Foxy Lady: Episode I We were strip club virgins at this point. My knowledge of the inner-workings of the club scene were limited to 2 sources of information. The first being the ever so eloquent musings of straight men who enjoyed the scene and lovingly referred to tits and ass with the sensitivity of your average beer drinking boor. The second being a documentary aired on public TV, in the land of New Zealand. As a land, far, far away, their television standards were slightly less strict and the T and A was regularly a part of their evening entertainment. The documentary was exclusively produced and directed by women, regarding many types of clubs and the experiences of different strippers therein. It was interesting, but I wondered how many people tuned in nightly to hear about how women feel about exposing their bodies, rather than just checking out more boobs. We sat in the parking lot, armed with full packs of cigarettes. My friend sat anxiously downing a 24 ounce Bud Light with our remaining time as strip club virgins. Our first mission was to examine the patrons that were entering and leaving the Lady. Sighting number one. It appears we found the typical Joe. White, maybe 35, heavyset in his blue-collar uniform he wore a grey sweatshirt with contractors name subtly stitched across his protruding man boobs. Slightly scruffy, this type of guy that looks like he might smell like smoke and b.o.. I cringed as I imagined his face coated with lust, eyes bugged out at the proximity of naked flesh and tongue protruding just enough to reveal his childlike eagerness. I let that image go conscious of my own desire to walk in without preconceived notions about this foreign culture. I have known men like this before, so I was comfortable recognizing their utter harmlessness, despite their overwhelming repulsiveness. Sighting number 2, another man, around the same age but Black and dressed nicely in a well fitting dark sweater and casual yet well planned pants, he was circling around the entrance to the club having stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. He looked seasoned, lacking the animal lust that I imagined was the common denominator of the rest of the patrons. With this man as a sign as to the benign nature of the joint, it was time to make our move. I stealthily slid out of my car trailed by my friend. I started up a conversation to feel more at ease by asking this gentleman if there was no smoking allowed inside. He replied that he had only wanted to escape the heat of the place, but that smoking is not prohibited. The carpets were thick and darkly patterned in gold, red and black. Mirrors lined the wall and in the darkness, gave the place a largeness I wouldn’t have imagined from the Chinese restaurant type look on the outside. It was classy, no doubt, the chairs were upholstered in a soft beige and there was dark wood paneling added the to the air of suaveness. We sat at a table that was not flanked by a stage, so that we could chill without the fear of having a woman try to give us a really good look at her vagina for a dollar. The women were real, I was totally refreshed by that. My biggest fear was that I would sit, surrounded by incredible women with bodies so unreal that mine seemed an affront to humanity. But no, these women had cellulite and floppy breasts, no breasts, or saggy arms. They were quite simply, real, and rather beautiful for it. However, underneath it all something was missing. To be sure this was no porn movie. Okay, they were playing like they were sex kittens as they slid around, grabbing their nipples and bending over before smacking their asses. I never imagined that they would be psyched to be flaunting their sex to these men, but I had thought it would be more sexual, there may be more excitement, perhaps more authenticity to this game. The men didn’t seem to notice. There were a couple types I would discover as I sat watching intently with a beer in hand (for $6 mind you) and smoking my arsenal of cigarettes. The rest of the men were just as I expected, kind of skeezy but just men. A few were younger, maybe in their early twenties, fairly attractive student-ish looking but more blue collar, regulars who are still slightly amazed that these women appear to want them. Other men were more adept at the scene, less energetic facial expressions, simply sitting and absorbing the every move of the woman in front of him, with a seasoned hand gingerly placing a dollar bill creased in the middle, on the table in front of him without batting an eye. Customers, these men are paying customers willing to give a dollar for an intimate view of these women. The women are paid to look interested, paid for the fantasy. Perhaps the most disturbing scene that I witnessed was the look of a woman at the club, the only female customer other than myself and my friend. The man (boyfriend?) eagerly watched his girlfriend (?) slide a dollar into a stripper’s garter belt. What he didn’t seem to notice was that his girlfriend was visibly uncomfortable as she anxiously tried to look interested with giggles escaping her as she gazed only at the woman’s face rather than at the garter belt which was dangerously close to the stripper’s open vagina. I couldn’t tell if she was consumed with her man’s opinion of her or if she was just trying out a new experience but it seemed from his Pavlovian expression, that she had been pushed to come to the Lady. The way I see it, is that no one actually sees anything besides a dollar sign in you. I suppose it is because I am not one of the men who craves that particular fantasy, my penis is not there to guide me to the inherent pleasures of watching a nude body gyrate in my face. The erotica is absent for me, no where does anyone really want any part of me, and deep in the back of their eyes, you can sense the apathy. The women are adept at their job (to anyone who doesn’t actually look at their faces). They tried to sell us lap dances, an interesting proposition, but when it comes down to it, I don’t have the money after paying $6 for a beer. Kate Golden

 

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