Some years ago, I was a young(er) male, locked into a supposedly committed relationship. My company, like so many others, “offered” me a trip to Las Vegas to attend a trade show as part of a group of companies. So I heavily contemplated this for about the length of a single heartbeat and responded, “Yes it would be an honor to represent my fine company in Las Vegas for as long as is required.” I had never been.
A few weeks later, I find myself in a Las Vegas hotel room with 4 other men in the 25-35 age range. One is flying through the phone book calling each strip club with the same question, “Do you have full nude”? Over and Over. Eventually we settled on a club in the center of a very touristy area. Fortunately for the rest of us, one of the men was very religious and he turned down this adventure. This immediately made him in charge of all of our presence at the trade show the next day, should the evening last into the morning. That left me and three others to find the Sin in the City.
Now I had only ever been in a strip club once before, and that is a whole other story. I was a bit apprehensive about the whole thing. Not knowing what to do, what not to do, 
how I’d react to semi-naked women wanting my money. That and the other men were more experienced in gentleman clubs and I hate looking like a fool.
As the four of us entered the club, I was immediately beckoned by a very thin blond who wiggled a few feet above me on the low stage. One of my compatriots said “Give her a dollar man,” which I pulled out of my wallet and held up, as if I expected her to grab her purse and put it in. She instead leaned forward and squeezed the bill between her breasts letting my hand feel her warm skin as she pulled back. I was home.
As we were all standing in the center of the bar, simultaneously admiring and wondering, a perfect-ten D-cup blond walked up to my friend and offered him a lap dance. He countered saying he wasn’t feeling well and thought he had a cold coming on. She spent the next ten minutes telling him he needed chicken soup and rest, all while topless, surrounded by our 8 leering eyes.
I was able to look away for a moment and saw this woman, (this girl?) approach me. She looked about 19, with long brown hair, deep eyes, lovely and perky B cups, all in a package that couldn’t have been more than 115 pounds. Her stage name was Cheyenne and this was her fourth day as an “adult dancer.” She started talking to me and before I knew it, I was sitting in a chair at the edge of the room while she waved her body before me, sliding up and down my chest and pants, letting me inhale her entire being. All in the space of 3 minutes and $20.
And that’s when things changed. She kept sitting with me. And we talked. There in the money seats. I wasn’t paying anymore. She wasn’t dancing. It was really, like a date. Except that she was topless and we were anything but alone. We talked though 3 or 4 songs before another girl commented that she better get back to a more income-producing mode.
During our conversation we somehow came upon the fact that I had never been to a certain burger chain restaurant only found in the West. So she offered to meet me for lunch at said restaurant, right off the strip the next day. Soon enough, my friends and I had either run out of money or tired of enduring non-stop erections that had no satisfying end in sight, despite the view, and the night ended. 
So the next day, facing that ever present challenge of hope versus reality, three of us drove over to the restaurant. Not one of us really expected the stripper to meet the customer for lunch the next day. And there, in the restaurant, wearing a snug tank top and very short raggedy cutoffs, she stood, smiling as she saw me. I’m not sure how long it too my friends to pick their jaws up from the floor, but they left as she promised to take me anywhere I needed. Oh God, yes, please.
After lunch, we went to a small bar and had a drink or two. Okay, it was 2 pm or so but I was in Vegas, and she was a stripper. What would YOU have done??? We left the bar and she asked me to drive her car. I had asked her what her real name was, and she told me it was Mona Lisa. And I’m thinking, “This girl has two stage names and no real name.” At which point she picked up a letter from the floor her car, addressed, yes, to Mona Lisa. Last name withheld because no way I can remember what it was anyway.
While I was driving, she offered me a bag of Cinnamon Red Hots, those tiny bright red spicy candies. She held the bag in her lap and I reached over to take a few. Due to either my 
subconscious desire, or her intentional desire, I clumsily let a large pile of Red Hots fall from my hand, and right Into her crotch! I looked at her, and she looked at me, and said, “Go ahead.” So my hand was soon digging past the spicy candy for a far better treat. With a stoplight, my mouth went down too. Soon her pants were at her ankles as I drove her car and brought her to orgasm with my wet fingers.
Here I made a crucial mistake. I asked her to show me her breasts, since “you do that all the time now at the club.” In that instant I immediately went from ‘fun sexy guy I like hanging out with and will probably fuck,’ to ‘slimy guy from the strip club.’
She dropped me off back at the conference center, where I met the challenge of “No you didn’t!” with “Oh, yeah? Smell my fingers!” At least, for a while, I had found the Mona Lisa in Las Vegas.
