Meeting Outside
Had I initially met her away from the club, this would have been much easier. However, having met her there, a friendship such as I desired, needed, even demanded, was a lot tougher than I had anticipated. Strip club dancers, quite justifiably, go to considerable effort to erect and maintain an almost impenetrable emotional wall between their customers and themselves, protecting their privacy and isolating their personal life from those whom they meet in their work. I understand the rationale for this wall: emotional and physical self-protection for them and their families. Knowing myself well enough to realize that I was not a threat, I had to set her mind sufficiently at ease so that we could embark upon becoming friends. To effect this, I wrote her letters and cards, pouring out my heart and my history in much more detail than is provided here. Her initial reaction was that I was probably lying in a vain attempt to get her into the sack, since many of the habitues of clubs are less than completely honest and many more of them would give a whole lot to get a dancer into bed. I protested often and quite forthrightly that such activity was explicitly not my goal and was, in fact, the last thing I wanted from her.
Consistent with her viewing me as a customer, she suggested a "private dance," an opportunity to meet her outside of the club that would essentially be a fixed time alone together with her in my hotel room. She was absolutely certain that I would enjoy this; there would be more time with her, the lighting would be better and we would be free of chaperones. It would be the price-performance winner, financially. In spite of her assurances that it would be "very innocent," including a shower, some shaving, a massage, her dressing in the clothes I found most attractive on her, a little "touching" and mutual masturbation with no actual sex or penetration--no "two backed beast," I was truly horrified, terrified, confused or hurt or all of the above. I couldn't have sex with her, couldn't permit the illusion of sex or even the mere appearance or suggestion of impropriety. I was married and committed to that marriage, even if it wasn't producing any action for me, and she was married, too. To sign up for a "PD" would permanently cement me into the customer-dancer relationship I hated and this I feared most. I hungered for her friendship, not her favors. To become more physical with her would jeopardize forever our relationship, play havoc with our mutual respect for each other and ourselves, perhaps even compromising the integrity of our respective marriages. Precious wasn't making this any easier. She was trapped in her context and I was making little headway in getting her to start thinking outside of her box.
I objected and stood my guns, continually protesting that I wanted to be her friend, not her lover, nor a customer, etc. as I struggled to get over this unbelievably high hurdle. Persistence appears to have worked. Persistence, that is, and an unexpected transfer to a different part of the country. When I returned a month later, after the transfer was unexpectedly rescinded, I made it clear to her that I was uninterested in going to her club or any other club ever again and was terrified by the whole concept of a private dance. The mistake I had made was not in meeting her in the first place, but where I met her and the expectations created by the club context. Instead, I wanted to meet her for dinner or a walk through a shopping mall. My persistence, coupled with absolute insistence paid off. This began what has become a weekly occurrence, an eagerly anticipated, fiercely protected and jealously guarded occasion, a heart-warming, spirit-lifting exercise in stretching, venting, exposing or calming my emotions. Consisting of dinner and talk, or a walk and talk, or dinner, a walk and talk, but always talk, it is my one opportunity in the week to become emotionally naked, to lower my shields and let my emotions flow. Talk and tears... Emotions on the edge, at their truly most raw and acute...
Meeting now in public places reduced our hugging to an embrace on greeting and parting, with occasional hand holding, the way small kids do, while walking. The affection displayed in the club was replaced by talk. Talk about my life, my work, my lack of love life, talk about her life, talk about her kids, her spouse and their problems, talk about virtually anything and everything. As a result of this talk, over time, I believe that she has come to recognize that I am, if nothing else, honest to a fault. Precious began to realize that I was serious about our friendship, a relationship at times more like that of brother and sister, or that between older and younger sisters, with us occasionally switching roles, depending upon who was most needing of emotional support at the time. To get to this point, we had played a little game: she would ask me some questions and over the week before I would see her again I would compose my most carefully thought through answers. The initial questions were like, "What could a dancer do to turn a first-time customer into a regular?" Without revealing very much about herself or her inner feelings (she was still very cautious and extremely private), her questions of me became more and more personal.
Eventually, she asked me about my fantasies while "skinning the snake." We had previously discussed my attraction to the young "look" at great length, with me providing as a question response very detailed descriptions of what I did and didn't find attractive. In response to a later question, I even provided a string of postings between me and an anonymous netizen describing the mistakes made in movies when directors fail to construct a complete and consistent image of the young "look." However, this question was hard! I thought long and hard about her question and tried several times to craft my response. Masturbation carries with it such guilt and to have to disclose to another what one thinks about during the act, is very difficult. And embarrassing! Each time I tried, I found myself running up against some emotional or mental block. I either couldn't remember or, worse yet, couldn't put it into words to write down.
After much mental work and even more agonizing over it, I broke through, discovering that my most powerful desire was not to have sex with a young looking girl, but to be the young looking girl herself. Not for sex, as the girl is about 10 years old, but for a host of other reasons. The fascination is entirely asexual in nature. All of a sudden, the memories I had so successfully suppressed for over 35 years came rushing out as though a dam had burst. The fascination was putting on girl's clothes, acting like a little girl and doing the things that little girls do. Not those things, silly one! Things little girls were thought to be doing back in the innocent days of the 1950's, like reading books, baking cookies, playing house and sewing clothes.
Last Update: 12/29/2003
Web Author: Taffy@Cheerful.Com
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