Milf diaries part 3 — Poles, stags and sticky stuff

I continued with the classes for the next four weeks. Being coaxed and coached by the ever tinkling Charlotte and Electra.

I arrived the following week a little late after a hellish journey on the M1 due to a pile up at junction 4. I grabbed a quick McDonalds at Toddington Services (which I always arrive at in the rain for some odd reason, even now, thirteen years later) and a loo break. I then managed to daub on some makeup while glancing in the rear view mirror at every set of traffic lights between Holloway Road and Mayfair.

By week two we started to progress to spins on the pole and as we marched on to the stage this time we were all feeling a little more confident because we knew what to expect.

It gave me a thrill to be back at the Club.

Even the smell of the stale cigarettes excited me, that and the faint aroma of aftershave and whiskey. The feel of the velour on the booth seating areas with the studded upholstery, the coolness of the leather against my thigh as I brushed past the bucket seats, the low lights as we entered the stage area and the way the marble runway flickered and sparkled when the spotlights twirled and circled overhead.

As a little warm up, Electra suggested we have a brief run through of what we had covered last week. She also wanted to see if we’d had time to practice anything and add to our routines.

I caught sight of Madam Leila’s reflection in the bar mirror and there was a smirk upon her evil Cruella like lips. I bet she killed Dalmatian puppies in her spare time while wearing a pair of velvet gloves.

Suvinda was to go first.

She had obviously been back to the market and enjoyed perusing the cheap Chinese import stall for more PVC because she had upgraded last week’s outfit to a more daring ensemble with what could only be described as having knife slashes all over it. I hoped this had actually been done on purpose or there was something genuinely wrong with the stitching. The gaping holes possibly looked good on the skinny model pictured on the cardboard sleeve from the packet but on Suvinda’s rather pudgy body it only served to squeeze the pudge out of the spaces as she moved, so it presented the onlooker with a rather fascinating and ever moving eye popping feast of protruding flesh.

She had coupled this with a pair of skyscraper heeled shiny PVC stripper boots that were baggy around the thighs and kept sticking together when she walked, creating a perfect health and safety hazard.

She had scraped her hair back in a monumentally high pony tail which was secured with a plastic cone last seen around one of Madonna’s breasts. I do have to admit though, her eyes looked amazing. Her ability to apply liquid eye liner was second to none and I made a mental note to stand next to her in the dimly lit changing room and watch how on earth she managed to paint on such amazing cat eye flicks like that. With her hair pulled away from her face and the long sweep of the blackness it accentuated her deep brown eyes and she looked almost like an Egyptian queen in the land of the Pharaohs.

Well, that is until you looked down below the neckline.

The music began and Suvinda’s shoulders began to rise and fall to the beat. Her head circled to the left and to the right, making her hair swirl in a circle around the silver cone like a helicopter blade. It was actually a mesmerizing effect. As the lights were dimmed she started to move her hips backwards and forwards and ripple her stomach like a belly dancer, slowly lowering herself to her knees. All was looking rather sexy indeed and Charlotte started to clap her tiny hands in delight congratulating herself and probably thinking it was down to the fact that her teaching was just so good!

Even Madam Leila had stopped counting the stars on the ceiling and was counting the rolls of flesh on Suvinda’s body instead.

I felt the cool draft of the air conditioning waft over me and make my skin tingle as I watched her lower those pendulous breasts to the floor in the cat crawl. She had obviously spent the week perfecting the move and to her credit did it with extreme ease and grace. Her buttocks rose like two watermelons and revealed again that the Chinese PVC outfit had come yet again with a lovely matching pair of ruched knickers.

As she turned and started to crawl down the sparkling and shimmering stage in her sexiest and most provocative of feline poses we all took a sharp intake of breath at the same time, which in made it quite audible over the rather loud hip hop dance tune.

Out of the side of her ruched PVC panties hung her tampon string. Bright white against the black plasticized fabric.

Oh. My. Goodness.

My eyes widened in horror.

I heard Electra stifle a small squeak and Charlotte nearly toppled off the stage as she flung her arms back in horror.

Suvinda, of course, was oblivious to our embarrassment and continued to pout and swirl her hair, swooshing it around in an ever quicker orgy of intensity, playing to her imaginary audience of high paying punters.

It was one of those moments when the world seemed to shrink and zoom like a camera lens, wherever you tried to look you just kept getting drawn back to refocus on the string! I couldn’t take my eyes off it as it lurched and danced in front of my eyes.

Everyone else must have been mesmerized because I sensed the uneasy shuffling of glass heels and the twisting of sparkly rings on fingers but no one moved another muscle until she turned at the pole and began to prowl towards us. Then as if a magician had showered us with stardust we shook ourselves free and burst into rapturous applause, a little more animated than perhaps we should have.

Jemma’s voluptuous breasts bounced against her sheer love heart neckline, Madam Leila’s diamante chains rattled in their fixings and even Electra’s delicate clapping could be heard over the boom box of the dance beat. Utterly supportive with sisterly love we clapped her all the way back up the catwalk and majestically she rose to the crowd like the Queen of Mother Nature, just proving to all that no matter what time of the month, you really CAN do it…..

It was the white elephant in the room that was always left unsaid. But with that in mind, one of the first things I learnt when I started to dance as a money earner was that if you want to dance when you were on your period you either tuck the string in or cut it off. Lots of girls never seem to quite get this and stop work when they ‘have the decorators in’. But I simply used my common sense and thought about it.

I did, however, work out that it was easier to cut the string off before you inserted the tampon as cutting it off after it was up your pussy is a little risky!

Men would, I am sure, be totally grossed out by the thought of a girl being on the blob while they were dancing for them. I remember telling one guy years later (a burly builder actually) that this is what I did and he had all on to keep his dinner down, which seemed a little bit of an overreaction, to be honest. Possibly it just spoilt the whole ‘sexy’ illusion for him.

By the end of my six week stint at For Your Eyes Only I was not quite as proficient at stage work than the perfection that was Charlotte, but I could sashay down the catwalk with a modicum of confidence, hold my head high without tripping in a pair of glass (read ‘cheap plastic’ heels which had nearly financially crippled me at a cost of £110 but God, they made me feel powerful) and perform at least four different holds and spins on the sex pole of power which allowed me to create a routine that would last for around three minutes.

While I was floating on this cloud of confidence I decided I needed to strike while the iron was hot and find an establishment that I could tout my wares and possibly earn a pound or two.

Bear in mind at this time in my life my part time ‘day job’ was an arc welder on narrowboats for a local boat builder, I was now heading for a parallel universe alongside Alex Owens in the film ‘Flashdance’. Dirty by day and dirty by night. Incidentally, the choice of name had nothing to do with the choice of my stripper name. As my parents were so straight laced, along with ‘Top Gun’ and all those other films, ‘Flashdance’ was another film I was banned from seeing because it was deemed ‘too rude’.

It was only when I reached the ripe old age of twenty-two that I finally got the chance to ‘corrupt’ myself and watch it!

To be brutally honest my reccie of strip clubs around the Nottingham area came down to a disappointing… one. Situated somewhat dubiously on The High Road. This did not bode well for two reasons. One it was the same road I grew up on. Not the same one in Nottingham town centre, but still I did not want to start my seedy career as a stripper at a club on the name of the same road I spent my childhood on, and two, The High Road in Nottingham has the reputation of inner city deprivation and grunge. Take a walk up the hill and you pass a variety of terraced houses with an eclectic mix of dirty windows hiding greying frilly nylon nets or student duvet covers stapled to the window frames.

In between come a mix of tardy deep fried chicken shops with creative names such as ‘Finger Smakin’ Chikin’ or ‘Chikin4u’ and the ubiquitous kebab shops that have had the shish on the window stake for at least three weeks. Once the heat lamp has melted all the congealed fat again it all looks really tasty and no one really cares about the salmonella because they are all so pissed up on a Friday night from happy hour they will have puked it all down the wall and over their shoes before it has had time to take hold in their intestines anyway.

At the top of The High Road, just beyond the all night convenience stores and flotsam of polystyrene chip cartons, right next to a dull looking chemist and a doctor’s surgery is what looks like a large house with a big conservatory which almost reaches the pavement. Imagine the glass house at Kew Gardens. Right on the main road into Nottingham town centre. Only smaller. Much much smaller. And grubbier. The only thing that made it stand out was that the conservatory part was blanked out in white. And this was the lap dancing club.

I had made a phone call to the ‘proprietor’ who simply suggested I just ‘turn up’ that Friday. This distinct lack of interest in either who I was, what I looked like, any other credentials or prior experience seemed a tad worrying and I knew that this was not really going to be a ‘goer’ as they say. I also had a vivid horror that one of my dad’s golfing friends might well be sitting there with a pint and a hard on. In this instance, I would just be relying on the fact that actually, it would be a catch twenty-two situation. Who would tell first, me or him?!

So I went along on a Friday night. Risking severe bitchiness from the already established girls as the newbie, the potential for my Dad’s golfing buddies to be there and hey ho, just ready to have the experience good or bad, rather than not have the experience at all.

First impressions were not favourable.

The term ‘club’ was indeed a rather grand expression and as I parked around the back between a dented ‘e’reg Ford Focus and an old Nissan Primera on a car park that had grass sprouting from holes in the tarmac, I wondered if I just ought to go home instead.

It didn’t help that the November drizzle had settled in for the evening and the leaden sky was heavy with the aroma of frying chicken wings from the takeaway next door and dope from a group of lads that were leering at me from a nearby doorway, obviously positioned perfectly to heckle the dancers as they arrived.

I’m here now I told myself optimistically and opened the car door.

‘Get yer tit’s out’ one shouted.

‘Fuck off’ I answered. Possibly not the most sensible thing when I had just parked my car in full view of them, but I was not sure reasoning would have worked.

‘Show us yer snatch then’

I rolled my eyes….

I just hoped they were so doped out of their head they couldn’t cause much damage.

I smiled sweetly and pushed the buzzer next to the plain brown plywood door at the back of the building which I guessed must have been the back entrance.

Without asking who I was the door buzzed and I felt it give under my hand then I stumbled into a corridor, on to some sticky old carpet and into a dimly lit back room where an immensely fat guy wearing a stained grey polo shirt stepped out of a tiny office to greet me.

There was barely enough room for both me and him to fit in the room together and I leant back, a)to be able to see him in the darkness, b) to mould myself away from his huge body and spare myself from being crushed against the wall and c) to get away from his B O which was worse than the frying chicken and dope outside.

‘Hi’ I said trying to sound cheery ‘I’m Alex, I think I spoke to you on the phone’ and I extended my hand to try and be polite.

He ignored my outstretched hand and nodded without saying anything, his jowls wobbling and plumes of body odour leeching from his t shirt.

‘Changing rooms are there, thirty quid to dance’ and he cast his eye to the right, indicating another dingy plywood door. I was obviously not going to get a guided tour of the club or an introduction to any of the other girls or members of staff then…..

He held out his hand and leant against the door frame.

Judging by the grey greasy marks on the wood as he rested back his giant head, he did this on a daily basis.

He stared at me. I stared at his lunch on his t shirt. Or was it yesterdays? Probably pizza.

‘Thirty quid’ he repeated.

‘Shit yeah.’ I left my trance and rummaged in my trolley case.

House fee. Never gonna make that back I thought ruefully as I stuffed it into his piggy fat fingers.

I turned and felt my suitcase wheels drag on the sticky carpet as I headed for the changing rooms.

The door banged open, having lost the health and safety fire closure, and six heads turned to look as I walked in.

‘Hi!’ I announced brightly and smiled.

There was no reply.

Just six faces continuing to stare at me. All in states of varying makeup, and on top of varying states of dress.

Not much for chat round here I guessed, as I hauled my case in behind me.

‘Any space?’

One of the girls moved her case up slightly and I decided that the only way to proceed was to bullishly plough on despite the stares.

The changing room consisted mainly of three old dressing tables probably bought from some of the many second-hand shops that grace The High Road and more often seen in your Grandma’s house. They were knackered, to put it bluntly. One was white Formica with padded ballerina panels that had been hacked at in a fit of rage with a pair of scissors and was now covered in mascara marks. The other two were dark brown wood that would have once been quite majestic in the 1960’s but now just looked forlorn and sad.

The mirrors had those green bloom spots that you see in old people’s houses when the damp has started to penetrate their furniture and it just made trying to put your make up on in the gloom even worse.

The light was literally one fluorescent tube like the ones you got in the old fashioned toilets at working men’s clubs. You could be a supermodel and still look like an old dog under those lights. Reflected back from a green spotty mirror I looked as rough as one believe me.

I layered on some more lipstick and took heart from the fact that no matter what, I could not look any worse than the sample that surrounded me.

The six other ‘dancers’ varied in size from a six to an eighteen and none had spoken to me or even cast a glance in my direction thus far.

The skinniest looked barely legal and was dressed in what could only be described as a luminous green string vest. She had a fluorescent yellow thong to match and green leg warmers and arm bands which gave it a 1980’s vibe reminiscent of Lizzie Webb from TV AM. Her nipples protruded rudely from the mesh of the string and gave her an unusual side profile.

From the skinniest to the fattest the largest lady certainly made the most of her very ample bosom. Swinging freely in a boob tube ensemble made of purple lycra she let her boobs hang almost to her hips. Her nipples were enormous. So big I wondered if she was still breast feeding as they were clearly visible and possibly at least a centimetre long, but sadly pointing towards each little toe and not towards the front. Her mane of frizzy blond hair only served to shorten her rather broad neck even more so and this caused her to look more cylindrical than ever.

No one made eye contact with me never mind spoke. They just continued to stomp around the room, drag on their fags, pile on more make-up and actively ignore me.

‘That fucking Gary’ said frizzy ‘if he’s fucking ‘ere again I will die’ she moaned ‘all he does is touch up my arse’.

Christ I thought. He must be desperate.

‘Yeah and that fat bloke’ mumbled lactation (er…pot calling kettle?!) ‘just can’t keep his dick down’

I wondered whether I just should bolt for the door there and then but just at that moment the fat bastard returned and told us to get our lazy arses out on the floor.

I pulled up the straps of my Ann Summers evening gown (I’d found in the charity shop two days before and slit further up to the waist on either side) and followed them out of the dingy room in a fug of cigarette smoke.

The main ‘dancing room’ was nothing more than a conservatory with a few sad leather sofa’s dotted around and black drapes covering all of the windows.

A couple of glitter balls hung forlornly from the centre and caught the flashing disco lights of the DJ, who would have looked just as at home at a bad wedding held down the local pub. He had one of those pulsing checker board front panels to his set up that lit up in time with the music and he held a pair of oversized ear phones to his head like his was some top Ibiza club Classic mixing the latest tunes for The Ministry of Sound.

I made my way over to the bar and was met with a raised eyebrow and a nod from the ‘bartender’.

‘You’re a bit posh for here aren’t you?’ he said with a not unkind smirk, which was the first of many times I heard that phrase that night.

‘You won’t be back then’.

‘I haven’t really got an answer for that have I?’ I replied, a bit stunned, and took out a fiver, gesturing towards a bottle of sparkling water.

‘Shame really’ he carried on ‘we could do with a few more like you in ‘ere’.

‘Is it really that bad?’ I asked, taking a sip through my straw.

He laughed. ‘That’s where I can’t really answer can I?’ but he gestured to the crowd of lads just pushing their way in through the door shouting and singing loudly. They were all dressed as schoolgirls and clearly on a stag do and hammered. I glanced at the clock. It was seven thirty.

By nine thirty I had been told I was ‘too posh for a place like that’ at least seven times and had been groped at least two more than that, despite standing directly under the ‘no touching’ sign.

‘We’ collectively, as a group of ‘dancers’ had carried out ‘strip downs’ of four stags on the ‘electric chair’ and my night was getting a little tedious.

The barman was right. I wasn’t going back.

If you need a quick explanation of a ‘strip down’ by the way, imagine a very drunk stag i.e. young gentleman just about to get married and on his supposed last night of freedom with his well-meaning friends. He could be dressed in any manner of clothing, but on this occasion, we had a schoolgirl, a leprechaun, a banana and an inflatable penis to deal with. The Club, who offer the guys cheap drinks as a special deal to get them in, then get ‘the stag’ up on to the make shift stage and us girls (I talk of sisterhood like I belonged) strap him to a high chair with arm and leg restraints. We give him a saucy little dance and strip for him, rubbing our tits and bums all over, which all seems nice and tame. Then we decide to get naughty and strip him bare too, where most of them start to protest. We then cover them in all sorts of disgusting and sticky liquids such as shaving foam, cream, treacle and glitter, just to wreck their evening! Bonus!!

Most are so smashed they don’t know what is happening and most get lots of lovely photos taken by their friends to show their spouse to be, surrounded by eight or more naked women with their hands all over their todgers covered in cream. Marvelous. I can hear the shrieks already.

Fortunately for me the only thing on my mind that evening was money. Despite the fact that no one other than the guys and the bar man spoke to me, I made some cash and it proved to me that I could walk out with the hard stuff.

As I stood in the shower later I eyed the pile of notes on the floor of the bathroom and vowed to get on the internet and find a classier club. One that looked out for the girls and that at least had a carpet that you didn’t stick to.

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