An excerpt from Grope by Dayvid Figler:

“My folks were serious hippies,” she said, “I’ve never jacked anyone off before but I dreamt about it last night. Do you know where dreams come from? Have you ever had a dream that came true?”
Dreams? Sure. Getting jacked off by a stripper who has never jacked anyone off. It was pure 4 a.m. bullshit in the expensive back room of the Juicy Fruit Hippo.
$150 to enter.
Additional $150 minimum once in.
3 dances giving all the shots and call drinks you can drink in three dances.
Pleasure was begging and promising in a very smooth tandem. I work in white collars. I earn. I had 400 dollars in my pocket because I didn’t know what else to do with 400 dollars. Sure there’s

Charity
New electronic items
Food
Partial rent
Money I owe phone sex creditors
A suit

Pleasure had me where I wanted me. Strangely, the fact that she looked like a ringer for my mother didn’t stop the progress -- my mother at 30 anyway.
“So how old do I look?”
“22?”
They always thank you for guessing low.
“Wow, thank you, I’m much older than that.”
“26?”
“I’ll be 27 in April.”
“Taurus?”
“I think. I’m also a monkey in Chinese.”
I did Chinese math. Aha! She’s 32.
On the other hand, I’m a goat and as such am best suited for a pig. There are an abundance of pigs around. Despite that, I am stuck with a monkey who looks like my mother and I am going with it. Also, as a goat, I thought it might be interesting to note that I am a creative creature who loves the esoteric and is most at home in my own mind. Also, don't overlook my considerable charm, it often carries the day.
I ran my fingers through her hair.
“Stop. Soon you’ll hit something that won’t be my hair anymore.”
My fingers hit the brawny fibers of the stripper’s wig. DAMN WIGS. At least the silver lining in the hairpiece revealed a distinction from dear old mom.
I’d been masturbated before in strip clubs. It happens like this...

Make sure to wear dark pants.
Look for a slutty, attractive, but not stunningly attractive girl.
Make eye contact.
Make sure she approaches you.
Measure her touchiness --
groin = lock; chest = probable.
When she asks if you want a dance, ask her, “is it especially good, better than the rest?”
She will invariably say yes, but listen for the tone.
Take a chance.
Once in the back, either she is into it or not.
There is never any discussion about it.
You look in her eyes and project you want it.
She will or won’t.
It doesn’t cost any more than a normal dance.
She looks around then surreptitiously places her hand on your groin and rhythmically strokes for the course of the song.

You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug.

Suit pants are preferable.
At the same time, there is an adept dance-like movement with her body so that no suspicion will arise in the other girls or security walking by.
Faster and faster. As one song melts into the next, she’ll lean over and whisper, “Does this feel good?”
Do not answer. Just gyrate hips in sync with her wrists.
Focus on the precision of the fingers and visualize an intense pushing of buttons by a demented concertina virtuoso flying through Rossini’s The Italian in Algiers.
You are satisfied. You are sticky.
On the rare, light pants day, look for a coast to be clear.
Feel the cold air-conditioning hit your wet thigh, then, fast, walk outside to your car to breathe heavy.
Wait for the winner of the race between chest and brain to be declared, then drive around until all evidence has dried hard into the threads of unwanted guilt.
Find a neighborhood dry cleaner who truly appreciates your business.