While not my first bachelor party, it did involve popping my strip club cherry, as another friend put it. Yes, it’s true; I’ve managed to make it three and three-quarter decades in life before attending a strip club.
Don’t misunderstand me; I’m all for viewing beautiful nude or semi-nude women, and having them thrust their breasts in my face and/or gyrate and grind their pelvis on mine. However, viewing nude or semi-nude women dancing to incredibly lame music and thrusting their breasts in my face while a hundred or so creepy old men or maladjusted, obnoxious, drunken young dolts indulge in voyeurism and puerile fantasy has never appealed to me. Call me crazy, but I’m funny like that.
Besides, I don’t really see the point of spending a bunch of money to be titillated — heh, pun — and aroused in a venue in which I can do nothing about it except get increasingly frustrated and inebriated. I do that just fine on my own, thanks.
But I wanted to help my friend mark this important change in his life. And, I admit, I’ve always been rather curious to observe a strip club first hand, not being able to fathom the attraction to this ritual that so many others enjoy. So off we merrily went to the club.
I tried to keep an open mind. Honest. I was prepared and rather hoping to be pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t what I thought it would be. And I have to admit, the feminine pulchritude on display was more attractive than I had imagined; most young ladies at this establishment seemed not to have indulged in silicone enhancement, which surprised me. Having worked in the service industry as long as I did slinging drinks, I’ve known my share of exotic dancers, strippers, etc. (some tend to moonlight as waitresses and bartenders) and breast enhancement seemed to go with the territory, or so I thought.
A Walking, Talking Encyclopedia of Fake Boob Technology
In fact, I’ve learned a lot about breast enhancement from my service industry colleagues over the years: the advantages/disadvantages of saline vs. silicone; implants placed underneath the pectoral muscle vs. on top; incisions in the arm pit or navel vs. the older, traditional (and less expensive) techniques of incisions made underneath the breast or around the areola, etc., etc. I’ve also had the pleasure of seeing the before and after results first hand. So I was delighted to see that most of the women at our chosen establishment didn’t look like they were adorned with gravity-defying, over-inflated balloons on their chests.
But, aside from this, the strip club environment was pretty much what I expected; it lived up to every preconceived notion and cliché that I had in mind when I walked in. If anything, this was even a little bit more creepy than I had imagined.
Somewhere It’s Always 1980-Something
There were a few couples and groups of mixed-gender friends obviously enjoying themselves (or so it appeared), but mostly the clientèle was middle-aged or older overweight men with rather long, lonely faces, or very drunk, infantile young men. All very stereotypical, as were the black lights, bad disco music, over-priced liquor, and a super-cool-guy DJ leftover from 1983.
“If these girls don’t make you horny, you must be gay!” Yes, dear gentle reader, that was an actual quote from said DJ. Is there a special school for strip-club DJs? How else do you learn witty banter like that? I never actually saw him in person, but I just know this closet case had a bad perm or a mullet, and the Camaro or t-top Trans Am to go with it.
But I digress. After having observed the phenomena first hand, I, your intrepid explorer of the sexual underbelly of society, still don’t get it. I suppose it involves a willing suspension of disbelief for the lonely strip club patron, indulging in the fantasy that the woman he has paid to thrust her crotch or her breasts in his face, or gyrate on his lap for a few minutes, is actually as attracted to him as she acts.
Or maybe its just a means for some to get some attention from a woman without fear of rejection, or a safe place to indulge in titillation for titillation’s sake. But from my perspective, no thanks. I’d rather not be titillated at all; my underutilized libido doesn’t need any help. It might be different if I were in a venue where I could do something about it, but this wasn’t Bangkok.
At Ease, Private (Parts)
There was one young lady there who was clearly athletic, and her body reflected that, as did her dance routines – clearly the best dancer and the most attractive woman there (with the possible exception of the waitress working that night). Turns out she was an active-duty Marine (she had some really cool ink, in addition to the requisite USMC tattoo on her shoulder) who was on leave for the weekend, and was there to make some extra cash. This also explained her short hair (although not her lack of pubic hair, I might add) which only made her that much hotter, for my money (literally).
I tipped her 20 bucks to pay extra attention to the guest of honor, and I guess this was better than the going rate for tips (more on that in a bit), for it netted my own special attention, and then some. This experience was of course, quite lovely — as was she — but was nevertheless akin to showing a glass of water to man dieing of thirst, or waving a steak in front of a starving dog, only to snatch it away. I realize this is designed to separate me from more cash – I understand the girls’ motivations, after all – but what’s mine? What is the motivation of the patron? Why do I want to pay money to be titillated and subsequently frustrated?
I’ll be honest. If a beautiful girl is going to place my face between her breasts, and then her head in my crotch, and then snatch a piece of paper off of my forehead with her well-toned glutes while her glossy, leather-booted calves are braced on my shoulders:
- I don’t want to do this so lonely old men/drunken, misogynist frat guys can get their voyeuristic jollies.
- I’d like to have teeth-gnashing, sweaty, Discovery-Channel-animal-documentary sex afterwards, quite frankly — NOT go to another bar with a bunch of drunken men and drink more, which is what we did.
What is the point of this exactly? To try and suppress my now-inflamed desires? Why anyone wants to indulge in this ritual, I still can’t really fathom, not even now, after I’ve experienced it …
Lonely — and Cheap — Bastards
As a former bartender, I always tip a dollar a beverage. Even if I’m just ordering a glass of water (which is the most common thing I order these days), I tip a buck. I remember what it is like to have to depend on tips to pay the bills.
So it seems scandalous to me to tip a woman a few singles for being willing to strip her clothes off and act as if she is overwhelmingly turned on by the presence of a bunch of drunken dolts. I’m sure there are some women who are turned on by this, and I can see how this could be so; I’m sure under some circumstance it would be very erotic for the performer.
But in the typical strip club setting, I’m guessing for most, it’s not exactly the erotic highlight of their lives, to have some lonely old guy slobbering on their chests. Come on guys, at least slip a fiver in those garter belts.
Swapping Spit With the Entire Strip Club
Then there was the young lady selling the opportunity to drink a test-tube shot from between her ample breasts, complete with copious amounts of whip cream, naturally. I watched her as she worked her way through the crowd, exposing herself and serving shot ofter shot, letting patrons lick off the whip cream.
Looks like fun, sure. But she only used a towel to clean off her chest after each shot, and the same towel at that. She approached me several times, and each time I politely declined. As I’ve noted previously, under other circumstances, I am happy to lick whip cream from between breasts. But she would have to pay me to lick the same patch of skin where the greasy noses, lips and tongues of half the men in the club had been in the past half hour – I’m not willing to swap spit with strange men, even if it involves large breasts as the medium of conveyance.
Now I did buy several drinks from the one waitress working the floor of the entire club, and she was clearly the hardest working woman in this club, and probably made the least amount of money (I hope the dancers tip out the wait staff).
Ironically, she was the hottest woman there, by my tastes (which admittedly deviate from the norm), except perhaps the aforementioned hottie Marine (I’d call it a toss-up). Unlike the women on stage, the lovely waitress didn’t bother to act like she was having a good time, and I can’t say as I blame her. I saw her get stiffed several times by patrons, who were ostensibly saving their singles for the dancers. There is a special place in hell reserved for these people …
Last and Least Observation: Someone’s Frustrated And Confused
At one point, rather late in the evening, I got hit on by a very drunk young man in the bathroom of the club. After he declared in a loud slurry voice that anyone who didn’t want to have sex after having visited the strip club must be gay, he asked me quietly what I was doing after I left the club. Ah, more delicious irony.
Apparently this dude was also having issues with his inflamed libido, not to mention his sexual identity and orientation. I thought for a moment of suggesting that “I think Chippendale’s is down the road at the next exit, I think that’s the club for you, dude.” Fortunately, I thought better of it.
So my strip club cherry has been popped, and the experience lived up to my meager expectations. That’s not to say it wasn’t very interesting, although I wouldn’t call it fun, per se although the man of honor enjoyed himself, which was the point, after all.
I’m still mystified why people indulge in this; seems to me that if one is going to indulge in a strip club and pay a woman to titillate them, one might as well visit a brothel and just pay for sex. That, I understand. But to each his own, I suppose.
Just let me conclude this entry with this: Marine girl, on the one in a trillion chance that you’ll read this: Fortitudine et Semper Fidelis! Good luck in your military career, and try and stay out of harm’s way …
Oh, and to test-tube shot/whip cream girl, three words: alcohol prep pads.