I went to my first Strip Club when I was a tender 19 year old. A much older male friend took me, hmmmm, to think of it lots of my education occurred under the caring tutelage of much older male friends. Such is the lot of an ingénue type. I know what you are thinking, you’re thinking that sounds unsafe, nothing for a nice girl like me to get mixed up in. But worry not. I picked my mentors wisely, no lines were ever crossed, not to say that a seldom, feeble attempt wasn’t made here and there. Feeble it was because they were almost always exceedingly decent, albeit somewhat eccentric folk. Anyways, who could blame them, I was a cute young thing, and not entirely unaware of my prowess…I am lying, I was entirely aware. I read lots of serious books, loitered for hours in museums, used big words and was overall a lot more erudite than I am now. Plus, there was also that je ne c’est quoi, commonly abundant in Eastern European girls. That aura of maturity, entirely delusive as it is, which makes older men think that a relationship with a much younger woman is not out of this realm of possibility. What can you do, it’s almost genetic.
That very first strip club was Plan B in Santa Monica, Ca (still operating if you want to pop by) girls kept their panties on, I don’t remember if their tops stayed on too, and nobody seemed to break a sweat doing anything exceedingly taxing or acrobatic. This club is very Santa Monica-ish. If you have ever been to Santa Monica, or caught the numerous references made to it on film and television, you know what I mean. It’s a progressive, pricy, bourgy, yoga infested, melting pot of a beach municipality, with Venice (hippies) to the left of it, and Malibu (seriously rich folks) to the right of it. So Plan B, it’s probably a classier fair as far as strip joints go. I remember that their kitchen was excellent. I ordered a burrata salad and a king scallop entrée served with roasted squash and eggplant pure. Both were top rate, and at 1:30 in the morning no less. The vibe at Plan B was probably more anemic than tantalizing. The men sat around distressingly well-behaved, hands folded placidly in laps, and that entranced look on their faces, like they were so lost they needed a map and a guide dog to find their way to a vagina. My male companion did try to lure me onto a stage and around a pole. I remember an offer of cash was involved, 1k if I recall correctly, although the entire thing was packaged like an innocent dare, and nothing like a wanton scheme of a lecherous old man. I considered it, sure, I mean what’s it to me to twirl around on a pole for a hot second. I never drew parallels between personal choices, be they sexual or financial, and morality. Freedom to do with myself as I please has always been my mantra. But alas, I couldn’t let my scallops get cold, and in reality was probably never quite as freethinking as I estimated myself to be. All in all, I can’t say that Plan B left me with any kind of an impression. The men in there seemed sad and, hmm, flaccid? The dancers appeared bored, save a couple of enthusiastic girls with definite earning ambition, but not the moves. The few couples dining, us included, were exceptionally weird for obvious reasons. Shrug.
Last year however, the strip club industry had a chance to redeem itself. I attended yet another venerable stripping establishment while in Vegas with my girlfriends on a girl trip. Now this was a full on experience. Obviously, as a fully grown woman of undeterminable age ;), I was committed to taking in all the sights. This place was buzzing, there was lots of movement and agitation, girls swarmed patrons without much consideration for each other, like hungry locusts. I could smell the catfights in the air, both past and future. Strippers were dancing their naked butts off. They twirled, leaped, crawled, spread and bent their bodies, working the audience into a bona fide frenzy. Money was everywhere, and it was ripe for the picking. There was no denying the talent or the authenticity of the whole affair.
In the first 5 minutes of being there we found a vial of coke on the floor…yep…then one decidedly used up, older stripper tried to grope me despite my expressed resistance and obvious horror…repeatedly. It was, overall, very illuminating. I learned a lot about myself, like for example that I HATE having my breasts fondled by strangers. Who knew right? In the end a beautifully nimble black girl nuzzled my face in her velvety bosom. Although her assets were, by every definition, lovely, superb natural represen-ta-ta-tives 😛 of the human form, they did nothing for me. Mehh, I thought, I got those too, what’s the big woop. And sure, we partook in the requisite tradition of making it rain. My soul cringed, as I watched 8 dollar bills fly out of my hand and sail away into the ether. I comforted myself with the idea that my money would be spent on something good and necessary, like formula for a hungry infant. It’s not unrealistic.
I discerned right there and then that, in all honesty, Strip Clubs just aren’t for me. What’s that noise? Oh that’s my best friend (whom I love so so much) weeping somewhere in the distance. Unlike me, she had both, found her religion and tapped into her inner black man at that noble establishment ;P. But at this ripe old age I got to be honest with myself, even if it makes me a bit of a buzz-kill and a total disappointment to ALL (by all I mean both) my friends. I’ll never say never though, because who knows, if there was a good plate of scallops on the table, I might reconsider.
P.S> Spell check keeps flagging the word “vagina” in the body of my post as incorrect, hmm is Spell check uncomfortable with my rampant use of synonyms for female genitalia?
P.P.S>This post was inspired by a very entertaining post at the You People Are Monsters blog, titled A Fond Look Back: Vomit And Strip Clubs. Nostalgia set in. I tumbled down memory lane and Voila, I blogged!