But then, halfway through the first song Rabo moved one of his hands from my waist. I expected him to grab a boob or worse, try to stick his hands down my underwear, but he did neither. He reached up and touched my cheek.
This was very strange, and only became stranger when he slid his hand behind my head, running his fingers through my hair and pulling my forehead against his. Suddenly I understood the point of lapdances. They are not exactly about sex, though sex is certainly a factor.
Primarily lapdances are about intimacy; they are almost like rambunctious cuddling for those who have no one to cuddle.
This is not to say that there aren’t guys who wear sweatpants and basketball shorts to strip clubs in an effort to actually get off during a dance. Those guys totally exist and I have never met a stripper who doesn’t take great satisfaction from giving such men “air dances”, the term for a lapdance that doesn’t so much take place on the lap as a few inches above it. The look of frustration on a rude patron’s face combined with his total inability to say anything is entirely worth the muscle pains and occasional leg cramps that frequently accompany air dances.