in a ‘sisterhood’ voice and went over to help with her buckles.

We all teetered our way out in the gloom to stand in front of the small stage. I was fizzing with excitement. There was a lone barman slowly cleaning glasses and he watched with amusement at this assortment of misshapes and wannabes herded together under the ridiculously gamine and elegant supervision of Charlotte and Electra.

The stage was a runway in black shiny crystal that sparkled and shone in the spotlights. It stood at waist height to the rest of the room and had a metal edge, rather like a small picket fence running along each edge, just like you see in the movies.

One end had a red curtain, plush velour flanked by smoke machines and speakers and the other end grew wider in to a circle and in the centre was THE pole, silver and tall, all spotlights trained on it. I thought of Demi in her trilby and longed to swoop around it gracefully feeling the power and the pump of the music.

Bucket seats and tables were spaced around the stage area all with great views of the stage and just the right height for a perfect pussy view, then more intimate booths and seating were created around the walls of the club. High backed plush velour seats with deep button upholstered rests in raspberry red. Tables in black with silver sparkles that looked like diamonds glittering in the mirrors on the ceilings.

The carpet, deep and plush. A true gentleman’s club of Mayfair. I could picture the judges, the lawyers, the husbands, the property men. Illicit. Secretive. What was it within my psyche that made me want to be one of those girls at the club and not one of the wives that waited at home for them?

Charlotte clapped her hands and I heard the scrape of her long red nails as they clasped together and broke my daydream.

‘Is everyone changed and ready?’ she asked, elegantly stepping on to the stage and looking down on us all.

Charlotte was tiny and reminded me of Charlene Tilton from Dallas. All of about 4’8 tall but wearing the highest stripper heels ever.

She had a mane of fluffy blond hair that cascaded down her back and reached the cutest rounded bum possible. Her waist was all of twenty inches but her boobs were all natural and were humungous in comparison. Even on her heels, she was only just as tall as me (a mere 5’5) but her attitude made up for her lack of height. She was and still is the only woman I have seen that could climb a pole in stockings and not end up in the crowd.

Christina Milian ‘Dip It Low’ started to play from the sound system.

‘Says he wants you

He says he needs you

It’s real talking

Why not make him wait for you….’

The lights dimmed to a smoky low and the star lights in the floor of the stage began to pulse to the music.

‘If he really wants you

If he really needs you’

We all stood transfixed as Charlotte suddenly started to sway her hips and walk down the stage.

The long white lycra dress moved against her tiny frame and as she walked backwards you caught a glimpse of her legs as the thigh length split revealed her glossy nude hold ups with delicate silver ribbon tops woven around her thighs and laced at the back.

From where we were standing she looked monumentally tall and with each stride, you could see her panties and the shape of her pussy mound. Just a tiny fraction of white lycra to match her dress then it was gone.

Her eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Head held up and back. Hair swaying against her arse, her heels almost dragging behind her.

Holy fuck.

She slowly unbuttoned the white jacket she was wearing and it slid down her arms where she caught it with one hand and let it fall over the edge of the stage in one movement. Her scent, possibly Stars by Theirry Mugler, fell with it and passed my face like a parcel of perfume.

‘Dip it low, pick it up slow

Roll it all around, poke it, your back broke.’

The music got louder and a surge of adrenaline rushed through me as I watched her reach for the pole and drop to the floor. Her blond hair swept across the black marble and her whole body arched as she swooped round.

‘I’m gonna show you how to make your man say ooooh’

She dipped her boobs to the floor and her arse raised high into the air, her legs wide apart. She pulsed her body in rhythmic waves and my eyes grew wider as my clitoris grew harder. Even Layla started paying attention.

With her shoulders on the floor, she scissored her legs and brought them either side of the pole, grasped it between her thighs and pulled herself upright. I had never wanted to be another woman so much as at that moment in time.

Charlotte proceeded to fuck, buck and dance that pole for the remainder of the track, to an astonished gathering of little misfit’s. Suvinda shifted and sweated uneasily in her PVC. Hannah looked like she was going to cry and make for the door at any moment. I was flitting between masturbation and admiration. Layla was still up her own arse and Jemma was just well… hot.

Electra had seen it all before and happily informed her petrified crowd that after a drink and a pep talk it would be OUR turn! Hoorah!

Much to everyone’s dismay, no alcohol was allowed though, so over a lime and soda we were given the low down on how the industry worked and we were also asked to give a little-potted history of ourselves and why we wanted to do the course.

Christ I thought, it’s like a corporate away weekend. We will be passing the stress ball and building lego towers next. I wasn’t sure whether to lie and make it up or tell the truth. In the end, I told a mixture although I did admit that I was going to try out for a job at the end of it. By the smirk on Layla’s face, this was an error of judgement on my part. Revenge will be sweet no doubt…

‘So ladies, For Your Eyes Only is known as a table dancing club, we are not strippers, ‘began Electra,

Hmmmmmm…. So getting your kit off is not stripping?

‘Here we always keep something on’

Right?

‘We always have a tiny thong on unlike many ‘other’ clubs, which will go full nude’

Ah…. So here we go with technicalities…

She delved down the side of her chair to pull out the smallest sample of lycra, on a thread of shearing elastic.

It was a clit cover. NOT a thong.

‘We have them made in every colour to match our dresses’

Christ. I hope you don’t pay a lot for them I thought….imagining the seamstresses laughing all the way to the bank.

She went on to explain that the big money at their club was made on ‘sit down’s’. Where gentlemen paid a hundred pounds to share a girls company. An hour of their time to sit down and chat and have a drink. The girl may dance for them during this time but they were exclusive to the gentleman for this hour.

I could handle a hundred quid for a chat I thought.

I eyed Layla and my lip curled. You would want a refund if you put your money down on her. Three minutes in and things would have ground to a halt.

She also explained other interesting issues like how, when they were bought a drink from the bar, the bar tender would always ask if it was for a girl and put a straw in it. This way the girl knew there was no alcohol in it. The punter was charged full whack for the drink so the club got the cut. The girl knew the drink was safe because it had a straw in it. The girl didn’t get hammered from loads of alcohol while working. The punter was happy because he thought he was treating his favourite dancer. Win win. Well. Equals win club. Lose punter. Depending on how cynical you want to be.

By this time most of us were itching to get up and give it a go.

Electra suggested that rather than start with the pole which we needed to work up to, we should start with some ‘table dancing’ or rather ‘lap dancing’ which was what the majority of the real work really was.

Most clubs only use a pole for a very short length of time unlike how you see it in the films. In America, guys may stuff panties full of dollar bills but in the UK most girls dance around a pole in succession as an ‘advert’ as to who is on offer. They then mosey around the club in view of the ‘gentlemen’ and wait to be asked to dance (or pounce on guys depending on the establishment). They get a fixed fee per dance track and can be tipped at the client’s discretion.

Of course, there is every variation and corruption on this basic theme. Including the fact that every dance track is cut down by the DJ to less than three minutes. Fact.

Instead of telling us how to do it Electra suggested that we find ourselves a partner and have a little warm up. Loose our inhibitions and give each other a little lap dance just to try it out.

With hindsight, I am sure they did this just for a cruel joke and personal laugh.

Layla immediately made a bee line for the only person she would be seen dead with as a partner and Jemma found herself hauled rather forcefully over to one of the bucket chairs as Madam Leila (her new stage name, oooh how no one is gonna guess that one?!) draped herself over the edge and waited for her entertainment.

Hannah had rather conveniently made for the ladies in her first break for freedom so naturally, that left me and the poly vinyl chloride clad Suvinda.

Oh the joy, I thought as I politely winced and gestured as to which one of us should take the chair first.

All of a sudden my cocky and confident sexual air of taking on the world of ten-pound notes in my thong seemed an awfully long way off.

Electra sensed my unease and suggested Suvinda relax and make herself ‘at home’ while I tease her a little and start the proceedings.

Oh good god. That was if I didn’t pass out on the fumes first.

The music hit a chord.

Oooooh, hang on……. Now we’re talking……

Nelly was getting ‘Hot In Here’.

‘I was like…good gracious ass bodacious…’

Jemma’s ass twitched in time to the beat and so close to Madam Leila’s face that she must have brushed her eyelashes. Charlotte smirked.

It was now or never.

I closed my eyes and sought my inner vixen.

I arched my back (away from the pungent aroma of PVC) and rolled my head to allow my hair to swirl sexily away from my shoulders before brushing my fingers gently down my torso. I parted my legs slightly and rolled my hips before leaning forward and placing both my hands either side of Suvinda on the chair and scooping my boobs up her body and brushing them past her lips and nose.

Oooooh, I was beginning to enjoy myself.

‘It’s getting hot in here…. So take off all your clothes….

I’m getting hot in here, I wanna take off all my clothes….’

I was on a roll by now and despite not really knowing what I was doing, both myself and from what I could see of Jemma in the mirror were getting into things in a good way.

Suvinda was bolt upright and not moving a muscle but didn’t seem particularly upset by the episode. More like she didn’t want to move to put me off or spoil my flow.

I caught sight of Charlotte in the mirror swirling her hand round like she was giving a traffic signal.

I kind of guessed she meant turn around so I obediently but clumsily twirled around and bent over to give Suvinda a bit of my arse. I then saw Charlotte making yanking type movements at her dress.

‘So take it off like your home alone’ sang Nelly

Ok, babe…

And I peeled down that dress like I had done so many times at home in front of the bedroom mirror…. slipping it as gracefully as I could to the floor with a little bum wiggle to move it over my hips.

It was at that precise moment when Nelly was repeatedly getting all hot in there, poor Hannah was brave enough to risk coming back from the ladies, only to walk back into the view of my arse in Suvinda’s face. Akin to the pale moon hovering above an over filled red shiny sausage skin.

I guess if anyone was nervous about the course this would tip them over the edge and indeed it did. Her face crumpled.

She headed back to the toilets closely followed by Electra with a pack of Handy Andy’s tissues.

The music finished and we were left standing in a pool of melted dresses at our feet. My boobs looking decidedly small and white in comparison to Jemma’s dark voluptuous orbs.

‘Bravo!’ clapped Charlotte as we daintily re-dressed. I was determined to be graceful at all times even when pulling up my dress.

‘That was fabulous ladies, especially for your first time! It is really nerve wracking to take your clothes off in front of other people so well done!! Now swap over and let the other lady take a turn’

I smiled at Suvinda but adjusted the chair a little before I sat down just so I had a prime view of Madam Leila before I sat down. Wink wink.

I made myself comfortable. The lights dimmed. I took a deep breath and hoped I could hold it long enough to last the track out because I really didn’t want to have to breathe deeply for a while and be overcome by the industrial odour.

As Suvinda took her position I got the chance to really study her outfit.

Scoop neck. Cut out back. Zip all the way down the front and finished just about at her buttock cheeks. Made for the Chinese market it would have come up small anyway but buying an extra large would have been optimistic for most westerners. The ruching down the bust line was just one feature too many as it pulled the whole line of the top down so any movement, however slight, ran the risk of her boobs escaping either forwards or sideways…. Or heaven forbids BOTH ways.

The zip almost seemed obsolete with this in mind.

Nelly started up and she draped her long black hair over me seductively with a glint in her eye.

Dear God.

My eyes widened.

‘It’s getting hot in here’

You’re not fucking joking.

This is an NON-touching club Suvinda.

The PVC dragged on my cheek. I pressed myself back into the chair and gasped for air.

I caught sight of Madam Leila shaking her chains over Jemma in a queenly fashion and silently begged the God of table dancers to get Suvinda to change position.

Oh, thank goodness.

She gave me her bum. Better than the cleavage anyway. Well. Marginally. A few stretch marks visible under the ruches and it was tempting to try the zip on the panties to see if it really did open and lead anywhere (hold that thought for later) but better than the…

She swivelled round and gave me a full cleavage shot.

Full on hooters at nose height. Like two turkey crowns trussed in a supermarket carrier bag.

With full on pout, vinyl lip gloss layered to the max, and with every blink a cascade of glitter from her Rimmel Stars eyeshadow she began to unzip the puppies. I watched with mounting apprehension as gravity began to win the battle of the flesh and out they slithered, first the right and then the left. Like udders of an overbred heffer. Almost hitting my lap I felt the heat of her skin and the hardness of her nipple.

My cheeks began to suck inwards to resemble a startled sea horse but fortunately Nelly had her in ‘the zone’ and she clambered upright almost grazing my lips with the hair of the nipples as she straightened up.

Oh my god. What did I just say?!

Yes, I did just say that…..

Double take.

In the gloom dearest God my stomach clenched as I stared in utmost horror at the straggler hairs sprouting from around each of her nipples! Agh. Sweet Jesus. Her dark nipple sagged slightly under the dim lights of the club and the faint squeak of the PVC could be heard above Nelly as he got very hot in there. Survinda’s hips ground round in circles above me. The elastic and buckles stretching and contracting like a French accordion.

I bit my lip. Hard.

Sure enough, her dark areolas were surrounded by sprouting straggling wavy pube like thick black single hairs. As the lights shone through their myriad of disco colours; blues, greens and reds I was treated in all their crispy glory to the length of their spidery legs as they waved and danced at me. Lurching and swirling and blowing in the breeze.

I tried to avoid her gaze and glance to the led stars studded in the mirrored ceiling instead but I found my gaze shadowed by her curtain of thick dark hair that folded over my face like a brothel curtain. It smelt of a mixture of Timotei shampoo and a fry up. (She later told me that she and her husband ran a transport café on the way to Southend). I have to say that one experience put me off Timotei shampoo for life and fried eggs for a while at least…

Nelly hit the chorus again

‘It’s getting hot in here…. Let’s take off all our clothes…’

And thank God she changed tempo, flipped her head back in true stripper style. The full mane of hair grazed my eyeballs but at least I didn’t have to focus on the spider legs anymore.

It’s a wonder the puppies didn’t knock her out at this stage as the momentum of the backwards movement virtually launched them over each shoulder and had her teetering momentarily on her precarious six-inch metal spiked platforms (also in red and probably from the same sweat shop in China). The writhing had just begun again and she was beginning to turn her buttocks my way as the music started to fade and Electra and Charlotte began to clap lightly with their fingertips.

‘Bravo ladies!’ clapped an encouraging Charlotte.

‘You did soo well!’

‘Yes!’ squeaked Electra ‘ I can’t believe you haven’t done this before! You all look so professional!’

‘Er hello?!’ I thought ‘How closely WERE you watching?!!!’ although it was nice that they were so encouraging so early on.

We all tottered over the to the bar for a drink and Electra suggested we gather around the stage again in ten minutes for a session on the pole.

We had all relaxed a little now and I felt quite sexy as I sashayed over. Life becomes a little surreal in a bar or club after hours and I got the same excitement and sense of naughtiness I got all those years ago with Tom my boyfriend at the time and doorman of the West End. We used to have ‘lock in’s’ and after hours parties in the clubs of Soho and the bars around Shaftsbury Avenue. Life always seemed a little tarnished and sleazy once the punters had gone home. Rough around the edges. A little dangerous and unknown. The music has stopped and you can access all areas, behind the velvet curtains leading off the public areas to the sticky concrete floor of the storage room and the silver drum beer kegs, the dented lockers and the scratched stainless steel work surfaces of the kitchens. Everything has been shut down and put away, closed up and put to sleep.

‘There among the Woodbines and the Guinness stains’ a line from one of my favourite poems by Brian Patten seemed to forever sum it up for me.

My limbs were tingling and every touch of my fingers on my own skin felt erotic and sensual as I stood sipping the cool sparkling tonic from my glass. The lime was sharp on my tongue and the ice clinked gently against the wet glass as I licked my lips with heightened sensations. I watched Charlotte head for the stage steps once more and a deep sigh, like liquid syrup, melted from the speakers as Kylie’s voice started to pour from the sound system

‘Like chocolate, Taste’s so good,

My heart’s been mended who’d have thought it would,

An empty bet and still I won the cash,

A man who I love and who,

Loves me back’

We all turned, mesmerised as Charlotte strode to the pole with long shapely legs, placing each directly in front of each other to emphasise her hips and her walk. She reached the pole and twirled neatly underneath her own arm. The movement was fluid and elegant. Her back arched and her shapely arse and boobs silhouetted against the spotlights giving an infinity loop of heavenly curves.

She parted her legs and dropped to the floor in exactly the same position. Her blue eyes fixed on us as we watched spellbound. The uninitiated wannabe’s on a mission to corrupt ourselves and every other man we should ever come in to contact with.

Her hair fell tantalisingly in front of her face, her glossed lips the last thing being obscured before she dropped forward in one fluid movement of blond hair and tight rounded ass cheeks. Then like a prowling lioness she crawled along the stage in an orgasmic ripple of taught shimmering satin fabric clinging to perfect curves. Every time Kylie exhaled on a note Charlotte dipped her body and arched her back so we found our eyes and heads were drawn in a never ending movement of sensual fluidity. It was like watching a Chinese dragon rising and falling in sexual arcs that you wished would never end. Mixed with the glint of the mirrored floor that sparkled with cosmic blues and greens beneath her and the mirrors above reflecting the lights of silver and red in her luminescent hair she was, for that second at least, the most transfixing and beautiful sexual object I had ever laid eyes on.

I had no doubt in that moment that women were indeed the most powerful beings on earth when their sexuality was unleashed.

And I wanted to be just like her…

My first attempt, however, ended somewhat disappointingly. Rather too desperate to perform after this amazing erotic introduction we all trooped on to the stage. We were still minus a sniffling Hannah who had gingerly emerged from the changing rooms, without her sparkly dress and had been persuaded to sit by the ever diplomatic Electra on the front row and watch, rather than make for the exit.

To be honest I would rather her pissed off home because a dishevelled mousey twenty two-year-old sitting in an after hours club, with makeup which had rearranged itself down her cheeks, as our audience, was not going to make me feel like the sex diva I was meant to portray.

To make matters worse she had changed into what one could only call a pair of artist’s dungarees. Those shapeless canvas all in one things you pick up from the army surplus stores when you are a student and team with a pair of knackered doc martins that you found on Brick Lane market for a fiver. I tried to ignore her but she insisted on sniffing loudly and I just hoped they would put Kylie, Queen of erotica back on. I also stood so that a spotlight dazzled my eyes and all I could see were the turn up’s of her hideous trousers.

Charlotte ran through our routine which consisted of walking the runway to the beat, slowly and confidently. We should pause at the end and make eye contact with as many ‘benefactors’ as possible (liking the word ‘benefactors’ as this implied money but in a posh way) and then twirl elegantly under our arm, back against the pole and slide to the floor. Much as Charlotte had done. We were then to attempt the cat crawl back up the catwalk….

‘Right…. So who fancies having a go first?!’ she looked round with her delicate hands clasped together making her voluptuous boobs rise like two perfect spheres.

The other girls all turned in unison to look at me.

I caught the reflection of myself gaping in the back of mirrored bar wall just above the Moet and Chandon sign.

No time to ponder. Kylie struck a beat and Electra gave me that ‘off you go’ little nod that made her spheres jiggle with encouragement.

I listened to the beat and tried to ignore the dungaree turn ups to my left as I took one small step in my New Look strappy’s and one giant leap in my career for mankind.

Kylie soothed my nerves and I concentrated on the lyrics.

‘I thought no one could ever get me high again’

One thing you have to know is that in any strip joint, lap dancing club, gentleman’s club, pole dancing club — whatever title you give it, they will always cut the dance tracks to a specific time of two or three minutes. I hadn’t realised this and most guys never catch on either. It’s less to do with stopping the poor girls getting tired but more to do with stopping the poor guys getting bored and fleecing them of more money. Capitalism darlings. Turnover.

I minced to the pole rolling my hips in nothing short of a gay man’s swagger. Hips forward, toes pointed, one hand on my hip and the other holding and imaginary tea cup. I grasped the pole gratefully and forgot which way to turn so paused for a little too long turning left and right while I pouted and made eyes at my imaginary Russian millionaire benefactors. I decided to turn right under my arm just as Kylie made the chorus

‘If love were liquid it would drown me…’

God, it looked like I had actually done it on purpose.

A surge of confidence flowed through me for a joyous second until I realised the next move involved parting my legs and dropping to the floor with my knees bent and my legs wide.

Hmmm. The first step at improvisation lets see if it works with your legs together as the red Lipsy dress was way too tight to allow for the parting to make it 3.45 pm on the clock face….

I shimmied down the pole with my knees together

‘in a heart shape melt around me and then melt me slowly down’

Oh, the timing….

So beautiful with the music then so painful as I felt the heat in my quadriceps and the tension from those heels coupled with the movement stretching those muscles beyond their capabilities. Obviously, the reason you don’t do with legs together then! I winced and my stomach lurched before I sighed with relief and bent forward to take the pressure off.

With a distinct lack of grace, I crawled into the cat pose and began to try and ripple my body like Charlotte.

Refusing to let a small matter of a torn muscle get in the way of my debut performance I ignored the searing pain and recalled her technique of bringing her knee and hand together on the same side of the body which created the super sexy dip. Oh yeah…. Here we go as I grazed my left boob along the marbled floor, and down on the other side, swooping low and sliding my leg out as I dragged my foot seductively along the floor. I was loving it.

I could smell the slightly odd odour of sweaty feet (strippers’ feet are not a sexy smell), cheap perfume and tobacco as I slid across the stage and my gaze swept from side to side as I licked my lips and breathed heavily feeling my whole body respond to the music.

I caught sight of Madam Leila glowering at me from under her eyelashes, desperate for me to slide off the stage in a miserable heap of thirty something hormonal failure.

Oh no Leila….

I leant against the pole and arched my back, breathing deeply as I let my fingers trail down my closed eyes, over my lips and down my breasts, the light from above just catching the glimmer of perspiration as it shone on the dip of my collar bone.

Reaching over my head I felt the cool of the metal and the reassuring grip as I grasped the pole and dipped gracefully underneath my arm to place my knee around it. I couldn’t yet revolve around it but I rubbed myself up and down the long coolness, feeling it against my cheek, while Kylie sighed and began to melt.

My own world, wrapped around this cool piece of metal. My eyes closed. In time with the beat. My pussy pressed against the hardness and my leg twirled around the steel like a serpent, ending with my satin stiletto.

I had reached my Nirvana.

I had passed over to the dark side. A strange force had taken over my sexuality and I felt more powerful a woman that evening than I had ever felt. You sometimes transition over pivotal moments in your life and this was one of mine. Just like the Windmill Club in Soho all those years ago. A clarity descends over you and you realise you are stronger and more powerful than you ever imagine.

Many people would criticise me for what I was doing. I would not be able to share it with many people and much of society would still label me a whore. However, for me, it was giving me wings. It was setting a big part of me free. To be who I was and allowing me to express a part of me that felt totally natural and uninhibited. It was pure joy.

Kitty Valentine

Written by

The life and times of an extraordinary forty something…. upstanding member of the local Women’s Institute moonlighting as cam girl, porn star and escort

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