For those of you who’ve never seen me in person, allow me to construct a little mental Etch-a-Sketch. I’m five feet tall, more white than whole milk with a side of Wonder bread, with less coordination than a three-legged kitten in the trunk of a Miata.
In a purely G-rated context, my little brain has become so exhausted after a few decades of trying to coordinate my movements that these days I basically navigate the world like a tiny hippopotamus, slamming into everything and hoping to take it out of my way. I should add the super-sexy details that I have a haircut that can only be described as Olympic-era Kerri Strug gone homeless, and I have the build of a preteen boy. I could be a stripper, if boobs, hair, and basic motor skills weren’t required.
So now that I’ve gone all Bob Ross on your imagination’s canvas, let me repeat: I’ve had to learn how to give a lap dance. Using the Internet.
Have you ever tried to use your computer to obtain information about anything even slightly sexual? Do you basically realize that you’re sitting neck-deep in a jacuzzi of porn every time you utilize a search engine? I don’t care how many safe search modes you have, there’s no denying what the ‘net is good for: sexual stimulation for people too busy, too bored, or too hideous to find someone to actually have sex with. Therefore trying to find an instructional guide to give a lap dance without knocking your teeth out or causing a guy’s penis to invert is a little more difficult than you’d imagine.
YouTube is often affectionately thought of as a sort of tree chart, by which you view one video and then leapfrog to related clips, thereby broadening your horizon and learning more and more about whatever subject matter, musical artist, or random act performed by a kitten that you have typed into the search bar. This is an incorrect assumption. YouTube is not a tree chart, it is a drug dealer. Anything you type into the search bar is like an alcoholic’s first Zima, an addict’s first puff of weed.
Let’s say you type in something benign enough as, “How to ride a motorcycle.” In no time you’re mainlining clips of pony porn. Trust me, YouTube isn’t the tree chart of knowledge. It’s the rabbit hole of vice. In my pursuit of “How to give a lap dance” I wound up watching two teenagers choreograph what can only be described as an elaborate hokey-pokey with their buttocks that made me want a Delorean so I could go back in time and perform forced vasectomies on their fathers.
I didn’t learn how to give a lapdance on YouTube, unless I was able to glean some sort of step-by-step guide through a Russian-language clip featuring the most absurdly gorgeous woman I have ever seen.
The only thing I could obtain from my search, other than the fact that there’s at least one studio band paying for their mortgages by churning out nondescript softcore porn hits perfect for half-naked ladies to gyrate to, is that I needed to practice. Like, a lot. If I was going to take off my clothes and grind on somebody, I was going to make damn sure that I at least knew what motions I could make that would sufficiently prevent both ego-withering giggles and an injury. After all, I’m currently uninsured.
I also decided that, if I was going to do this, I was going to do it all the way. I drew the blinds. I selected a handful of slow tracks conducive to a little bump ‘n grind. I put on a leotard and leg-warmers. (Not bullshitting.)
I was alone this whole time, mind you.
To sit in for the unfortunate recipient, I put an empty chair from my kitchen table in the center of the floor. And then I pressed play.
It only took one move where I bent over for my Chihuahua to spring tongue-first at my face, licking and hopping and trying to partake in this new game of musical chair. Frustrated and further humiliated by the fact that the puppy couldn’t understand the nuance in my sexy thirty-second swaying, I locked her in the bathroom, where her whining and scratching served as an undesired metronome to the remix of La Roux’s “In For The Kill.” I reasoned with myself that the dog couldn’t have understood what I was doing in the first place, especially since I’d recently paid a veterinarian to spay her.
I kept trying. Four tracks into Portishead’s “Dummy,” an album permanently associated with my earliest sexual experiences, and I’d run through my full roster of moves.
Several times I did something that one of the clips had referred to as “The Lotion,” where I pantomimed slowly rubbing lotion on my leg like a stoned sufferer of eczema. I crept around on all fours like a spastic, arthritic cat. I arched my back, stuck out my ass and imaginary boobs. I gyrated my hips as though I were trying to hula-hoop inside of a Mobius strip, and I tossed my head around as though I had a bad case of lice.
I created my own choreography, with maneuvers like the Spontaneous Turn, when my ankles defied their joints and wrapped around one another as I tried to keep my balance, and The Bambi, where all of my limbs jutted out at odd angles on my slippery wooden floor. There was also the Spiderman, where I tried to “drop it low” like the do in rap videos, only to discover that I couldn’t keep my balance and had to stick one of my legs out while bending the other and balancing on my palms as though I were the webbed one perched at the edge of a building.
All in all, my improvised dance routine didn’t exactly flow well. In fact, it would have seemed funny to me, if I hadn’t caught glimpses of myself in the mirror that forced me to behold the look of pained shame that froze my face into some sort of resigned, cow-eyed grimace.
It’s hard not to wonder how this could ever be considered sexy. Turns out it was simply a wise promotion for a business back in the day. One of the oldest porn palaces, the Mitchel Brothers O’Farrell Theatre in San Francisco, went from simply providing xxx entertainment to allowing customers to get an up close and personal feel for their dancers; in 1980 they altered their rules so that patrons could pay a buck to have one of the dancers sit on their lap. The benefits weren’t simply that more bodies came through the door, the trend took off because club owners then could pay dancers less money. And thus lap dancing was born, and George Washington’s face got a little more dirty.
I think that, judging by my moves and midget linebacker-like physique, I’d be paid to get the hell away from the potential recipient of a lap dance in a professional setting. Which makes me wonder, if this private performance doesn’t leave me in a body cast, maybe I can get paid to stop threatening people’s genitals with my awkward, spasmodic gyrations, kind of like a robbery where I use my body as a weapon.
In the meantime, you can get this lap dance here for free.