The Debauchery Journal

Photo credit: Bodylogue



I’m neither drunk nor high, but I definitely have a buzz. I’ve had several shots of tequila and I’m pretty sure my lungs have forgotten what clean air tastes like. I can’t decide whether it’s fortunate or unfortunate, but I have a very high tolerance for alcohol. I’m in a strip club; my first time, and I really don’t know how to describe the experience. Well, I do, but I don’t know if I can capture the true essence of the feeling. 

The stripper sitting in my friend’s lap marvels at how I down the liquor without flinching, and my girlfriend tells her I’ll be fine. This is like sparkling water to me, never mind that it’s a bottle of the strongest tequila they have. 

In return for helping with his thesis, a friend of ours promised he’d take my girlfriend and I to a strip club and he kept his word. When we got here, I didn’t pay for admission. One of the bouncers had been trying to fuck me when I was living in Dzorwulu. He’s a gym instructor. Truth be told, his face is good to look at, with a body to match. He’s got well- toned muscles from hours spent in the gym. However, I prefer more organically grown muscles, like the tautness in the arms of a mason who got ripped from years of lifting heavy bags of cement concrete blocks. There’s also the part where I’m gay. Besides, I think dad bods would be more fun to touch than toned ones. I’ve always preferred soft to hard. I digress. He doesn’t know I’m gay, and if his ignorance means I’m going to get admitted into a strip club for free, may his lack of knowledge be the source of his perishing. 

Men tend to want rewards for the things they do for women and I expect the day of reckoning would come soon. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. 

When we step into the club, it feels like we’ve entered a different dimension. Firstly, it’s very loud and I can feel the bass in my chest. It’s also poorly lit because light has no business in a den of debauchery. Any lights that are on are either blue, red or flashing. We take a turn and are greeted with the sight of women in various states of undress. I like it here. 

My first lap dance is fun. I don’t know what the rules are so I refrain from touching. The dancer is having none of it and wraps my hands around her. She encourages me to touch her, and I do. Her beads are pretty and her dance is hot. I haven’t recovered from her efforts yet when she changes places with another dancer. Oh boy! 

I’m sure I’ll go to strip clubs many more times to come, and perhaps I’ll have better dances than this one. I will never forget it though, because god, it’s the most vigorous lap dance you would ever receive. This woman expertly and methodically wakes up every part of my body. She’s not just dancing for me, she’s seducing me. I have never been turned on by another woman since I met my girlfriend. This changes at once and I don’t feel guilty about it because to my right, my girl and her dancer are all but fucking. I think I’d be jealous but instead, I find the visual of another woman touching her extremely arousing. I whisper this into her ear and she kisses me. After the dances are over and we’re catching our breaths, she tells me that she finds the idea of watching me fuck another woman very hot and we decide on the spot that a threesome isn’t very far in our future. 



Between now and the previous paragraph, I have gotten progressively high. Right now, my girlfriend is playing with my right boob and I’m rather enjoying it. I’m very high, and it’s a delectable feeling. I don’t know why I’m writing in a strip club, but when the muse comes, she comes. It also helps drown out the overly loud music and the raucous sound of drunk men. 

I’m too high to exist. I say this to my girlfriend and she agrees. She’s high as shit too and is holding on to me, as I hold on to her. I don’t know what strain was in the slim blunt one of the strippers deigned to share with us, but it was some really good shit. I haven’t been this far gone in literal years. I would be freaking out if I don’t already have experience with all the deliciously fucked up things cannabis does to your mind. 

I’ve mastered the art of matter over mind. Most people talk about mind over matter, expressing a need to superimpose the power of your mind on the power of your body.  Sometimes though, your mind is the enemy. Such a time is right now when I’m higher than the spires on the Notre Dame de Paris Cathédrale. 

The cathedral is 420 feet long. Tell me that’s a coincidence. I don’t know why I’m thinking of spires. Maybe it’s all the poles I’m surrounded by. 

Anyway, weed fucks with your mind, especially when it’s a sativa strain and this weed is throwing a fucking party in my brain. However, after my second mishap with weed, I taught myself to understand that anything I feel while I’m high is all in my head. It’s not easy, but it’s doable and I’m doing it. The music is too loud, the shisha is fucking fragrant and there are breasts everywhere. My girlfriend always tells me that if I died before my time, it would most likely be because of boobs. I am not inclined to disagree. 

When we got here, we sat in a booth in a less lively area of the club. Uchiha (our friend) suggested we go to a more crowded area but we elected to stay. We liked the pace of the area. There was a young woman climbing up and down a pole that was literally a step away from our booth. She was wearing ten-inch heels (I asked this dancer who gave me quite a vigorous lap dance later because I really have zero knowledge about feminine footwear), and I marvelled at how she was able to keep her balance in such miniature Everests, let alone ascend and descend the pole with such alacrity. Whenever she came down, it was as if she was walking in the air in slow motion, her legs descending some stairs only she could see. 

My girlfriend tells me she needs to pee, and I find I do too. Making our way through the now crowded club isn’t easy. We’re both very unsteady on our feet and we hold on to each other for dear life. In the washroom, someone assumes we’re entering the stall to fuck and says we both can’t go in. We ignore her and go in together anyway. 

It’s nearly four am when we leave the club. We’re giggling as we climb into the backseat of my friend’s car. We can’t keep our hands off each other and before he even starts the engine, we’re making out. You would too if you’d spent the past few hours surrounded by naked female bodies. 

We approach a police checkpoint and we break apart, pretending to be checking something on our phones. The policeman assumes it’s an Uber and we’re passengers. The second we’re out of sight, my friend tells us to carry on. He’s been watching us through the rearview mirror, and the idea that we’re giving him a show makes the entire experience even more heady. She presses my face into her tits and I moan in delight. My girlfriend has the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen on a woman, and I never tire of touching them. In the haze of my desire, it registers that she’s unfastening my belt and unzipping my fly. 

“Suck on the other one.” 

I obey her breathy command and gasp around her hard nipple when I feel her fingers part my folds and enter my pussy. 

“Jesus, you’re wet.” 

“Of course I’m wet. I’m making out with the hottest woman on the planet.” I talk with my mouth full, and my words end on a moan as her finger lightly brushes my clit. 

At this time of day, the roads are free and it doesn’t take us long to get home. My shirt is fully unbuttoned and my jeans would be around my ankles when I step out if I don’t hold them up. My boobs are out of my shirt and we’ve no idea where the keys are. The second we step into the apartment, we strip each other hurriedly. 

My desire is roaring in my ears. We’re both still very high, and our movements are uncoordinated but who gives a shit? We’re both here, at this moment, lost to the allure of each other’s bodies, and that’s all that matters. She tells me to put on some music because she’s about to make me scream and we don’t want to alarm the neighbours. Shivering in delicious anticipation, I find my Amaarae playlist and turn it up. 

By the time we’re both too spent to move anymore, the sun is up and the birds are fully talkative. I smile as I drift off. 

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