Strip clubs through the eyes of a horny straight woman

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When we walk in the door of the strip club, I can guarantee that the people his eyes are drawn to are the dancers. The one on stage half-naked, the ones hanging out by the bar flirting with customers, one or two emerging from the curtained-off booths at the back of the room. My eyes, on the other hand, are firmly fixed on the men – him included. There are two things I like about strip clubs. OK, three, but ‘pole dancing is really fun to watch and I appreciate the beauty in someone skillfully flinging themselves around and removing their clothes with dexterity all the while maintaining eye contact with the audience’ doesn’t fit with the theme of this post. So let’s just acknowledge it – strip is badass – then move on to the other two. The first thing I like about strip clubs is that they’re hotbeds of sleazy, horny men. Those of you who might enjoy ‘horny’ could well baulk at ‘sleazy’, which is understandable. Not everyone’s going to feel comfortable fetishising the kind of men who’d leer at you on a night bus. But for me, ‘sleazy’ hits a certain kink I have for men who are desperate to fuck. On this night, as we enter the club, I know the man I’m with understands my kink for ‘sleazy.’ We’ve had a conversation earlier that day about the overall tone of my sexual needs. The ‘ intense, aggressive, pin-me-down-and-hurt-me ’ sex that I love might on the surface feel entirely at odds with the ‘ let me suck your subby dick until you’re whimpering and begging ’ fucks that I also thoroughly enjoy. But although they sit in different places on the power-exchange spectrum, they have one key thing in common: men who are absolutely gagging to get banged. Whether it’s eager, inexperienced nerds begging me to ‘touch it, please just touch it just a bit I promise I’ll be so very grateful’, or dominant powerhouses fully tearing my clothes off and pinning my thighs apart so they can claim me, my kink is for men who are hot for it. Horny, eager, grateful, intense, aggressive, powerful, weak, spunk-laden, trembling, needy, greedy men. Why would straight women go to strip clubs? For me, the answer is ‘these men.’ All of them. Some of them horny and gross, others horny and shy, horny and ashamed of themselves, horny and desperate, horny and willing to spend all of this week’s paycheque on lap dances, horny and in love with one of the dancers, I don’t care: just horny and horny and horny. And they’re sitting everywhere! Like ornamental fucktoys! Decorative little statues with half-mast (or full-mast) erections, under strict instructions to behave themselves or the bouncer will hurl them out. Strip clubs are like theme parks for pervs like me. They’re like haunted houses, except instead of ghosts it’s horny men. Like cat cafés, but instead of purring cats it’s drooling men. Like hothouses full of beautiful butterflies, except instead of examining the colour of this specimen’s wings I’m noting the awkward way it sits when its got a raging rock-on. Strip clubs: let me be your horny tour guide So I took my toyboy to a strip club. And this brings me on to the second thing I like about them. A thing I’m starting to realise might be a significant kink in itself: introducing men to new sexy things. I won’t say that he’s never been to a strip club before, but he has only ever visited one, and that was in America, where everything is flashier and more polished and therefore usually less filth. I didn’t need him to never have paid to see tits to make this jaunt worthwhile, but I very much did want to experience him shuddering with that delicious mix of nervous-excited-horny that shows he’s taking an erotic leap into something a little unknown. Newness isn’t a ‘must-have’ thing: I don’t need men to be virgins when I fuck them, after all, and sometimes being absolutely ruined by someone with years of sexual experience is one hell of a treat but… yeah, I think I do have a kink for introducing guys to Sex Things they’re not used to. There’s a reason I chose Strip Club Expedition as a date idea for this guy in particular. He’s fucked a fair few people, yet somehow manages to maintain a powerful ‘eager virgin’ vibe. He is deeply, simplistically, hotly excited by the chance to see new tits. Terrified of the thought that he might get a boner while he does so. So after multiple check-ins to make sure he was comfortable (“No! Wait I mean yes! Oh God what if I get an erection? What if I cum in my pants? Yes. I’m ready. No! Wait! OK. Yes, I am SO ready. Let’s do it.”) I hauled him onto the tube and we ventured out to a traditional (by which I mean ‘cheap’) Gentleman’s Club. You know the sort of place, right? The person who’s next on the bill walks around with a pint glass into which everyone chucks a quid or two before they start dancing on stage. Americans, take note: this is what we do instead of tucking dollar bills into thongs or what have you. Bills are for private dances and tips, pound in a pint glass before each dance is compulsory. An old friend of mine once went on a stag do to a similar strip club with a guy who claimed he shouldn’t have to pay because he wasn’t looking at the stage, and wasn’t interested. No one looked kindly upon this, because it’s a fucking dick move. It’ll get you kicked out of the club, and hopefully your friendship group too. Brief aside here while we’re talking about being a dick in a strip club. I’m never entirely sure if, as a straight woman, I am welcome in strip clubs. I’ve had a lovely time in most of the ones I’ve been to, and usually no one’s asked me what the fuck I think I’m doing there. But I have heard stories of straight women being monumental arseholes because they think they’re the first lady to ever have braved walking in. Being rude to dancers and bar staff, trying to touch people (‘oh I’m not a danger, I’m a WOMAN’ is the exact thing a fucking DANGER would say, please get out), refusing to put their pounds in, you get the idea. Although I’m a unique and precious snowflake, being a straight woman in a strip club is not what makes me so. We’re not special, straight ladies, chill the fuck out: if this blog post can do nothing else I hope it can show that there’s more than one leering pervert like you who likes watching lads get a lob on in the murky darkness of a seedy club with blacked-out windows. So chill. I’m not a stripper, so I can’t speak from experience, but my rule of thumb for straight women in strip clubs is to remember that you’re in a space which isn’t really designed for you, so be mindful of that: show respect to everyone who’s in there (workers especially but customers included), and spend as much as you can. You’re a tourist, after all, so open your wallet. Set a decent budget for the night and make sure to buy dances – for your friends if you don’t want them yourself. Smile and say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. And don’t be a fucking cunt. Girls who watch boys watching girls Before we even walk in the door, I can hear the slight tremble in his voice. We pause for a second with the bouncer so I can check whether we need pound coins or whether they’ll give them to us at the bar. This is my first post-Covid strip club so for all I know they might have started sending people round with a PayPoint machine instead of a pint glass, and I want to make sure I’m not going to accidentally be a dickhead and ruin the night. Luckily, we’re all good, and I buy a round in cash so the guy at the bar can shower us in the coins we need to make sure we’re coughing up when it’s time. Then we have a drink and I look around at the men. The lovely, horny, desperate men. Some crowded at the bar, others chatting amongst themselves, a few engaged in eager conversations with dancers they’ve fallen in love with for the night. I drink in the sight of my adorably nervous toyboy, sipping his pint and doing that thing where you look but try not to stare. An expression on his face that says ‘I am trying extremely hard not to get an erection right now’. LOVELY. Hauling myself away from this visual feast, I glance at the women who are walking the floor of the club, and try to work out who might be the best person to approach to buy a dance for this dude. Who among them could deliver this trembling, fuck-happy virginesque nerd a lapdance to rival America? The answer, of course, is ‘the first woman who approaches us.’ The confident, powerful energy with which she came to say ‘hi’ spoke to what I knew of this guy’s kinks, so when she offered us a dance I handed her some cash and she led him to one of the booths. For some reason, the first dance was the hottest of the night, even though I wasn’t in there with him. Why? Because I paid for it! POWER. I felt so powerful – so in charge of him , so much like his owner/indulgent Mum that I had to physically hold myself back from patting him on the head or smacking his bum as I sent him off for his treat. What’s more, while he was back there, I got to spend a lovely uninterrupted five minutes or so watching all the other guys doing their thing: staring intently at the stage while someone stripped off, chatting eagerly to the women who were wandering round the bar or – best of all – awkwardly stepping out of the private booth area at the back looking messy and gruff and trying to pretend they weren’t extremely aroused/embarrassed/ashamed/horny/delighted/lustful/you get the idea. When TB emerges from the back room, face flushed and pants tighter than they had been when he went in, it takes all my inner strength not to just grab him by the dick and march him out the door to get fucked. But I don’t want to cut this off early, because I’m having too much fun. Another awesome woman comes over to chat and offer a dance, and he’s slightly trembly already – stammering a little and extremely awkward, like his life-force is being drained with each drop of precum he leaks into the inside of his jeans. I don’t really want to miss Act 2, so for the next one I pay double for a dance and go to the booth with him: all the better to see his eyes grow wide and his mouth hang open while someone gyrates less than six inches from his eager little face. Fucking brilliant. The kickass woman who’s dancing tries admirably to divide her time equally between us both, but it becomes fairly clear to her once we’re in there that I’m mostly interested in watching his reactions. So she focuses a little more on him, flashing him and dancing on him and eventually physically grabbing his hands and trying to place them on her bum while I sit and grin inanely, entranced by his wide-eyed delight, like a kid who’s just been handed a free ice cream. He and I are on our best behaviour – touching no one nor even each other – until she rolls her eyes, grabs my hand and jams it into the crotch of his jeans, squeezing my fingers tightly till I’m gripping his almost-fully-hard cock right through the denim. No touching in strip clubs To those of you a bit shocked by the touching, I should tell you that so was I: I’m not sure how this works in America, but I know it’s not how it used to work in this specific club when I went before Covid. The rule was always ‘sit on your fucking hands and do not touch under any circumstances.’ I don’t know why this particular night played out so differently to previous ones, but for what it’s worth it wasn’t just that one dancer. Later that evening I bought him a joint lap dance with two people at once, and they were both quite keen for him to not only touch but be touched in turn. I’d like to tell you it’s because he’s got an incredible dick (which he has) that no woman can resist (which could never be true of any dick), but obviously that’s not it. In the moment I got hot for the idea that this was likely what most men there were thinking. I’m so fucking great even the strippers want to touch me! is, after all, adorable and desperate and hornyhornyhorny in equal measure. Having run this post past someone who is currently working in the UK strip scene (thanks Joanna – check out her links at the end of this post!) I’m told that it’s more just a personal thing than anything else. Although it’s technically illegal, some clubs are more lax on rules than others. Some dancers may occasionally touch (or invite you to touch them), others won’t, but the blanket ‘no touching’ rule still stands. Never assume anyone will – please don’t be the creepy sleaze who ruins someone’s working night. TB was not sleazy – he was absolutely good as gold, having had ‘sit on your hands’ beaten into him prior to our trip. But inevitably if there’s a hot woman dancing topless in front of your face, and she tells you to touch her tits, then physically grabs your hands and puts them on there… it feels kinda rude to say ‘no.’ Not to mention contrary to your interests. Anyway. The long and short of it is that there was a hell of a lot more touching than I was used to. And it gave me enough pause that I thought it worth checking in with someone who’s working in the industry at the moment. But the effect the dances so clearly had on TB distracted me from this train of thought while we were there. By which I mean ‘by the end of the final joint lap dance he was trembling like fucking Bambi ’, which I found delightful. It was totally worth the extra trip outside to a cash point so I could smash straight through the ceiling of my original budget. What can I say? I just like seeing him happy (by which I mean ‘erect’). Plus I am hoping to train him to be comfortable in the sexual company of more than one woman at once, building his confidence enough that in future he’ll acquiesce to being aggressively threesomed by me and one of my mates. As we downed the last few sips of our pints, him standing awkwardly to try and cover the fact that he was sporting an extremely promising boner, I asked him if he’d had a good time. “They were so FRIENDLY,” he said, in an awestruck gasp of wonder, like a man sitting at the edge of the Grand Canyon at sunset. He followed this up with a cracked, slightly-ashamed-of-himself whisper into my ear: “there is so much precum in my pants right now.” Good Lord, the hotness. As I ushered him out of the door, I glanced around at some of the other men in the club. The ones whose trembling, excited nerd-energy matched that of the virgin-vibes guy I’d turned up with, flushed after a dance that made them feel special and wanted. The men who still hadn’t got up the courage to buy a lap dance of their own, looking enviously at those who had emerging from the back room looking flustered. And those whose initial confident bravado had been slowly let down over the course of the night – mesmerised into vulnerability by skilled conversation and multiple flashes of tits and ass – until they were mere panting nerds too. God, I fucking love strip clubs. When we stepped out into the breezy evening and began our walk to the tube, I realised there was one question I hadn’t yet asked of my guest. “So what do you think?” I prompted. “How does UK strip compare to America?” Strutting with the confidence of a man who’s just fallen wildly and optimistically in love with two strippers at once, he turned his face to the sky and let out a burst of pure joy. “Oh my GOD!” he howled. “It’s SO MUCH BETTER THAN AMERICA.” Huge thanks to the fabulous UK based stripper Joanna Rikki (insta @joannarikki275 Twitter @freakyfilthy ) for helping me to hone this post and make sure I’m not stepping out of line when giving advice or discussing strip club etiquette. As I hope you can appreciate, for legal reasons I am not naming any strip clubs or dancers – any speculation (including naming of any establishment/person) in the comments will be deleted.