From Her Perspective

Last weekend was overcast, cool and rainy.  The kind of weekend that makes you want to curl up on the couch, get high and watch MTV all day.  Or, the kind of day that makes you want to hit the strip clubs.  Personally, I’ve always been a big fan of strip clubs.  I like the girls’ little outfits and am fascinated by pole tricks.  So when my boyfriend got the idea to go, I was fully amenable. 

We decided that it would be a good idea to bust out after a family party.  After a day of so much wholesomeness, the only real cure is some good old-fashioned filth, right?  So we pull up at the first place (in a space not too close to the door, because, um, walking is good for you) and there are men skulking around the front door.  Or back door, actually, since that’s where the entrance is.  Hm, that’s sort of an oxymoron.  Anyway, we go inside and it’s dark.  Like, really, really dark.  And for a Saturday afternoon, not too crowded.  We sat down at the back (as much as I like going to these places, I am terrified of actually interacting with the girls.  Once, one made me touch her weave and I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.) and waited for the entertainment to begin.  One problem.  The girls were just standing on the stage.  There was no dancing, no tricks, they weren’t even wearing good underwear.  Basically, they just stood there until some schmuck sidled up to the platform with a fistful of cash and the girl would wobble over to him in her giant heels, flash her girl-part and walk away.

Now, I understand that this is a job and these girls have off-days, but this was downright depressing.  We both started to feel uncomfortable, and sort of sad about life, so we drained our giant Bud Lights (what this place lacked in entertainment they definitely made up for with cheap drinks. A round cost less there than it does at most bars with far less, um, ambiance.) and left.  Luckily, we were in a neighborhood bustling with adult entertainment, so we went to the next place with our hopes high and our wallets full.  It was too scary to tip the girls at that first place, it was very germy.

Our next destination was a thousand times better.  Although when I sat down, my chair had a damp spot which I hope to god was spilled beer, the lighting was low but attractive, the space was very clean, and the menu featured nutritious specials.  I thought that was pretty funny.  And again, the beer was super cheap.  So we sat down by the “stage” and the first dancer leapt out from behind the curtain, bounded across the floor and twisted herself around the pole in a move reserved for only the most flexible and confident.  Her outfit, unlike the girls at the other place, was actually sexy and actually fit her.  Who knew how good a black g-string looked on every shape?  I immediately went out and bought ten.  Very flattering.

The subsequent dancers were likewise attractive, talented, and, most importantly, left me alone.  Okay, fine, except for one who said she wanted to, how do I put this delicately, go all the way with me.  Which, really, I considered a compliment. 

Strippers don’t have it easy.  They have gross men pawing at them all day and they have to pretend that it’s not disgusting.  If they have a fat day, which all women inevitably do, they still have to get naked instead of throwing on sweatpants.  They work hard for their tips and constantly have to sell, sell, sell.  I know I couldn’t do it.  But secretly, okay, fine, openly, it would be totally fun to know my way around a pole and be able to do backflips in seven inch heels.  To all of you dancers out there, I commend you.   As long as nobody makes me touch their weave again, okay?  It’s just not hygienic.