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Her name was Sasha

And she danced for me for money

Her name was Sasha. Not her real name, her stage name.

She caught my eye from across the room in a popular Southern Ontario adult entertainment nightclub.

My friend and I had watched about eight lovely strippers — exotic dancers, if you prefer — seeking the perfect one for a private lap dance. Other dancers working the room approached us, offering exclusive dances. My companion politely responded, “No thanks, we’re just here chillin’.”

Sasha caught my attention again — moving across the room. My friend asked me if I knew which woman I wanted to escort to the VIP lounge. I pointed her out.

“I think she’s the one, but I want to watch her dance on stage first.”

I must confess, I do love the female body. My current play-friend says she’s never met a woman who loves and appreciates women’s bodies so much. A polite way of calling me a pervert, perhaps, but I unapologetically own it. Women are truly a wonder of the world-in mind and body.

As I watched Sasha, I was awestruck by the womanly — and somewhat caricaturish — vision across the room. She looked like she had just gotten off a plane from Beverly Hills or Las Vegas, with collagen-enhanced lips, extra large breast implants, a tiny waist with a silver hoop through her navel, a blue-and-silver sequined bikini bra with matching tear-away pants, and high boots. She was tall and self-assured, with long dark hair and bedroom brown eyes.

As the waitress brought me another watered-down caesar, I noticed Sasha disappear into one of the two VIP lounges — with another woman! I was titillated.

Before long, Sasha was introduced and she tore across the stage like an aggressive hurricane. Her confidence and energy were mesmerizing. She was athletic and enthusiastic. She sashayed. She pranced. She spun around the pole like a forceful funnel of water. I had no doubt that she was the one.

Finally, Sasha came off-stage. My heart started pounding. I stood as she drew nearer, and boldly announced, “I’d like a private dance-just you and me.”

She smiled a big smile and took my hand. I moved in front of her leading the way to the other VIP lounge, which was enclosed and more private. I had seen other people go there and stay for a long time.

I picked a private booth in the far corner where nobody else could see us. Sasha purred, “Oooh, I like a woman who takes charge like that.”

She sat beside me and we started talking. All I really wanted was a lap dance — cut the chitchat — but she was rather friendly and sincere.

She asked me some questions, and then began speaking about her life as a high-school teacher. “You’re very pretty,” she said. “I love your eyes and face. You’re sexy.”

“Thanks. You’re totally hot,” I replied, knowing that at the end of our exchange I’d be giving her money for all of this pleasantry.

It was an interesting moment for me. As much as I wanted some pure, unadulterated, carnal pleasure, I was also fascinated by her and wanted to get inside her head.

I’ve always been intrigued by strippers because they have so much power on stage — everybody wants them, fantasizes about them, but cannot touch them. And the dancers know it. They are completely in control of their bodies.

However, in my experiences of frequenting strip clubs and getting lap dances, many dancers let women clients take a lot more liberties in the touching department.

Few dancers do not allow physical contact. Most encourage it. But you never know which way the dancer leans until you’re in the moment — it’s always a risk. Will she respond or will the bouncer boot my ass out of here?

And then there are signs posted: no sexual contact permitted.

It’s a load of bunk, really.

One experience in San Francisco got so steamy that we lost track of how many private songs we had done. I had paid for one, but got about four.

That same night, a stunningly beautiful African-American dancer climbed off the stage and onto my lap. I was the only woman in the club besides the dancers.

This Beyonce lookalike gyrated her hips into mine while smothering my face with her ebony breasts, and then turned around straddling my lap, taking and guiding my hands to cup and massage her beautiful natural breasts, as men’s jaws dropped and I anticipated bouncers, cop cars and immigration officials.

Vancouver strip clubs seem rather tame in comparison to other cities.

But recently, one local stripper did let me squeeze the breasts she proudly purchased in Kelowna — just because she wanted me to see how soft and real they felt. “I would never let a man do this, and I’d be in big trouble for letting you do this, too, so don’t tell anyone,” she said.

Sasha and I talked for about 15 minutes. She explained how she got into the business and how she was planning to dance for another two years maximum, and then move to Alberta or BC to resume her teaching career.

Finally, she asked if I wanted to just talk or if I wanted a dance. I said, “Oh, I definitely want a lap dance.”

Sasha removed all of her clothes while discussing literature and intellect. She was breathtakingly beautiful. As she climbed on my lap, she said, “I’d much rather dance for you than those obnoxious drunk men.” I just smiled.

We did three songs. As the third song began, I remember thinking there is a God, as the longest freaking song in rock and roll history, “Stairway To Heaven,” blared over the speakers. What good fortune!

“You make me nervous,” Sasha whispered, glancing over her shoulder to check on the whereabouts of the bouncer.

“Why is that?” I asked pulling my mouth off her nipple.

“Because I really like the way you’re touching me, and you’ve got a fountain going between my legs.”

I looked over Sasha’s shoulder to check on the bouncer myself. He had come to check on us twice and then disappeared, not to be seen again until we left the private booth, and found him guarding the entrance so nobody else could come in.

For those several minutes, Vancouver seemed like a million miles away. And I didn’t have a care in the world — sweet reprieve from the broken heart and shattered dreams I had left behind on the West Coast.

This was a good distraction. And I needed it.

I knew that Sasha was taking many liberties herself. “I just got lasered,” she teased, parting her labia and directing my fingers between her legs.

She pummeled my face with her heavy breasts and let me suck on her nipples. My hands were all over her and she didn’t seem to mind. Then we did the forbidden — we kissed.

Our final song ended. Her body was slick with beads of sweat, but the scent of her perfume still lingered.

“I’d really like to get together with you before you leave town,” Sasha said while dressing. “Can I give you my number? I’ve only been with a couple of girls before, but the way you touched me was better than anything I’ve experienced before. Actually, would you like to come home with me tonight?”

I was shocked. Not only did we practically have sex in the VIP lounge, but now she wanted to get together outside of the club — and for free? I declined her offer, but took her cell phone number just in case.

Before leaving the private booth, Sasha hugged and kissed me again. Her glossy lipstick stayed on me the rest of the evening. And I dreamt about her that night — as did my companion.

Sasha and I returned to the main room. As we walked by a table of men — I was practically floating — I overheard one say, “What took them so long? What were they doing?”

I just smiled brazenly.