Strip Club Epiphanies II

I started to watch the women at center stage ply their craft. Chairs line the curved edge of the oval-shaped, knee-high stage, which was divided lengthwise with a mirrored wall.

As disinterested as I was in any parts that the women shaved or jiggled, I focused on their faces and their shoes. Wait a minute. They wear makeup? Aside from me, who's ever going to be paying attention to their faces? That's not where one stuffs the dollar bills. Every single performer had a far away look in their eyes, like the expression a cat gets in the litterbox. Ironically, as disinterested as I was in their bodies, they were just as disinterested in the men looking at their bodies.

Like, I said, I'm watching their faces and when they faced their 'client' they shook and jiggled and gave them a you're-the-only-one look, but when they turned away to gyrate and expose other parts, their faces transformed to a mental shopping list. You could actually see them go somewhere else in their heads--like, "Did I leave the iron on?" Right, like you own an iron.

So, guys - and girls - this epiphany is going to be a little difficult to digest, so you'd better sit down. It's better you learn it hear than face the harsh reality in the field. Ready? When you're getting a lap dance, they don't really mean it.

I spent the rest of the time waiting for my friends with my back to the stages, playing video games and getting multiple high scores in all of the spelling and strategy games until they arrived. (If you ever want to feel really good about yourself play the spelling games at a redneck bar.)

While I played, one of the diminutive performers in her street clothes took the bar stool next to me and ordered a drink. ("Is it her? Can it be? Is she one of the performers?") I tried not to stare and while trying not to stare, I had another epiphany. I was in a place where one is supposed to stare. All this time, I'm politely trying NOT to stare, when I paid a cover charge in order to do just that. (Like I said before, this is not one of my usual haunts.)

She smiled at me as she took her drink and cigarettes and deftly climbed down from the stool, without spilling a drop, then headed to the dressing room to prepare. The performance time was drawing closer and the big, mirrored stage was transforming. The wall of mirrors were slid back into the wall to reveal an entire other room! Chairs were placed all the way around a now 360 degree stage. This new room had couches that surrounded mini stages with poles. There were steps up to another bar, neon and pool tables and a mechanical bull! Very exciting.

All of the non-dancing employees scurried about to make this new room ready. These busy men all wore their "court clothes." You know, jackets and ties, slacks and button down shirts that working stiffs wear to court to appear, I dunno, respectable? Innocent? (I'm sure judges are fooled all the time.) It's hard to describe how these men didn't look natural in what they were wearing. Maybe it was the expression on their faces, or the haircuts that didn't really go with the ensemble, or even the L-O-V-E / H-A-T-E tattooed on their knuckles, I'm not sure.

You'll remember, I took some time to think about what to wear to a strip club. It was a wasted effort. In a sea of flannel and Lynard Skynard t-shirts , I was wearing a nice black button shirt with a subtle vertical design in a shinier black. What a mistake. Do you know how well the black lights pick up ANY specs of lint on a black shirt? So, for you who may take that first visit to a gentlemen's club, dress for a bar room brawl, because whether you look nice or not, what really gets their attention is the denomination you wave near their Jello.

And while speaking of clothing, I was amazed at how stretchy some of the women's clothing was. Some of the girls would finish their shift and pull what seemed like a scrunchy, or one of those sporty rubberbands off of their wrist. These would magically be stretched over their head and arms then be tugged wider to cover their goodies. I'm telling you, I have never seen anything like it, but again, none of my sisters shop at the Hoochies Be Us either. (Well, maybe one, based on what she wore to our sister's wedding, but I digress.)

Next epiphany: Just TWO rubberbands, and all your naughty bits are covered. Why, oh WHY then do women need walk-in closets? Oh, nevermind, I know. The shoes.

Still more to come.