by Roderick Stewart

They were gorgeous. Half-naked young, bare-breasted women, dancing on stage, all performing for the audience below. Alcohol, raunchy music, and strobe lighting added just enough sexual tension for those attending.

I was with a group of people for a friend's Bachelor party. There was a total of seven of us, but I was the lone man out. The others had all been friends since high school, I only knew them through the groom via the occasional poker game at his house.

It was decided that for his last day as a Bachelor, we'd come to a strap bar, but never having been this close to an almost naked woman before, I felt nervous of certain reactions I'd have - and I was right. I was pitching a tent so high that if I was in the Scouts, I'd certainly earn a Merit badge.

The woman on the stage came down a flight of steps and came to our table, then she got on top and started dancing. My friends started hooting and hollering cat-calls and other horny expressions not safe for the common ear. I, on the other hand, was quiet. I couldn't stop staring at her luscious, bobbing breasts. They were huge, obviously surgically enhanced, but I didn't care. I desired to touch them, hold them in my hands, caress them with my hands. And in a way I got my wish, as she leaned over and squeezed my face between them, plastering my face and head with naked flesh.

When I emerged, my hair was ruffled and my face was red with embarrassment. I was never one for the centre stage, but the dancer had me the star of the show. "Thank you," I muttered out.

"You're welcome, sweetie," she said in a soft, honey tone voice. "You looked like you needed it."

After her session was over, she retired back stage. My face still plump red with embarrassment, my friends, instead of encouraging comments of "Way to go, . . . !", they laughed heartedly at how much of a fool she made me look in front of the entire strap bar audience. I hated being laughed at for anything, and immediately my erection dropped. I was all ready to run outside, when another woman in a tight, two piece bikini, handed me a small card, the same size of a business card, and said, "Follow me, sweetie. She wants to talk to you."

Speechless, I stood up - turned briefly to my friends who were also speechless - and followed the woman backstage to a dressing room. The women left me standing outside the door. I wasn't sure what to do, so I knocked. "Come in," said a familiar soft, honey tone voice. And I entered the dressing room.

There sitting completely naked facing the door, in a chair next to a table and mirror, her clothes on a rack, was the stripper to whom gave me a face wash with her breasts. She stood up, and dry mouth immediately parched my throat. I leaned forward slightly, my knees bent, to hide my obvious reaction. But it was no use. She knew the signs of desire, and I had them.

"You'll hurt yourself."


"You aren't like those horn-dogs that were with you, you have kind eyes. That's why I focused on you instead of one of them."

I put my hands over my crouch. "I'm sorry, I can't help it. I'll be honest, you're so beautiful. I'm a virgin. All my friends either have girlfriends or are married."

"And why don't you have girlfriend? You'd be a good catch."

"I have a bit of a confidence problem."

"You shouldn't have low self-esteem, you're a good looking guy." She then smiled. "I know what will bring that confidence up. Come here."

"What are you going to do?"

"The question is: what are we going to do."

It was an hour later when I emerged back into the main area of the strip bar. My friends were still seated at the table, and they asked me where I had been.

My enlarged smile told them a lot, but I couldn't help bragging.