At first i saw the top sticker, and thought that it was very ironic for this car to park next to me! Once I looked closer it got worse!!! There is another sticker!! Fear abated, confusion set in!! I am so conflicted!!!!
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 surfing 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 or college. 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 words that represent 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!
I got a new awesome platitude for you. I wish it was a platypus, but no such luck.
“Things always have a way of working out.”
Do they? Do they really?
Title of RELIGIOUS: Apparent Atheist Asks Advice Columnist for Help Convincing Family That Prayer Is ‘Mumbo Jumbo’ — the Response Just Might Bring You to Your Knees.
Response: What’s crazy annoying about this “article”, is that in order to set up the pro prayer argumentation, with which I am totally fine, this obviously fictional “apparent atheist” fellow is created and depicted as a selfish idiot. This is anti Atheism propaganda disguised as a Tolerance piece. His imaginary brother is dying, and his imaginary family is trying to cope: grieving, mourning and panicking, but all he supposedly cares about is arguing about the futility of prayer, insisting on his atheism and fighting about it with his grandmother??! He then writes in to find out how to best relieve them of this one last coping mechanism? Hahaha I mean could this imaginary “apparent atheist” be any more of a douche?! Is he also wearing a wife beater and a trucker hat? Obviously the imaginary “apparent atheist” is mightily misguided and needs to be shepherded into the light by the obliging fictional advice columnist! For chirstssakes, come on! Is this written to bolster the self-righteousness of the Christian short-bus? Because none of the Christians I know would much appreciate this either, not only does it insult the intelligence on both sides of the “God or Not” debate, but it also fuels the unnecessary discord, I certainly did not need to be thusly irritated, but here I am, irritated, and full of them fighting words?
I can tell that a religious person wrote this, because the single-mindedness with which this fictional “apparent atheist” insists on the righteousness of his beliefs is actually more likely to come from a religious person, than from an atheist. In this case however, the tables are flipped, and the atheist is painted like a zealot in need of moderation, in need of being tempered and taught the ways of kindness and acceptance.
I think it’s important to note, that if you hadn’t guessed, I am an atheist, and I’d like to correct the wrongful impression of my people you might have been given by this “article”. It is my people’s unofficial opinion, that in the face of tragedy, whether you pray, cast spells, sacrifice turtles or drink hard liquor straight and without a chaser, you’re in the right. If anyone focuses on anything but supporting you, helping you or soothing you, then their problem is not that they are an atheist, it’s that they are an idiot…or a propagandist invention of a religious blogger.
Additionally, fighting with your grandmother is NEVER ok, unless she is a racists, a bigot or, God forbid, a fetish stripper. Oh and by the way, newsflash, prayer is Mumbo Jumbo. If there was a god, who could hear our prayers, how do you explain all the people who’ve lost their children to cancer, to meaningless violence, to natural disasters? Do you think they do not stay up praying to exhaustion, or do you suppose their prayers just aren’t as good as yours? Prayer is not a viable method of communication with anyone who can or will interject on your behalf, to think otherwise is just conceited. Whether there is a God, whether it is a dying child or the Super Bowl you are praying over, it is at its best an exercise in coping, wishful thinking or meditation, and at its worst, it is a ritual of immense egotism.
I’d like to say that I respect all people equally (which means not much, until I know they are actually good people), irrespective of their religious beliefs and do not come from a place of judgment (my absolute favorite devout Christian friend Radhika will attest to this) Live and let live, as they say. I am, however, entitled to my opinions on the subject of those beliefs, just as anyone else is entitled to theirs on the subject of mine.
Thoughts? Death threats? Anything?
I wage war on alarm clocks and men who wear tank tops, because I care about my sleep and my eye sight. I like confident people who are guided by reason interlaced with passion and kindness, there are fewer of these people than one would imagine. I am entirely unavailable in the mornings, very churlish when cold and extremely dangerous when hungry, the rest of the time I am an absolute delight wrapped in a ray of sunshine, smothered with awesome and sprinkled with glee. I believe in “Live and let live” and am a hyper vigilant defender of people of alternative sexual orientations and lifestyles. I like to reside close to hospitals and police stations, as I am highly susceptible to raccoon and squirrel attacks, an occasional disgruntled bird too. But it’s ok, they are just jealous. The way I eat candy you would think I owned a dentist and an insulin pump. I am a roller-coaster riding enthusiast, a recovering label whore, a freakishly clean slob, a humble snob and a walking contradiction. I have a dirty, politically incorrect mind, but cannot stand vulgarity or tactless foot in the mouth blurbs. I am seldom (very)drunk, never mean, sometimes snide and always honest. Though my taste is great, I can be an acquired one myself. I like to think that I am never tacky, but I know I am often impatient..and frequently snarky…sometimes I can’t help it but rhyme, therein lies a definite crime….and yes I am always right, except for when I am wrong of course, which is never. I fish out every bee that lands in the pool and cordially move disoriented snails out of harm’s way. Insects think I am a deity and hold weekly revelries (orgies actually) in my honor. I try not to eat animals, because animals are both, innocent and important. Nature is important. Cigarettes are bad, as are drugs and rock’n roll. Oh, calm down, I am just kidding, drugs are great. I like to think deep, look close and travel through time with only a carry on and an endangered marsupial known as Yoohoo (see photo above). I am usually a mermaid, except for when I am an intergalactic battle girl…or awake.
if you feel you must reach me, like say to give warning of an impending zombie apocalypse, you may email me at firstname.lastname@example.org