Most every year the strip club convention was the same
routine: a handful of seminars on legal issues facing
gentlemen’s clubs, presented by the lawyers who specialized
in tackling them; dozens of feature entertainers signing
autographs for the casual conventioneers while their agents
talked to club owners and booked a place for them on the
circuit; a few demonstration stages for displaying new
concepts in exotic entertainment, and for the myriad
strippers to display some tried and true concepts.
This year’s meeting, however, had a theme: the new American
dollar coin. Two decades before, the silver colored Susan B.
Anthony dollar coins had failed to displace the paper one
dollar bill. This time, the U. S. treasury department was
trying a gold coin featuring Sacajawea.
The organizers did not expect the new Sacajawea coin to make
a huge impact on the industry. The loss of the one dollar
bill might mean the end to tipping dancers on stage. No big
loss: the owners of the clubs never saw any of that money,
anyway, and the real money for the strippers came from
private dances. But any theme was better than no theme, so
the organizers went with it.
To their surprise, the theme attracted a set of first time
exhibitors willing to demonstrate their ideas for using the
new coin in strip clubs. That small increase led to an early
shortage of exhibition space, which in turn created the
illusion that conference registration would be difficult to
obtain, which brought a rush of early registrations. For the
first time ever, the conference sold out their entire block
of reserved hotel space.
Organizers went from elation over the enthusiasm, to mania
over the extra work they created for themselves, to anxiety
over what the hell next year’s theme could possibly be. But
they knew the heightened interest was primarily among
insiders. They did not expect much media attention, let
alone the government.
The Las Vegas authorities treated it like any other
convention, of which there were hundreds every year. The
treasury hadn’t noticed; they were busy enough with the
coin’s release, and the secret service had a presidential
election to worry about. But for two FBI agents whose
caseload consisted entirely of policing the adult industry,
the conference held interest. So it was that Special Agents
Gerald Maytag and Heather Stanton, known disparagingly by
their colleagues as “booty cops” or “g-men with g-strings”,
had registered for the conference.
Maytag and Stanton pinned the conference identification they
received to the lapels of their conservative suits. Their
first names were printed in large bold-faced letters, their
last names in smaller block letters underneath, and the
organization they represented (“FBI” in this case) in
italics just above a bar code.
Maytag looked at his partner. “Ready to go, Heather?” he
asked sarcastically.
“Absolutely, Gerry.”
On entering the hall, their attention was drawn to the
display directly in front of them. Two women, dressed barely
in bikinis, stood smiling, posing, and jiggling, on a small
mountain of ice. Blue lights illuminated the small iceberg,
which was also decorated with two foot high numbers carved
out of its face that read, “2000”. Music pulsed from unseen
speakers, and a small crowd had assembled to watch.
“Is that ice?” Stanton asked.
“It certainly looks that way,” Maytag answered.
“Isn’t that a little dangerous?”
“In those heels?” Maytag replied, staring at the dancers,
enjoying their smiling almost as much as their jiggling.
“Yeah, I’d say it’s dangerous.”
The two walked closer and saw that it was not as treacherous
as it appeared. The dancers jiggled on a platform merely
surrounded by ice. In the same large demonstration area was
a second such platform, without the ice. It resembled a
truncated cone. The top acted as the platform, and the
bottom spread out into a lip to hold the ice. There were two
drains on either side of the lip, and a staircase that led
up the back side of the cone to the platform.
The music faded to allow a salesman to make his pitch, but
the dancers continued their gyrations. The salesman spoke:
“Plastic Party Concepts, the people who brought you the
lightest and most portable Birthday Cake a girl ever popped
out of, is proud to open the new century with a new concept
in staging: THE ICE DREAM! It makes a dramatic setting that
your customers will never forget.”
“Especially if one of those dancers slips and breaks her
ankle,” Stanton said.
The barker went on, “It’s easy to store, and easy to set up.
You can order a custom stencil for the name of your club to
achieve the same effect as the ‘2000’ we have here, or
simply fill the reservoir with ice cubes and use the stage
as a cooler. Imagine how fast you can sell bottled beer from
a setting like this! Or for higher profit margins, put vodka
and schnapps on the ice and sell shots.”
“Their marketing people really gave this some thought,” said
Maytag.
The salesman continued. “Even if people throw coins in it
for luck, you still make money. Sacajawea dollars would be
great, and even quarters add up after a while. But that’s
not all!”
“We get a free gift?” asked Stanton.
“Clubs have tried everything to tap into the fetish market,
from oil wrestling to watered down bondage acts. But your
customers have never seen ANYTHING like THIS!”
Acting on cue, the dancers turned around, revealing just how
little the bikinis actually covered. Out of sight of the
audience, they pulled their bikini bottoms off to one side.
Crouching down, they positioned their asses over the ice and
made small figure eights in the air.
“LET IT RIP, LADIES!” called the announcer. The strippers’
bodies tensed up. Two short bursts of urine hit the ice,
followed by more steady flow. Gold drops rained down on the
mountain of ice, melting a small channel in the side. The
bright spray turned to a straw colored stream as it flowed
to the bottom. The girls used one hand to hold the bikini
bottom to the side, and used the other to reach behind them
and steady their ass. They rolled their heads back as if in
the grip of passion.
“And not only will your audience appreciate the depravity,”
added the barker, “but you’ll turn rest room breaks into a
profitable activity!”
“That must be against some kind of law,” said Stanton.
“Probably more than one,” Maytag replied. “But I don’t think
any of them are federal. Leave it to the Vegas PD. Let’s
walk around.”
“Gladly!”
The pair walked along a row of smaller booths, some flush
with men trying to get a view of one starlet or another.
Maytag spotted a booth hawking a concept called dancer
dollars.
“The idea is the same as casino chips,” the man explained.
“The customer is more likely to part with this stuff than
real money. Plus, you can charge a transaction fee, so that
you make a profit before they even spend any of them.”
“Clever,” said Stanton.
“That’s right, Heather. We think the Sacajawea coin will
really help us expand. Customers will feel like they have
their cheap dollar option back, and clubs can make a nice
sum from selling them. Now, let’s see, you two are from…”
He adjusted his glasses to read the smaller italic print on
their cards. Then his face fell.
“Oh.” His eyes widened. “I assure you this is completely
legal.”
“Don’t worry, Adam,” Maytag said, using the same technique
of reading the cards that Adam had employed earlier. “I’m
sure it is. But I’m curious about how you prevent
counterfeiting.”
“I’m glad you asked,” he said and started his pitch.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Stanton said, “but I need to
excuse myself for a moment.”
“You should have thought of that before we left the house.
Or were you inspired by the ice show?” Maytag asked. “I’m
sure they would let you use the facilities.”
“Funny, Maytag. But I left all my thongs at home.”
* * *
When Maytag learned enough about the security measures, he
said goodbye and wandered around some more. Another large
demonstration area held a large crowd. A salesman dressed in
a bathrobe, of all things, was flanked on either side by two
more mostly naked jiggling showgirls.
“We’ve told you about LapGear, now we want to give you the
chance to try it! Now I’m sure Jasmine and Sage here can
convince plenty of you to volunteer, so I have a few trivia
questions. Are you ready?”
His question was greeted silence, but that never stopped a
salesman.
“I said, ‘Are you READY?'”
The crowd eked out a weak “yeah” and a small crack of
applause.
“OK,” continued the huckster in the bathrobe, “in honor of
Sacajawea I have a few questions. First, Sacajawea was whose
guide?”
“Lewis and Clark!” a man yelled from the right of the stage.
“Correct! Come on up, sir!” Sage and Jasmine clapped their
hands and bounced a bit in congratulations.
“And what were Lewis and Clark going?”
A man in front raised his hand and spoke, but not loud
enough to hear where Maytag stood.
“Correct again! They were going to the Oregon territory to
find trade routes. C’mon up!” Sage and Jasmine bounced more,
and greeted this man with hugs and kisses.
“All right! Last question! What president sent them to
Oregon?”
There was silence for a moment, which surprised Maytag. He
thought the question was easy. “Jefferson,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the announcer, pointing at Maytag.
“Did you answer?”
Maytag could see inside his robe for a moment and it looked
like the salesman wore a diaper. What the hell! Maytag
thought.
“Sir?” the barker repeated.
“Jefferson,” Maytag said.
“CORRECT!”
The salesman invited him on stage, people slapped him on the
back. He made his way up the stairs and received a hug from
the herb girls. They wore bright red lipstick and sweet
perfume.
“OK, guys, go backstage and get in your LapGear while the
girls get warmed up!”
A third dancer that Maytag had not seen before held back a
curtain and showed them the way back stage. “Are you
Rosemary or Ginger?” Maytag asked as he walked past . She
didn’t get the joke.
Behind the curtain, an assistant handed them each a small
bag, and led them to three makeshift dressing rooms. “Make
it snappy,” said the assistant. “And don’t forget the lube!”
The bag, labeled “LapGear” in bold blue letters, held a
small tube and what looked like a diaper. It was a white
pair of jockey shorts, padded in front, with a slick outside
that Maytag thought was spandex. The inside was more of a
plastic. A red dot was printed on the inside with letters
reading “lube here”.
“Hurry it up,” barked the assistant. Maytag heard loud dance
music and wolf whistles from the crowd.
Maytag kicked off his shoes, skinned his pants, and threw
his boxers in the bag. He slipped on the bizarre jockeys,
and squeezed some lube on the red dot. The jockeys were
tight around his legs and waist, but left a lot of wiggle
room in front.
“Let’s GO!” came the order. It was a good thing there was
someone yelling, otherwise Maytag would have time to think
about how ridiculous this all was.
He pulled on his pants, stepped into his shoes and emerged.
The other two joined him in a moment. The assistant herded
them to the stage, then signaled the salesman.
“Ok, guys, let’s give our lucky LapGear gang a hand!”
The assistant pushed them through the curtain. “Show time!”
A dancer took each of them by the hand and led them over to
one of three couches. Jasmine or Sage led Maytag to his
seat. The announcer yelled, “Guys, you have NEVER had a lap
dance like THIS! Hit it, ladies!”
Maytag heard that and wondered if she was going to piss on
him.
“Just sit back, Gerry, and put your arms out to the side.”
“Are you Jasmine?” Maytag asked.
“Sage,” she answered. “Now spread your legs a little.”
Maytag complied, and Sage nestled between his knees,
twisting, rising and falling, in a short slinky series of
motions. Sage leaned into him and supported her weight by
grabbing the top of the couch. Her chestnut hair hung over
his face and he could smell her shampoo.
Sage put one knee next to Maytag’s thigh and rubbed the
inside of her leg against the top of his. “Slide down a
little,” she instructed him.
After Maytag slumped in his seat, Sage brought her second
knee on the couch and straddled him with strong, tanned
thighs. She pressed against his crotch, pushing the jockeys
against his dick and spreading the lubricant around in the
process.
“Right about now,” announced the salesman, “these guys are
getting the first taste of what LapGear is all about.”
Sage bent over so Maytag’s face nuzzled against her breasts.
Her pelvis pushed back as she moved forward, and Maytag felt
the firm flesh of her ass. She wiggled.
Gyrating so that her ass traced a circle in Maytag’s lap,
Sage dragged Maytag’s pants over the smooth surface of the
jockeys and the friction passed directly to his cock and
balls. Blood surged into his prick. It twitched.
For the audience’s benefit, the salesman narrated. “Those
lovely bottoms that everyone in the audience can see just
push those guys’ pants against them like a dust cloth. The
smooth surface of the LapGear shorts offer no resistance. No
bunching up of fabric. All they feel is smooth rock
polishing!”
Actually, Maytag felt a little more, because Sage had her
tongue in his ear and her fingers in his hair. His cock
responded and grew faster than the budget deficit in an
election year.
The salesman kept up at the sales pitch. “And if those guys
should lose control and ‘shoot the moon’ so to speak, no one
will know, because LapGear is designed not to leak!”
Sage pushed against him with her full weight. Her breasts
heaved in his face and her gluteus maximus rolled over his
stiff rod. The slippery staff squirted back and forth inside
the wet vinyl shorts.
“That’s better,” Sage purred. “I like standing ovations.”
The grinding began in earnest. Sage rocked back and forth on
his cock. Subtle hints of sweat mixed with her perfume. It
was mechanical, but it was engaging. Maytag hadn’t noticed
that the emcee had been asking the other men questions until
the microphone was in his face. “Huh?” asked Maytag.
The crowd laughed and the announcer said, “Well, that is
certainly one satisfied customer.”
More laughter, and the salesman in his bathrobe turned back
to the sofas. “OK, ladies, give ’em some air. Guys, let’s
give them a big hand!”
The crowd applauded loudly, and the ladies bowed. Maytag saw
that Sage’s ass looked as good as it felt. Then he wondered
how he was going to stand up and leave the stage.
* * *
Stanton’s trip to the ladies’ room was brief: in a
convention attended mostly by men, lines for toilets were
not a problem. She wandered around looking for Maytag and
anything that might be of interest. The first thing she
found was the coin suit.
The possibility of a dancer walking around stage without a
wad of one dollar bills stuck in her garter had troubled
some one enough to design the coin suit. It was a way for
money to continue to adorn strippers while allowing for the
money to be coins.
A complicated series of tubes and chutes wrapped over the
shoulders, over and between the breasts, spiraled down the
legs and went a few other choice places of interest. The
idea was to slip a coin into one of the openings and watch
it traverse the woman’s body, guided by the tubes.
What impressed her the most, though, was how the woman
wearing the suit used it. As the coin snaked along her
torso, the dancer spun so that it always faced the crowd.
Just as it reached her knee, she started into a cartwheel to
halt its motion. Standing on her hands, she lifted her leg
above horizontal and coaxed the coin into flowing back down
her thigh and along a path that very much held the
attention.
The dancer kept the coin suspended in the tube. She did not
allow it to exit until she willed it. She was skilled and
professional. The performance was alluring and graceful.
What a shame, Stanton thought, that those attributes counted
for nothing in the world of strip clubs. Maybe it had a
place in modern dance.
When the dance was over, Stanton joined others in applause,
and left. Roaming the hall, she unexpectedly encountered the
chance for mischief. Naturally, she seized it. Naturally,
she needed to find Maytag. He was nowhere in sight. Growing
desperate, Stanton considered shouting out Maytag’s name. To
her surprise, someone did it for her.
“Gerry, I won’t bother you with any more questions! Let’s
all give Gerry a big hand!”
Stanton walked in the direction of the loudspeaker and saw a
raised stage with a man in a bathrobe and three women
wearing even less. Sure enough, Maytag was also there,
waving to a small crowd and stepping down from the stage. It
seemed he was doing a fine job getting into trouble without
her.
Stanton hurried to meet him before she lost sight of him. “A
little audience participation, I see?” Stanton greeted
Maytag.
“You won’t believe this, but I was asked to demonstrate my
knowledge of US history.”
“You’re right, I don’t believe it. Follow me, I wanna show
you something.”
Maytag wanted to take off his LapGear shorts before doing
anything. “Wait a second, I need to use the men’s room.”
“You shoulda thoughta that before we left the house!”
Stanton mocked him. “Now let’s go, or we’ll lose our place
in line.”
“What do you mean, ‘place in line’?” Maytag asked as he
followed his partner’s steps. Stanton moved rather quickly
for someone in pumps, Maytag thought.
“Just a little more audience participation,” Stanton said
over her shoulder.
Maytag didn’t like the sound of that, and when they reached
their destination, he liked what he saw even less. Not that
he could see past the crowd, but he could make out the sign,
“Sex 2000: The Lap Dance Robot”
“Lap dance robot?” he asked.
“Yep,” Stanton replied, grinning. “It’s like a mechanical
bull, only in reverse. You sit on the couch, and it rides
you. Your turn should be coming up soon.”
Maytag was apprehensive. “Stanton, if you like this idea so
much, you should try it.”
“Oh, I’ll try new things. But trust me, this thing is
designed with your anatomy in mind. It would be a waste of
time for me.”
The two worked their way to the rope barrier where they had
a clear view of the robot. It was unmistakably mechanical.
The body was a series of segments: chest, thighs, calves,
upper arms, head, and so on, with gaps at the major joints
exposing the polished chrome armature to view. The robot’s
figure appeared athletic and androgynous; only extra padding
(and a generous amount at that) representing breasts
indicated a sex for the robot.
“I wonder if it’s coin operated, keeping with the theme and
all that.”
“Could be. And here I am with no spare change!”
“I think this one is on the house,” Stanton replied.
“Next up for a ride,” cried the host of the show, “Gerry
Maytag!”
“I also think you’re next,” Stanton added. She clapped along
with the others as Maytag ducked under the rope and made his
way over to the robot.
Closer to the robot, Maytag saw that its feet were anchored
to the ground, or more correctly, a box. He guessed the box
held the driving mechanism and power supply for the robot.
The robot looked as if it sat in a sofa on the platform, but
its rear end hovered above the cushion. The robot’s arms
reached back and supported its weight. As Maytag approached,
the robot’s pelvis thrust forward and created more space
between itself and the sofa.
“Ok, Gerry, scoot right on in,” instructed the host, who
Maytag now thought of as the robot’s pimp.
Maytag ducked underneath one arm, twisted around to face out
from the chair again, and slid underneath the robot. The
robot’s back end was as full and round as Sage’s, a
testament to both the good taste of the robot’s designers
and the exemplary form of Sage’s ass.
“Just relax, Gerry,” advised the pimp. “She’s gonna take a
seat.” Maytag heard a low whir and the robot began to lower
into his lap. Firm padding, Maytag noted.
The pimp threw a switch and the robot’s bottom rocked gently
in place. “This is the idle mode,” the pimp explained. “You
control the speed and intensity.”
Maytag looked around for some sort of dial or joystick. The
pimp laughed. “Man, that’s the best part of this demo! Try
her tits, Gerry!”
With both hands, Maytag reached around the robot’s back and
cupped the robot’s tits. As he did so, the rocking in his
lap increased in amplitude. Surprised, Maytag quickly pulled
his hands away. The pimp laughed again.
“No need to be shy, Gerry! This is what she does for a
living!”
The pimp threw another switch and Maytag heard a low moaning
noise, then a woman’s voice quietly whispered “oh yeah”. It
came from behind him.
“There’s speakers in the sofa,” the pimp confirmed. “She’ll
just do the simple ohs and ahs for you, but if want more
verbal stuff, just fiddle with her crotch a bit.”
“Anything else I should know about?” Maytag asked.
“Well, in the next model we want to put in a DVD player with
a small video display set into her back! For now the sense
of touch and hearing is gonna have to do, Gerry.” The pimp
turned to an unseen aide. “Let’s give him a little music!”
Maytag didn’t recognize the song. It had a heavy dose of
bass and not much else, but the beat was out of synch with
the robot’s motion. Reaching around the robot, Maytag took
hold of her breasts and tried to pick up the pace a bit.
Her breasts (given the situation, Maytag was compelled to
think of the robot as a she rather than an it) were elastic
but not as soft as a woman’s supple tit. The feel was
similar to the gel padding of a bicycle seat, or those hand
held desk toys that people squeeze to relieve stress.
Experimenting, Maytag tried squeezing. In response, the
robot’s ass picked up speed, sliding faster against him.
The harder Maytag squeezed, the faster she went. He released
the grip a bit and then tightened, and eventually she
matched the beat of the music. Playing with her breasts,
Maytag discovered that if he lifted them up, the robot
responded by pushing down harder against his lap. His dick
began to swell again.
“I think he’s getting the hang of it!” the pimp announced to
the crowd.
There was more to learn. Maytag rubbed the breasts in a
circular motion, and the robot mirrored the action in his
lap. He lifted up with one tit and squeezed, and moved the
other in a gentle circle. She responded by pressing down
against his lap, and rubbing her ass against his growing
erection in a wide circle.
Just as with Sage, the pants glided easily against his
jockey shorts, and his dick slid around inside the greased
garment under the downward force of the robot’s backside.
Maytag wanted to play with the voice controls. He dropped
one hand to her crotch. The robot switched from circular
swings of her ass back to the back and forth rocking. He
still held the other tit high and tight, so the speed and
pressure were maintained. The furrow of her ass brushed up
and down along the length of his shaft. It was highly
mechanical, and highly engaging.
Fingers drifted across the bald, featureless crotch. Maytag
had no idea what he was searching for, but he was rewarded
early in his exploration with a louder moan. He pushed down
against that spot.
“Oh, yes,” she cooed. Her voice was human: raspy and
throaty.
Maytag swirled his digits. She talked. “Oh I love that hard
cock against my ass. Do you like my ass baby?” Reacting to
the stimulus, Maytag pushed her tit higher, and she
responded with a tighter grind.
“Yeah, baby,” she said. Maytag increased his finger work.
“Your cock feels so good baby. I love that big thing against
my tight ass!”
Maytag squeezed with both hands. The robot’s ass doubled in
speed and she let out a moan, almost a squeal, that even the
pimp could hear.
“Goddamn, look at that boy go!” the pimp exclaimed. “We’re
gonna have to give her joints an extra coat of grease when
he’s done with her!”
Tirelessly, the robot continued her frenzied lap dance.
Between ohs and ahs, Maytag heard the unmistakable sound of
heavy breathing. He kept squeezing, and went back to rubbing
her crotch. “I love that hard fucking cock!” she cried.
The two were doing an excellent job of pushing each other’s
buttons. The robot bucked wildly against his throbbing tool.
Maytag’s fingers fiddled at her crotch. “I want you to
fucking come, baby!” she said. Could she tell, Maytag
wondered?
The crowd could certainly see that this was not the ordinary
demo. They had started a low chant of “go, go, go”. Mouth
agape, Stanton watched as Maytag increased the tempo and the
chanting grew louder.
It was beginning to be too much for Maytag: the recent
encounter with Sage; the pounding bass of the music and the
cheering crowd pushed him further along; the relentless pace
and force of the robot’s firm ass. His climax was imminent.
The pimp guessed it, the crowd wanted it. Hell, even the
robot knew it.
“Come, baby! I love that big fat prick!”
Maytag shuddered and hot semen coursed through his engorged
shaft. The robot pressed down so hard that each spurt felt
like a tiny fire in his cock. Maytag twitched, then seized
up. The robot’s pace varied wildly. The shock of his orgasm
subsided. He relaxed his grip on her tit and she slowed
gradually to the gentle idling. He continued to rub her
crotch lightly. “That was wonderful,” she said.
“Thank you,” Maytag said quietly.
“I hope you’ll stop by and see me again,” she said. Maytag
smiled, and drew his hand away from her crotch. He planted a
small kiss on her back, just below the chrome knot of her
neck.
He slid out from under her arm and stood. Maytag reached in
his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped the bit of
perspiration from his forehead. The crowd greeted him with a
mixture of laughter and applause.
“Goddamn, Gerry!” said the pimp. He took Maytag’s hand and
shook it enthusiastically. “That was the fastest I’ve ever
seen her move with a person under her! Most guys can’t take
the friction!”
“They need to try LapGear,” Maytag said.
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” Gerry said. But that reminded him to check for
spillage. He glanced down and saw no sign of body fluids.
For that matter, there was no robot grease, either.
Although he was having trouble walking, Maytag did his best
to make a smooth exit from the stage. He looked remarkably
composed. Stanton commented on that.
“What do you mean by that?” Maytag questioned her.
“Well, the way that whole thing went,” Stanton replied. “I
mean I would have sworn that–”
“I think that would be tough to hide,” Maytag declared. He
then held out his arms to invite inspection.
“Right you are,” said Stanton. “You certainly look nice and
dry.”
Of course, he wasn’t. He had wanted to get out of his
specialized jockeys after leaving the first stage. It had
become even more desirable after the robot lap dance. “I
could use that trip to the men’s room, now, however,” Maytag
remarked.
“Perfect!” Stanton exclaimed. “I signed you up for the ice
follies. You’re on in five minutes!”