The idea of going to a strip club together started as a sort of joke when we had a few hours to kill. I think we both knew it was a potentially disastrous idea, especially considering the lack of alcohol at nude bars, but eventually we just went for it.
Why? For one, I’ve always prided myself on being a “cool girlfriend.” I don’t stand in the way of guy time, I can hold my own in a conversation about sports, and I try to keep the nagging to a minimum. I figured this could only take that status to the next level (and it did).
But more than that, I wanted to test myself. My boyfriend has told me about going to strip clubs for numerous bachelor parties since we’ve been together, and even about getting a lap dance or two. While that’s never really bothered me in the way it seems to bother some of my friends, I wasn’t totally confident in how I would handle actually seeing him watch — and possibly be touched by — other naked women.
I assumed that jealousy and insecurity are natural reactions in this kind of situation, but I wanted to prove that I felt secure in our relationship. I didn’t want to start spouting no-win questions and statements like, “You’d fuck her, wouldn’t you?” and “I wish I had a body like that.”
I was too timid to sit in the front row at first, but after a few dances, I moved us up. Instead of comparing myself to the women, I was appreciating their different bodies and assets. A few of them interacted with me — two grabbed my breasts, and one put my hands on hers — and there seemed to be an unspoken girl code where they didn’t get too close to my boyfriend, though they were literally wrapping their legs around the necks of some of the other men. I even let out a few enthusiastic cheers.
I left the club a little turned on, eager to try a few moves I’d picked up on, and also surprisingly empowered. There was immediately this sense of elevated confidence, openness and trust between us. We’d done something a lot of couples wouldn’t dare and it was fun, too.
Then, like it was any other date, we went out for all-you-can-eat sushi. And no, the irony was not lost on us.
Jessica May is a freelance writer happily living in sin with her boyfriend and vibrator.
Photo credit: Scott Steele-Green via Creative Commons