Dancing for the muscle-heads

Amongst the guys I know outside work, I have to admit I don't know too many muscly guys. Most of my male friends are either wannabe rock god skinny or cuddly around the edges.  But inside my working life, I meet guys who work out all the time.

Let me tell you a little known fact.
Stripclubs are a haven for unusual looking people.  The girls have freaky surgery, unimaginably long hair, and skin the colour of an Orangutan.

But the guys can also be pretty interesting looking too....
Rich army types with cock-duster moustaches.
Footballers with plucked eyebrows and racks of shiny diamonds.
Essex boys with tans, tattoos and too tight trousers by an LA designer.
Big muscly men - and lots of them!!!

Gangstars and heavies, friends of the doormen, cityboys who work out in the gyms in their offices, successful men who now focus their energies on slavishly creating the perfect Men's Health body.

Now these muscleheads usually rarely have lap dances.  Perhaps it's because they don't see bodies in that way - they just like to watch an athletic woman performing a few pole tricks perhaps, or soak up the testosterone filled atmosphere over some vodka's. (Gym bunnies don't drink beer, they want ripped chests not plodgy bellies).

However, I love to talk to the hot muscly guys - well when else am I going to get a chance to talk to a dangerous looking bad boy, the kind who could crush me with one powerful hand?

And every now and then, I get to give them a couple of dances.  And naturally, I kinda enjoy it.  Turning on such a big powerful stallion of a man, with his biceps bulging out of his Ed Hardy T-shirt.  Feeling his eyes burning as he traces my skin and curves, following his line of sight to my own strong legs, lean and toned from years pounding the boards.  I curve up, rubbing my breasts, trying to stretch out my stomach, pulling the demi-moons up till they perk their pink noses to the soft mood lighting of the booth.

And thats when my face falls.  I love dancing for the muscly men, they love me - but I'm a woman.  I get body issues, feel fat, pile on the pounds after a lazy day being hungover and watching the telly.  My stomach gets bloated and waterlogged monthly, if not more, as I bleed not only on my period, but when I forget to take my contraceptive pill - perhaps after a three day bender, he he he.  The drugs don't work when you've been on drugs yourself.

So taking all of your clothes off and exposing yourself, every inch, for a good looking guy who takes care of his own body can be a daunting experience.  Really daunting.  But that makes the naughtiness more explicit, and as I get more kinky and cocky from all these compliments, I get really turned on, feel special, feel wanted and sexy - I'm not that bad after all.
Unless I am having an off day, or I notice a gleam in the eyes of the man I am dancing for that shows a hint of disapproval, a recoil as I tilt a certain angle and show some goosepimples of cold flesh.  Hey, that air-conditioning can get pretty chilly ya know.

But twenty quid is twenty quid, whether an exotic dancer likes the guy or its just him liking her.  And hopefully the lean, mean weight-lifting machines will rub off on me so that I drag my ass down to the gym on a daily basis.....

Tired ol'bones

Two strange things happened today;

1)    I walked out of work early.
2)    I walked out after only doing one dance - thats a £60 LOSS for the night.

The even stranger thing is,

1)   I was happy to go home.
2)   It wasn't the customers, or girls, or managements fault or aggravation.

Truth be told, I've been having back pain recently, to the extent that if I'm not tired or stoned enough to pass out, I wriggle a hell of a lot in bed and can't sleep for hours.  (By which time its probably daylight and I feel hungry anyway, so I just power thru a day on no sleep.)

So I thought I would step up and start going to yoga etc.
Well I went to Bikram Yoga yesterday, and felt fantastically energised and stretched out afterwards.
Today, I got a wonderful hour long full body massage, and my lovely French masseuse found my knots and pummelled me till I felt fantastically energised and stretched out afterwards.

So fantastic, in fact, that I decided I was fine to go to work tonight.

BIG MISTAKE

Around 9pm, so thats 4-5 hours after the massage, I am shivering in a cold empty club and my joints are seizing up all over the shop.  Then, even worse, I get called on stage.  I swear you could hear my bones clicking over the thumping bass-line.  I couldn't do my normal stage routine either, no pole tricks, no wiggling my hips, no touching my toes and waving my bum in the air.  All I could manage was to lean against the pole, wincing through the shooting pain, and rub my tits.  (This also helped me alleviate the muscle spasms, or at least took my mind off them and made me the tiniest bit horny).

So I may not be able to do LIVE ON THE NIGHT posts for a few days, as I will be laid up in my cosy bed, or a hot bath, but at least I will be naked, so it's not that different from my usual night-time activities.