8 Mile

At the risk of alienating my mostly female reading audience, I will detail Friday night.

I got a call Friday, friends were up at a strip club, "come join us". I slide out of work at 5:30 , stop at the ATM and head off to 8 Mile Rd. 8 Mile is not as exciting or as dangerous as the movie would have you believe, of course when you live in the Detroit area your sense of what is considered dangerous can be slightly skewed. The road is the northern border of the city. A wide 10 lane boulevard that runs for miles. The road is lined with pawn shops, liqueur stores, strip clubs, bars and seedy motels. The further West you go the seedier the strip clubs become, they had picked one about as far west as you can get.

I'd been there once before, I don't like the place. The stage is a small 6ft by 10ft square along one wall. The dancers are mostly girls who would not be able to get a job in the nicer clubs, or have already been kicked out of the other clubs. A few actually prefer the club, they find it easier to make money by providing more services. The management tends to have a blind eye to what goes on in the back room where the private dances, the lap dances take place. That is why my friends come here.

My friends have been there for hours by the time I arrive. I see faces I have not seen in years, suddenly it seems like just yesterday. I have a few beers and catch up. Most of the girls don't interest me. One I know, her real name is Shannon, I have no idea what she calls herself on stage. I have not seen her in over a year. She used to date one of my friends, we'd been out socially. She looks older then I remember.

Shannon has no qualms about what she does for a living. I don't question it. She doesn't come out and say she hates what she does. To her its easy and simple. She's always had a soft spot for me. Maybe its because she first met me at the beginning of my divorce when I was lost and scattered. One of my friends asks, "You going to take Shannon back for a dance?"

"Let him make up his own mind, " she replies.

Shannon is around 26. She is a pretty girl. She is petite but not exceptionally curvy. She has small natural breast and a round ass which she claims is her best feature.

I don't like this club, but I know Shannon, so I decide to have her dance for me. We go to the back. Its a long rectangular room with bench cushions along three walls. There are one or two other guys there getting dances. I don't look at what is going on between them and there dancers. Shannon sits me down and sits facing me, on my lap. She takes her top off, we wait for the next song to start and she asks, "You want me to be naughty or nice?"

I know what she means, I know what goes on in the back. I know how "naughty" she is willing to be-- if she likes you. I say nice. She takes it as a challenge to be naughty. I don't argue. We get close. My hands are encouraged to travel over her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. I squeeze her ass as she grinds against my leg. As the second song begins she undoes my belt, reaches in and takes hold of me. She strokes me to her movements as I caress her body. Our interaction is conversational and sexual at the same time. I tell her it isn't going to happen, part of me doesn't want it to happen, not there. I'm right, but she still tries to get me off.

Things wind down by the fifth or sixth song. I redo my belt, she sits next to me and we talk. We talk about kids, relationships, the guys in the club. Her words are colored with encouragements. We talk about other days. I tell here she still owes me dance lessons, she smiles as she remembers how I hate to be on the dance floor. We both know it will not happen.

Before we head back to the front, I hand her the proper amount for the "dance".

"Are you sure?" She asks.

I run my finger along her chin. "Of course."

Shift change comes. Shannon slips out.

*I sent this to someone before I decided whether to post it. We always try to paint ourselves in the best light. I knew where it would go when I asked Shannon to dance for me. It wouldn't have gone that way if I had asked someone else to dance but I didn't. It was business as usual for her. I was not the first handjob of the day.