ASSCon Tampa, Sept. 3, 1998 - report 
Author: sixtyminman
Email: sixtyminman@hotmail.com
Date: 1998/09/09

MY SUMMER VACATION AT BIZARRO-DISNEY;
Or, Are You Sure Your Juices Will Wash Out of These Shorts Without a Pre-Soak?
By SixtyMinute Man

"Moderation is a fatal thing, Lady Hunstanton.  Nothing succeeds like
excess." - Oscar Wilde

Some families save up all their lives to go to Walt Disney World.  I recall
several of these families in my neighborhood when I was a kid, and their
pride as they displayed, upon their return, the EPCOT sweatshirts, character
autograph books, Mickey Mouse glassware and other cartoonish sacramentals
that memorialized their (to them, and us) glorious pilgrimages. I saw more of
those good people last week as I visited the parks when I was in Orlando for
a conference.  These are the people conspicuous by their gleeful expressions
of child-like wonder, and by their chipmunk-rapid speech while standing in
line for an hour in the withering August sun to get into the Lion King show.
In short, they are marked by the external signs of beatitude engendered by
their absolute faith in all things Disney.  Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for they shall inherit the Magic Kingdom.

Think of me as a tourist who just visited Bizarro-Disney.  I saved up lots of
money so I could drive on September 3 from Orlando to Tampa to visit my Disney
of strip clubs, Mons Venus, for a mini-ASSCon.  You have already read reports
from AgentQ and Squid.  Now that the sores have healed, I too am ready to give
my witness.

Pre-Show: the Crowd Assembles

It never occurred to me beforehand that an ASSCon can force one to confront
one of the fundamental pervo-epistemological questions: How do you know an
ASSCer when you see one?  Sitting down at the bar of Tia's Tex-Mex, I half
expected to find a small crowd of ASSCers already assembled and talking
loudly of ... I dunno, "mileage," PLs, lap technique and, of course, critical
issues like dancer orgasms and proper hygiene.  All the while laughing their
asses off and slapping each other on the back a lot.  And conversely, they
would see that I was flying *my* ASSC freak flag by attiring myself in the
softest possible cotton shorts (a special purchase these, BTW, and the result
of a way too careful planning).  And I was sporting my ASSCon-1 button just
in case.  Having found no one remotely ASSCish at any of the tables, I sat
down at the bar and assumed I was the first one to arrive. I sized up the one
other guy at the bar and excluded him as a possibility, thinking: short hair,
hmm he could be squid, (who's in the military), but he seems too
well-mannered, looks too much like an amateur entomologist.  And no
tentacles.  -- Wrong-o!  Fortunately being just a wee bit herky-jerky I
adjusted my ASSCon-1 pin to a more visible location and soon my fellow
bar-fly made the connection.  Squid, sorry if I first took you for an
entomologist.  But actually maybe the comparison is apt, as it is undeniable
that you are a person locked in the valiant struggle to study, document and
categorize every species of tittie bar in north Florida.  (Nabokov was an
entomologist too, and he wrote Lolita.)

Soon AgentQ bopped in, all sweaty and out of breath as he had double-timed it
on foot down Dale Mabry Highway (imagine!) from his motel to the restaurant.
No problem IDing him: a tall Asian with a leather jacket on a 90 degree day
is a rare sight. AgentQ, I don't know why you're being so mysterious about
the jacket.  He wore it not just to be identifiable to us for the ASSCon, but
because it's super cool - the artwork on the back is a replica of an Asian
pinup cutie circa WWII.  A real conversation starter, as he already stated.

At this point, the weeks of pent-up anticipation of lapping at Mons Venus was
beginning to put a strain on me.  I felt we were spending entirely too much
time waiting for the no-shows and then picking over our burritos and
chatting. I was hungry for the dessert course that awaited us across the
street and down the block. Sorry, guys, if I seemed impatient to get moving.

Act I: Dinner's Over, Let's Eat!

Mons Venus, as I approached it in the car from Tia's at around 8:45 pm,
looked entirely too rinky-dink from the outside to figure so large in my
imagination. I had visited once before, in '95, and from that point on I knew
I had found my El Dorado, that place of fabulous riches that most poor saps
struggle their entire lives to find, but die miserable and embittered. "Live
Nude Shows," reads a big cheesy sign over the entrance (I think).  That's
all.  Like the gateway to paradise marked by nothing more than a daffodil.

Side note: As I followed AgentQ and Squid into the entrance, I was too
agitated to do more than briefly glimpse the Mons Venus pornoabilia displayed
in a window.  Was it my delerium playing tricks on me, or do they *really*
sell a t-shirt with "Mons Venus Pussy Prints"?  (Draw your own Disney analogy
here.)

Act II: Waiting to Exhale

At this point I became acutely aware of the weeks of anticipation that had
built up to this night, and I was beginning to entertain doubts.  How could
this club possibly match the torrid and outrageous expectations I had come to
make of it in three cold winters of remembrance?  I perceived the apparent
nonchalance of AgentQ and the dubiousness of squid, who had never visited
Mons but seemed jaded.  I recall AgentQ speaking of the "kid in a candy
store" experience over dinner, and God knows he never stopped talking about
the one dancer there who stirs his loins; but he also talked about how he has
become so highly selective, and altogether my impression was that he regarded
Mons Venus with a much more jaundiced eye than I did.  All these thoughts
raced through my lapaholic-addled brain in the half minute it took to enter
the club and pay the $15 cover: overwhelming doubts and perturbations: this
place will be a rip-off joint the girls will be skanks I will die in agony on
a crucifix of insufferable hype and stripper shit.  Alack! St. Rudy, deliver
me!

Uh, hold on a second there Rudy.  On second thought, why don't you wait
outside.

I took my invisible stamp like a man and waded into the crowd.  "Waded,"
indeed! For here the dominant Disney metaphor must become that of the water
parks. Poon-Tang Lagoon, Boobie Beach.  In no time I was submerged in female
pulchritude of every bootylicious variety. Squid's report was accurate --
Mons Venus was about half full and there were probably almost as many dancers
there (70?) as customers.  I was bathed on all sides by beautiful women.  In
a matter of seconds, my doubts and perturbations had dissolved in a frothy
sea of a fleshly feeding frenzy.

Squid and AgentQ both referred to me as "MIA" in their trip reports.  To this
I plead: guilty, guilty, guilty. I fully realize that the primary purpose of
an ASSCon is, or should be, to hang around with other ASSCers and only
occasionally to partake of the waters.  Forgive me, friends.  I was overcome
by a force even stronger than the bonds of ASSC fellowship.  Next time if
you're going to include me, maybe we should meet where there will be fewer
distractions...

It seems almost ludicrous to catalog the women I got laps from, since it
seemed like an almost random process at the time.  The first dancer scooped
me up within a couple of minutes after we entered.  I don't remember her
name, but it's just as well, as she thought I had just fallen off the turnip
cart and wanted to charge me $25 a song. I quickly adjusted that to the
standard $20, though I was irked by her apparent agreement to come down in
price owing to the fact that I was a "repeat customer"!  Great lap, though
...  Serena, whose aggressive and repeated c'mon-you-wanna-play-with-me's
finally induced me to grant her a charity lap, actually turned out to give me
a memorable ride ... Meg, who induced knuckle-biting by walking around in no
more than a pair of tight fuzzy flannel pajama bottoms, was a very tall,
perfectly enhanced Mississippi girl with an extraordinarily beautiful back
(my weakness). Afterward I played Dave in Phoenix for a few minutes of bonus
backrubbing.  Talk about win-win ...  Gigi earned high praise later in the
evening for lapping me in the most gentle, erotically slow way, telling me
she realized how some of us guys got "knocked around pretty bad" by the lap
dancing.  This treatment came at just the time when Wee Willie needed it most
...  Then there was Squid's referral: Temptation, a sweet and sultry Cuban
whom I would not have picked myself, managed to show how wrong first
impressions could be.  Thanks, Squid ...  The dancer who really made me
"MIA," though, was Laura. She had me reeled in hook, line & weiner from the
first I laid eyes on her: a spirited blonde Tampa girl, all natural, and
beautiful lacy white lingerie that pushed all my buttons.  For most of our
laps I insisted that she dance while wearing the bra -- now how many guys
does she get who ask her to put clothes *on*?

I know I had other laps too, but those are the memorable ones.  God I'm such a
slut.

Later on, BadDog showed up.  Was that a Hawaiian shirt you were wearing,
BadDog?  Should've worn mine.  BadDog is a talkative and funny guy who knows
how to have a good time.  I should add that he lives in Tampa.  How do you
keep any money in the bank, BadDog?

My one big regret of the night was my failure to get a lap from AgentQ's ATF.

Act III: Mopping Up (Random Observations)

1. Mons is the big leagues.  I confirmed the impression I had formed on my
first visit: at this club you cannot go wrong.  Most of the women qualify as
goddesses, and where I come from they would cause panic. I had the bizarre
experience of having to turn many of them down.  AgentQ, I don't know why you
bother to be selective!

2. I love white lacy lingerie. (Sorry, did I already mention that?)

3. A glimpse into either of the dancers' dressing rooms (in back behind the
stage or in the women's bathroom) is a sight that cannot be described in
words.

4.  BadDog = Lucky Dog

5. In the middle of a lap dance, one dancer mentioned to me that she had just
returned from the dressing room where she had been crying for half an hour
because some idiot customer had squeezed her nipples so hard.  This had
several effects on me, in roughly this order: compassion, difficulty
expressing the right thing to say, loathing of men, loathing of idiots, a
limp dick, a firm resolution to carry on regardless.

6. I often have a problem talking meaningfully to dancers in SCs.  At Mons
Venus I had no such problem.  For some reason the openness and looseness of
the club made it very easy to feel comfortable and even say some things that
made them laugh.  I conclude tentatively from this that the strict rules
enforced in most SCs create an oppressive culture that makes everybody
inhibited.  I wish every club could be like Mons, even if just in regard to
its socially comfortable atmosphere.

7. This has been stated many times, but I will reiterate: Mons Venus is *not*
a nasty club.  The women are among the most beautiful anywhere and the laps
they give are intensely erotic and high-contact, but this is not the place to
expect extra services.  To call it a Disney World of SCs, as someone recently
described it, was to bang a nail right on the head.

8. Did I mention Laura's white lingerie?

9. Total damage: $280

10.  I'll be back