From Her Perspective

Now that I am unemployed, I’ve been filling my days with very important things like job searching, doing laundry, and watching Lifetime Movie Network.  As such, I’ve become hypersensitive to what the non-working female population at large is truly, truly interested in.  Strippers.  Not a day goes by where I don’t see television movies, talk shows and fitness programs devoted to said profession, religion, whatever you want to call it.  We are a nation obsessed with stripping.  And though I feel fine about it now, it wasn’t always easy for me to feel comfortable when it came to these performers.  We’ve had a long, rocky past...

When I was in college, most birthdays (or breaking up with a boyfriend, or if you were bored on a Saturday night, you see where I’m going with this) were marked by a huge house party with some sort of “entertainment”.  There were the requisite little people and farm animals (always, always a mistake) and, of course, strippers.  My first experience with a stripper was at a birthday party in college.  I was at my friend Amanda’s house and the stripper arrived in some sort of mustard-yellow jumpsuit.  He was very skinny and had long, floppy hair that you knew he thought was kind of gorgeous.  His routine was uninspired, he tried to steal our booze, and as we were all about to run away and hide, he called us all back in and told us he was going to give a special performance.  Intrigued, we all inched back into the room.  He clicked on his boom box (yes, he had a boom box), started gyrating, and to everyone’s surprise, the performance actually was pretty special.  We all got into it, whipping out our dollar bills (I don’t think I had anything bigger the whole time I was in college) and dropping them into his little g-string. 

So things are going well, we’re all having fun, and then, somehow, I get hit in the face.  Yes, the face.  Yes, with his… um… yeah.  The music screeched to a halt.  Beers were dropped on the floor.  For a terrible, terrible moment, the world stood still.  I was mortified.  And completely grossed out.  I’ll never forget the horrified look on his face, too, when he realized what he had done.  I know we both died a little bit inside that night.  After that the party ended pretty quickly and I think I washed my face with turpentine for a week after, just to be on the safe side.  But there was a scarlet “P” left behind that very little could be done about. 

The Face Incident, as my friends called it, was tough to survive.  My burgeoning athletic career abruptly ended, as I could no longer tolerate balls flying toward my face (what?!).  I spent many nights home alone with the little people and farm animals while all of my friends went out to the numerous strip clubs right outside campus.  After a while, I realized that if I wanted a social life, I’d have to get over this fear.  Fine, maybe I’m exaggerating a tiny bit, but my insane fear of strippers was something I’d have to conquer if I wanted to live any semblance of a normal life.

As fate would have it, the summer after this occurred, another friend of mine decided to celebrate moving into a new apartment by hiring a stripper to entertain us at her housewarming.  I pretended to be cool, but inside, I was losing it.  I hadn’t been to a strip club or any event at which a stripper was performing since that fateful night the winter before.  Armed with a handle of Captain Morgan, I put on a brave face and went to the party, praying that some sort of scheduling glitch or bad directions would keep him from attending.  But of course, right on time, a little guy in a track suit (he was supposed to be dressed as a police officer) came to the apartment.  I gulped as much rum as I could and prepared for the worst. 

He started dancing and I started sweating.  He made his way around the circle of drunken girls, gyrating and wiggling like a pro.  The routine went on without incident.  But I was still unsure and, of course, still swigging Captain like it was water.  Something was bound to happen, I thought.  He’d accidentally punch my breast or vomit in my hair.  And then something magical happened.  Just when I thought my world would end, my friend announced that she had made out with the stripper while he was taking a short break.  And had handled his you-know-what.  Though we were shocked at the speed with which she was able to accomplish this, there was nothing that could have made me happier.  I knew this event would be the talk of our social circle for months.  Though I would be hungover for three days and haven’t touched a drop of Captain Morgan since, I could finally put The Face Incident behind me.

Today, I am not only comfortable around strippers, I love going to shows.  I’m a little old for home performances nowadays, but I know that if I were to go to one, I’d be fine.  Hell, I’d probably drop a twenty in those glittery little underpants.  Fine, really just a five.  Maybe.  But I do know this: The Scarlet “P” is gone for good.