I had never been to a strip club before. I almost hope I will never go to one again.

It took me a while to figure out why. I would by lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the evening. I did not find the club seedy or disrespectful to women – from what I saw, it wasn’t. The twenty pound notes I found in the nooks of my bank account were delighted to find a new home in the purses of young enterprising ladies. I was not put off by feelings of discomfort because those feelings disappeared within minutes. Neither did it make me feel deviant – and if it had I would have considered it a good thing.

The reason, I think, is that my memory of the evening at the strip club is one of weirdness. I like that memory. And I don’t want to dilute it.

I – and the rest of the stag herd – went to a classy, upmarket club. The same women in a different building, with different furnishings and lighting, would not have made for the same experience. The mood felt right. The price even made the club seem more respectable.

At the entrance we were greeted by two bouncers. They made us feel welcome and they made the club feel professional. After a quick introduction we were lead down a set of stairs into a small foyer. Our guide stopped there, turned to us and enlightened us of the rules, the prices, the location of the restroom and of the cash machines. Then he turned again and lead us through the entrance of the lair, past the bar, past the pole, past private entranceways until we came to our table. Our waitress arrived as we did and asked for our drinks order. Three buckets of beer in ice was a relatively cheap option for the group.

We were given a few moments to settle. A dancer was already on stage, bending into her feline sway. My friend soon remarked that he had sat in the wrong place, before noticing that the seats had wheels. He span to face the stage.

I glanced to my left and saw a horde of semi-naked women, kettling like vultures waiting to scavenge on our money. The beer arrived; I picked up a bottle and took a sip. And then the women descended.

One girl sat next to me and asked me my name. I knew she only wanted my money but I was polite. I told her mine and she told me hers. Then she asked for a sip from my bottle and opened her mouth ready for me to pour. As I did so a little dripped down between her breasts. She asked me to dry it for her. “Am I allowed to do that?” Apparently I was.

Then she asked if I wanted a dance. I had intended to resist their charms, but I said yes almost instantly.

She held my hand and guided me through the club towards a semi-private room.

“Have you been here before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I’m going to show you the time of your life”, she said. She didn’t, but she made a good attempt.

One song is what you got. Sooner than I wanted she was getting half dressed again; pausing to place another twenty in her purse. I enjoyed the getting-dressed part; it was so unrehearsed and casual compared to the dance. This girl, however, should probably have rehearsed more, because she forgot to put her underwear back on.

After her second attempt at dressing, she guided me back to my table, gave me a little kiss on the cheek and sent me on my way. A brief affair. Completely unsatisfying. But already addictive.

When I returned to our table I could not find the beer I had abandoned, so I picked up a fresh bottle and settled back into my chair. That chair, built for one occupant, soon found room for a policewoman. I examined her uniform and noted that it was not the standard issue.

She made her advances. I was resistant and informed her that I wanted to finish my drink. But she told me she had been warming up. And I enquired how. She said she had been doing stretches. I asked how flexible she was. She put her legs behind her head. I put my beer down.

The policewoman was a grinder and she barely left my lap. Later that night a friend told of how he had paid for a second performance and said that it had been exactly the same dance both times. I became certain this dance was unique when I found her splayed naked across my lap, struggling to free her hair from my shirt button. “This is not part of the performance” she said.

That was my favourite moment of the evening. It brought home just how weird the situation was. A splash of reality in an otherwise dreamlike world.

The third woman spent more time talking to me and I finally got to finish almost a whole drink. She was from Poland. Studying fashion design (unless that was the next girl; I admit I began to mix them up). We talked for at least ten minutes and so when she asked about a dance, accepting felt like the only decent thing to do.

I was more relaxed for this dance, and enjoyed it more. When she finished she asked if I wanted her to continue for another song and I failed to say no. I took in her soapy smell, responded more as she closed herself around me, enjoyed looking into her eyes but did not forget I was paying to admire her body.

At the end of the second dance she said she felt amazing as I watched her. That I’d done something she couldn’t understand. I told her I thought she said that to everyone. She said she didn’t expect me to believe her, but tried to explain that there was something about the way I looked at her that made her feel good. She sounded genuine. I told her I had no idea if she was playing with me or not, but that she was making me feel good about myself. I remain confused.

This was my third dance (and forth). I heard later from one of our party that at this time he was talking to one of the other girls about me: “I was told he was gay, but I’ve hardly seen him since we arrived”. They speculated that maybe ‘gay’ in my case just meant that I was very happy. When I returned he asked me and I explained that I found each sex fairer. The girl he was with then appeared at my side.

The rest of the time at the club is a hazy memory. I know there were at least three more dances, but I do not remember them like the first three. Maybe they were too perfect and so there was little to remember; or perhaps I had just become girl drunk. I wondered afterwards whether I should feel bad about this memory loss, but then figured none of the girls would remember me either.

I do remember managing to stay at our table long enough to experience one pole dancer performing on stage. My back was to her when I noticed everyone looking behind my shoulder. I turned and saw the most incredible acrobatic display. Held upside down by her legs, she slid slowly down, effortlessly disobeying gravity, turning and wrapping herself around the pole before touching down on the stage in a split. It was less erotic and more impressive to the point of impossible.

At the end of the night there was a great feeling of emptiness; and not just in my wallet. The bathroom attendant had told me not to fall in love. I never have yet, so I didn’t believe that was going to be a problem, but it sure was difficult to shake them out of my head (even the hazy memories bring flashbacks).

There is a knowledge when you walk into the club that it isn’t the girls who are being exploited, it is us customers. Strippers may be real women, but I have no idea how much reality they shared that evening. We customers swap money here for doses of perplexity.

Money alters the experience of these women, creating something incomplete and surreal. A conversation you can believe is so much more fulfilling than the naked flesh of a hot stranger. But I have to recommend these nubile dancers as a very rare treat.

This entry was posted on Friday, August 22nd, 2008 at 22:51 UTC and is filed under Culture. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.