(from the Other Press, Sept 2007.)
It was shaping up to be a classy night. Invited by a friend to watch his girlfriend strip, I stood in the bar admiring the scenery. Girls in fancy underwear stalked men all around me; I could hear snippets of the sexy spiels that they used to entice patrons to pay them for a lap dance.
They had expert sales pitches, and reminded me of when I used to hawk cell phones for a living. I had hated coercing my clients into purchasing items that they might not need; it felt as though I was selling my soul. So, it was unfathomable to me as to how these women could flash their flesh for a few bucks; but I wasn’t about to mention that now.
After being there for an hour, a girl with a particularly ample bottom approached my friend. After the exchange of whispered words and money, I was told to follow her. I was confused, but I don’t usually argue with half-naked women.
She led me into a curtained room, and I sat on a bench. I realized that I was about to get my first lap dance. As curious as I was about what was about to happen, I couldn’t shake the awkwardness out of my voice when I tried to make conversation while she spread a towel over my legs.
Her actions were definitely rehearsed, but not mechanical. As she danced and undressed before me, she held my gaze with her vacant eyes; I had to look elsewhere to avoid getting lost in them. Once nude, she moved onto acts that I had not been expecting in a lap dance; but as I said before, I don’t argue with naked women.
I am not sure how lap dances usually end, but mine ended very abruptly. I left the room with mixed feelings of need and confusion colliding in my brain. My flushed cheeks announced to the bar what I had just been a part of, but no one seemed to notice.
I mulled over the situation as I nursed a beer; that lap dancer had just made one hundred dollars in six minutes.
I wondered who, out of the two of us, was the stupid one: the girl who made lots of money by simply showing off her naked body, or me, the student whose income may never compare. I wondered who, in regards to a stripper/patron relationship, had the power, and who was being exploited.
But realizing that no one needed philosophy in a titty bar, I finished my beer and kept my mouth shut.
It was shaping up to be a classy night. Invited by a friend to watch his girlfriend strip, I stood in the bar admiring the scenery. Girls in fancy underwear stalked men all around me; I could hear snippets of the sexy spiels that they used to entice patrons to pay them for a lap dance.
They had expert sales pitches, and reminded me of when I used to hawk cell phones for a living. I had hated coercing my clients into purchasing items that they might not need; it felt as though I was selling my soul. So, it was unfathomable to me as to how these women could flash their flesh for a few bucks; but I wasn’t about to mention that now.
After being there for an hour, a girl with a particularly ample bottom approached my friend. After the exchange of whispered words and money, I was told to follow her. I was confused, but I don’t usually argue with half-naked women.
She led me into a curtained room, and I sat on a bench. I realized that I was about to get my first lap dance. As curious as I was about what was about to happen, I couldn’t shake the awkwardness out of my voice when I tried to make conversation while she spread a towel over my legs.
Her actions were definitely rehearsed, but not mechanical. As she danced and undressed before me, she held my gaze with her vacant eyes; I had to look elsewhere to avoid getting lost in them. Once nude, she moved onto acts that I had not been expecting in a lap dance; but as I said before, I don’t argue with naked women.
I am not sure how lap dances usually end, but mine ended very abruptly. I left the room with mixed feelings of need and confusion colliding in my brain. My flushed cheeks announced to the bar what I had just been a part of, but no one seemed to notice.
I mulled over the situation as I nursed a beer; that lap dancer had just made one hundred dollars in six minutes.
I wondered who, out of the two of us, was the stupid one: the girl who made lots of money by simply showing off her naked body, or me, the student whose income may never compare. I wondered who, in regards to a stripper/patron relationship, had the power, and who was being exploited.
But realizing that no one needed philosophy in a titty bar, I finished my beer and kept my mouth shut.
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