“Where your ultimate fantasies come true” – Advertising slogan
I am sitting here at my terminal, still wondering what in the world happened to me for the last three hours. I feel almost as if I was abducted by aliens, and have only just returned with vague memories that are slowly coming to the surface. Anyway, I must reflect on this with only a few of my closest friends, and you, my dear readers, are my most intimate. All I wanted was something very special for my sweetheart on Valentine’s Day. Something really memorable that would happen maybe once in his life (unless he wants a slow, horrible death) and with my blessing. Here is the scenario I envisaged.
We walk in and are escorted to a large room, beautifully furnished with great big, cushiony couches and a very comfortable recliner. There is incredible music playing. Two gorgeous women walk in, arm in arm, looking uncannily like…well, in TC terms, say Denise Richards and Nastassja Kinski. They walk towards me and take me by the hand, leaving him sitting back on the recliner. Slowly they begin to disrobe each other and start teasing me to join them. I am coy and just watch. Then they come over and start to disrobe me, very slowly, deliberately trying to entice me to join in their fun as he watches, grinning from ear to ear. I can see the bulge in his crotch as he watches them undress me down to my own skimpy lingerie. Then they escort me back to the recliner, and I sit, preferably behind him, and can touch him as he continues to watch the girls seduce each other, etc.
Is that so difficult? Naturally it sounds really good. So I started making phone calls: I made an appointment, but tried to wrangle as much information as I could by telephone. From what I gathered (each place had basically the same policies), you can have whatever fantasy you desire, with as many girls as you want – and they can’t discuss this any further on the phone. But the manager will be happy to discuss it with you in person as well as giving you the opportunity to pick out the girls you want.
Most of the girls I spoke to were very nice, yet for some reason had the same look, like deer caught in headlights. Though my first thought on entering was simply that I had gone blind: I walked into a tiny, tiny little reception area, painted black from floor to ceiling, and when the outside door closed, it was utterly dark. On the other side another door opened and a women peeked out (“deer caught in headlights”) asking if she could help me. I explained I wanted to set something up and was escorted to a waiting room, half the size of the reception area; when I sat down, I noticed that the opening door would hit my knees… Ok. No problem. I was told I had to speak to the senior girl in charge. A “manager” was introduced to me. She was wearing a lovely black glitter evening gown, showing off her petite body – but I couldn’t help notice her white sport socks and surgical boot on her left foot. My, how erotic.
I looked past that, and went into the details of my fantasy. She stared at me and asked if I wanted an application (“deer caught in headlights”). I told her I didn’t want a job, I wanted a Valentine’s fantasy for my sweetheart. She gave me a gift certificate. I gave it back. I asked if there was someone else I could talk to and she escorted me to a large living area with four other girls who also, for whatever reasons unknown to me, all had that look on their faces. I tried again to explain what I wanted and was immediately told I had to pay for the room, and dances were $40 each. I tried to explain the details of the fantasy I wanted and was gazed at blankly by all of them. I say again, “deer caught in headlights”.
They told me if I wanted to discuss these details, I had to pay the manager $20, I suppose to make sure I wasn’t trying to entrap her for prostitution. I paid Ms. Surgical Boot and went to one of the rooms where these ultimate fantasies come true. The room was actually very spacious, and furnished with a large, cushiony couch and a long recliner. Subdued lighting enhanced the effect. So we sat down to discuss the details of my fantasy. “Now”, I thought, “down to business”.
She told me there were levels she needed to discuss with me. Level I is a dance for 15 minutes that was seductive. If there were two girls dancing, there would be absolutely no touching, girls to client or client to girls, and absolutely no touching by the girls of each other’s erogenous zones. This cost between $40-60 per girl. Level II involved the girls dancing and using a vibrator. This lasts 30 minutes. The only difference between Levels II and I was the vibrator. And the toy will be used on themselves, not each other or the client, etc. This costs between $75-100 per girl. Level III is called “The Works” and lasts 45 minutes. Everything is used: whipped cream, ice, honey, syrup, vibrators, fruit. Proximity of dancer(s) to client is very, very, very close but there is still absolutely no touching between client, dancers or anyone. NO ONE TOUCHES ANYONE. Understand? $300 per girl.
Let me get this straight. I sit here. You dance with each other kind of seductively. You will not touch me. I will not touch you. You will not touch each other. I pay you six hundred American dollars, while you watch me. From what I understand, we can get totally naked and do the dirty deed or anything else we fancy to each other. We can masturbate all over the furniture if we want to, the whole time. [And to think I actually sat on that furniture. I still get shivers thinking about it. I took my clothes off the moment I got in the house and burned them] For this privilege we pay each girl $300 each. Excuse me, do I have the words “Dumb Fuck” written across my forehead? Or is the Marriott up the street only $99 for the whole night: we can get naked, do whatever we want to each other, for as long as we want, with touching galore, get a pizza afterwards, and still save ourselves five hundred bucks?
Of course, they wouldn’t let me leave without looking at the Wall of Photos and choosing the two girls I wanted for my fantasy. None even came close, but I started to make choices trying to find Denise Richards and Nastassja Kinski. When I pointed at some of the photos, they either didn’t work there anymore, didn’t look like that anymore, don’t wear that kind of make-up anymore, don’t wear make-up at all anymore, or don’t have their hair that colour anymore.
Well, sweetheart of mine, my love, my life, he that I would do most anything for. This is not going to happen. There is a thin line between fantasy and sleaze and this town has not been able to separate it just yet. I don’t know what I thought I was going to encounter. Perhaps a very classy establishment that caters to the whims of its clients. Gosh…what a thought. I would pay $600 if there was a remote resemblance to elegance at all, if the women showed some spark of intelligence (or even just real beauty), if the places didn’t look like Pepe’s House of Horrors, located in the middle of a demilitarized zone. And for the money they are commanding, it doesn’t seem unreasonable to have high expectations. After all, I’m not asking for sex from them, only to have a little bit of my ultimate fantasy come true, in a stylish, erotic manner that my partner and I can enjoy in a relaxing atmosphere.
So, Jasmine, Michelle, Nikki, Sunni, Carmen, Jenny, and all the other dancers, you were all very friendly and I appreciate the thought. But no thanks. I think I’ll just try harder to make his fantasies come true using my own talents.