Sex Clubs, Full Frontal, and Fake Vanilla

I’m a big fan of naked ladies. Full stop. But there’s something exciting about burlesque. Maybe it’s the shared thrill of getting naked in public that makes me wet. You know, trying to imagine myself on stage, a crowd full of eyes whistling to every bare inch of skin I reveal. Maybe it’s the curiosity of exploring the variety of naked women’s curves, in all their glorious body types. And maybe it’s the playfulness. The saucy yet racy routines. I’ve yet to see a stripper enjoy her performance as much as most burlesque performers.

There’s a new swingers club in my city that I’d never been to before, which is odd because it’s near my place and at least half the poly community I know have already been there. Maybe it’s my shyness or maybe it feels slightly too dangerous. I mean, it’s a big leap going from watching someone else get naked in public to having my panties pulled aside and fingerbanged in a room full of people who are either watching you or too busy fucking to notice.

But the curiosity was killing me. So when one of my favorite local burlesque performers/producers began playing shows there on a regular mid-week gig I knew I had my chance. I could get a look at the place and decide if it was for me while enjoying one of my favorite past-times.

I have to tell you, it was an eye-opener.

After a half-dozen wardrobe changes I settled on short skirt, sleeveless top and thigh-high stockings. In black, of course, because that’s the default color for a sex club. My guy decided to go with dress shirt and blue jeans and I was halfway hoping he’d get stopped at the door for dress-code violation; I’d heard stories about guys in blue jeans being forced to take their pants off to get in. Sadly it seemed dress code was only enforced on fetish night and so I wasn’t treated to his rock-hard ass stretching a pair of boxer-briefs in public all night.

We were meeting some acquaintances there and after selecting a spot close to the stage we had time for some informal chit-chat. Until eventually the question came up ‘What do you do for a living?’ I get this a lot and I’m still no good at answering it. What am I supposed to say? That I work for the government in a job I cannot tell you about or even who, specifically, I do that job for? Or should I go with, ‘Well I write erotica for a living.’?

In the burlesque community they call this separation of their private life from their day job their ‘muggle life’.

I just call it my vanilla cover story.

Luckily the hostess (and all-round stupidly-hot burlesque dancer) showed up on stage with a microphone squeal and saved me from having to make another lame lie.

This woman constantly stuns me with her skills. Consummate performer, savvy businesswoman, and super-hottie. I feel bad drooling over her incredible long legs, taut form and sultry but athletic moves when she’s clearly so much more but I figure, hey, if she didn’t want to be admired for her body she would’ve gone into law school instead of burlesque.

I’m ready for the standard flirtation and innuendo but then during her opening warm-up on stage not only did she burst out into singing ‘Bare Necessities’ she did her own little routine. Now, this shocked me. First, because I’ve seen her perform for years and never once did she hint she could sing, and second because unlike other burlesque venues in music halls or clubs, apparently our local bylaw allows full-frontal in adult entertainment establishments.

All I can say is, *gulp*!

When you’re expecting pasties and a g-string and she goes down to the bare walls it’s like being at your first burlesque show all over again. Shock, butterflies, excitement and a hungry, almost painful lust.

Also, you hear about vajazzling but never really expect to see it in your lifetime.





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