All I Could Bare: My Life in the Strip Clubs of Gay Washington, by Craig Seymour Page B
Authors: Craig Seymour
Tags: General, Gay Studies, Social Science, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Cultural Heritage
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right up to where I was on the bar. I kneeled down in front of him. He put a couple of ones in my sock and proceeded to tickle me under each armpit. It felt weird and a little dry and scratchy. (You'd think a guy with a tickling fetish would keep his nails filed and invest in a good hand cream.) But I tried to muster a smile.
"Do you like to be tickled?" he asked in a squeaky, pinched voice.
"Oh yeah," I said, trying to inject my voice with pornlike conviction.
He kept tickling me for about thirty more seconds, and then he patted me on my calf and moved away without saying a word. I couldn't tell if he was a satisfied customer or a disappointed one.
When I told Danny about this, he said my failure to come off like a tickling enthusiast was a big financial mistake. "Honey, Mr. Tickles is one of the best tippers there is," he said, lacing up his black boots.
Danny claimed that he once went to Mr. Tickles's house to be tickle-tortured for an hour. His compensation: a round-trip plane ticket to the vacation destination of his choice. I never knew if I fully believed all of Danny's stories, but I figured that since he'd been doing this for longer than anyone else I knew, he'd earned the right to a few exaggerations.
After talking with Danny, I went back out for another set. I hadn't made as much money as I wanted to, so I was pleased to see Handlebar Mustache Man still at the bar. I'd given myself a nice fluffing in the bathroom, making my cock hard underneath the G-string. Feeling quite proud of my overstuffed red crotch pouch, I walked over to him, waited while he slipped some money in my sock, then slowly moved my package toward his face. He leaned his head back and opened his mouth. I flirtatiously moved closer. I figured that maybe he was like my Secrets regular Michael and wanted to get bopped in the head. But that wasn't it at all, as I discovered when the guy opened his mouth wider and wider and then bit down on my cock.
"What the fuck!" I yelled, rising to my feet as I felt a sharp pain rise along my shaft. I couldn't believe it. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Granted, I'd been bobbing my hard, red-G-stringed dick just inches above his open mouth, but he wasn't supposed to put it in his mouth, much less chomp on it with his teeth. I sped down the bar, doing a strategic sidestep sashay around a martini, and jumped down to the floor. I raced through the crowd and up the private set of stairs to the employee restroom. Mikey was there pulsing his rounded pecs in front of the mirror over the sink. I stood beside him and pulled down the front of my G-string, noticing wet teeth marks on the red fabric. I grabbed my dick and searched for broken skin.
"What happened?" Mikey asked, alternately looking at his chest and checking out what I was doing with my dick.
"Some asshole bit my cock," I said.
"Why'd he do that?"
"Fuck if I know," I said, glad to realize I wasn't bleeding. "This place is fucking crazy. I knew I didn't want to work here."
'"Want me to kick his ass?" Mikey asked, without turning from his reflection.
"No, that's OK," I answered, a little giddy that he had even asked.
'°Well, let me know," he said. "Can't have anybody fucking with The Weapon," he said.
I pulled up my G-string as Danny came running up the stairs saying, "They want you back on the bar. Now!" I rolled my eyes. You'd think having some Jeffrey Dahmer wannabe try to take a bite out of you would get you exempt from the rest of your shift. But no. I dutifully went back downstairs. As I got back on the bar, I told the bartender what happened, but he just laughed it off and offered me a free drink.
"I don't drink," I said.
"What? A dancer that doesn't drink?" he said to the customers around him. " That's a new one."
They all laughed.
I moved away and walked right over to Handlebar Mustache Man, who was at the same place on the bar. "Don't you ever fucking do that again," I said to him. He looked up at me and smirked sheepishly.
"Do you like to be tickled?" he asked in a squeaky, pinched voice.
"Oh yeah," I said, trying to inject my voice with pornlike conviction.
He kept tickling me for about thirty more seconds, and then he patted me on my calf and moved away without saying a word. I couldn't tell if he was a satisfied customer or a disappointed one.
When I told Danny about this, he said my failure to come off like a tickling enthusiast was a big financial mistake. "Honey, Mr. Tickles is one of the best tippers there is," he said, lacing up his black boots.
Danny claimed that he once went to Mr. Tickles's house to be tickle-tortured for an hour. His compensation: a round-trip plane ticket to the vacation destination of his choice. I never knew if I fully believed all of Danny's stories, but I figured that since he'd been doing this for longer than anyone else I knew, he'd earned the right to a few exaggerations.
After talking with Danny, I went back out for another set. I hadn't made as much money as I wanted to, so I was pleased to see Handlebar Mustache Man still at the bar. I'd given myself a nice fluffing in the bathroom, making my cock hard underneath the G-string. Feeling quite proud of my overstuffed red crotch pouch, I walked over to him, waited while he slipped some money in my sock, then slowly moved my package toward his face. He leaned his head back and opened his mouth. I flirtatiously moved closer. I figured that maybe he was like my Secrets regular Michael and wanted to get bopped in the head. But that wasn't it at all, as I discovered when the guy opened his mouth wider and wider and then bit down on my cock.
"What the fuck!" I yelled, rising to my feet as I felt a sharp pain rise along my shaft. I couldn't believe it. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Granted, I'd been bobbing my hard, red-G-stringed dick just inches above his open mouth, but he wasn't supposed to put it in his mouth, much less chomp on it with his teeth. I sped down the bar, doing a strategic sidestep sashay around a martini, and jumped down to the floor. I raced through the crowd and up the private set of stairs to the employee restroom. Mikey was there pulsing his rounded pecs in front of the mirror over the sink. I stood beside him and pulled down the front of my G-string, noticing wet teeth marks on the red fabric. I grabbed my dick and searched for broken skin.
"What happened?" Mikey asked, alternately looking at his chest and checking out what I was doing with my dick.
"Some asshole bit my cock," I said.
"Why'd he do that?"
"Fuck if I know," I said, glad to realize I wasn't bleeding. "This place is fucking crazy. I knew I didn't want to work here."
'"Want me to kick his ass?" Mikey asked, without turning from his reflection.
"No, that's OK," I answered, a little giddy that he had even asked.
'°Well, let me know," he said. "Can't have anybody fucking with The Weapon," he said.
I pulled up my G-string as Danny came running up the stairs saying, "They want you back on the bar. Now!" I rolled my eyes. You'd think having some Jeffrey Dahmer wannabe try to take a bite out of you would get you exempt from the rest of your shift. But no. I dutifully went back downstairs. As I got back on the bar, I told the bartender what happened, but he just laughed it off and offered me a free drink.
"I don't drink," I said.
"What? A dancer that doesn't drink?" he said to the customers around him. " That's a new one."
They all laughed.
I moved away and walked right over to Handlebar Mustache Man, who was at the same place on the bar. "Don't you ever fucking do that again," I said to him. He looked up at me and smirked sheepishly.
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