Skirt versus kilt

As soon as she saw me sitting at the table near the stage, Stormy walked over and leaned over from the waist, which put her face level with mine, and not-coincidentally showed off her tits. "Hi! You're not usually in here so late." It was close to 1:00 AM.

"Right. But here I am." I'd started the night at a different bar but still wanted to hang out with Stormy.

I pointed at the tiny skirt she was wearing, which was little more than a four-inch wide ribbon of pleated plaid wrapped around her waist. "I have a kilt at home that's the same tartan!"

"This skirt? A kilt?" She posed and held out the sides. "Is it this short?" She turned around and flounced the back up and bent over again from the waist, looking back at me. "Can people see your butt when you wear it, like this one?"

I laughed. "No. Oh, hell no. No one wants to see that."

I was glad to be here. Stormy always makes me smile.

Labels: stripclub

• 6:15 PM 0 comments

Sitting near the stage at Devil's Point, Jenn was describing her bicycle accident, a run-in with a car that resulted in a trashed bike and seven staples in her scalp. Owie.

So engrossed in the story and its telling, we were ignoring the stage show.

Suddenly, Ivizia stopped twirling the flaming bolos which were on actual fire and called us out. "Hey," she projected from the stage over the pounding music, "whatcha talking about?"

Startled, Jenn and I looked up, then, almost as one, we both pointed at the topic of conversation and shouted "Her/My head!"

Ivizia was enough of a showwoman to smile and go on with the fire dancing, having successfully restored the attention where it belonged.

Labels: stripclub

• 12:19 PM 0 comments

Too much to drink

I was taking a break from watching the stage show at Devil's Point. Monday night. Fun crowd. Firestrippers. But I have realized that parties and bars are more fun if I move around a bit, not staying in one place too long. So I made my way through the crowd to hang out near the video poker machines. There was still a crowd back there, whooping and cheering and drinking. Devil's Point is a small club.

Seated on the chair, I pulled out my iPhone and started checking email.

Six foot tall blonde dude with shoulders nearly as broad as I am tall in a brown fancy leather coat, holding a bottle of Dead Guy Ale and a cigarette looks over at me. "That one'a those iPhones?" he asks.

"Yes. Yes, it is," I confirm. There's a pause. I stroke the face of the phone, glowing through the haze from my palm. "It's sooooo... sexy" I intone.

Blonde dude's friends laugh and tell me that's great. Blonde dude smiles, but sheepishly, like he's been embarrassed. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I guess." He's deflated.

Feeling cocky, I ask him bluntly, "Oh, yeah? What've you got?"

His friends laugh again, and one of them holds up his hand for a high five. "You're allright, man!"

Blonde dude is smiling and determined to salvage something out of the situation. "Oh, oh, OK, I'll show you what I've got!" He digs in his pockets and pulls out a plastic LG or Samsung flip phone. He unfolds it.

"That's great!" I say. I can't believe how much of an asshole I'm being. "What's it do? Make phone calls?"

His friends by now are busting up, doubled over in laughter. Blonde dude holds out his hand. "You're alright, man. I'm Rod. What's your name?"

"Of course you are!" I say. "I'm Brian." I shake his hand.

"I'm gonna take a picture of you with my phone!" he decides.

"Yeah, remember this forever," I tell him, and smile for his phone camera picture.

Labels: stripclub

• 12:45 AM 0 comments

Ballerina, you must've seen her

Stormy was cute and flirty. She'd changed her hair - added some red tips to the blonde part. But I just didn't feel at home at DP like I have been. I don't know why. It felt like it was me. She asked me about my crash, which was nice. And she was as hot as always. Maybe hotter.

I left early, after only an hour or so. I said to myself, "Stormy rocks. But... Yeah. I'm a customer. Why can't I meet girls like her out in the real world?"

I drove around for a bit, and then found myself at Everyday Music, the one on Sandy. I still had money to spend and wanted more music. I went in, wandered around, and noticed one of the sales clerks... yeah. She was my height, maybe a little shorter, wearing a black minidress over black leggings and knee-high black boots, and her black hair cut short and shaggy. Late 20s, maybe? You know how bad I am at guessing age, though.

Previous wish, meet reality.

I felt self-conscious and weird, still. I kept thinking I had traces of Stormy's lipstick on my cheek from her kissing me goodnight. That might be a good thing, though... pre-selection. I rummaged around in the used CD bins and kept finding stuff I wanted but wasn't exactly cool: ABBA "Gold", for instance. Or a collection of Donna Summer 12" dance versions. Eddie Money. Cheap Trick, The Cars. All used. Awesome. As the finds kept coming, I decided to go with it. It became a theme.

And, because I was still thinking of Stormy, I wandered over to the DVDs to look for "Almost Famous". Pretty eyes. A pirate's smile...

As I walked past the counter, the girl I'd noticed before was hunched over a computer monitor with the sales dude, and they were giggling conspiratorially. I stopped and looked at them, and peeked around. "Can I see what's so funny?"

The dude grunted, but the girl smiled and turned the monitor so I could see it. It was some foreign-language video on YouTube, subtitled... strangely. I'll never be able to find it now, but apparently this guy was demonstrating modern dance styles. It was funny... but not as funny to me as it was to this girl. I laughed, and left to look for the movie. The store was closing in 10 minutes.

I found a used copy of "Almost Famous". Score.

I headed back to the registers, and now the girl was by herself, still watching stuff. This time it was some British comedy clip, an actor repeating "Hey!" over and over again... and this time, it was funny. It was funny because the joke is run into the ground. A very special kind of funny. A humor that slowly takes hold and builds up, the same way a good pad Thai builds up in spiciness. I smiled... then I chuckled... and then, suddenly, I was laughing out loud, right along with the girl.

"Nobody else here thinks that's funny!" she said. I laughed, and thanked her, then looked around to see where I could buy my CDs and movie. "Oh, I will help you!" she said, and took my pile of goods.

She held up "Almost Famous" and said, "That's an awesome movie."

"I agree completely."

She led me to the cash register.

Another tattooed, black-haired girl walked in and was promptly told that the store was closing soon.

The sales clerk girl looked at me, "Have you ever seen the director's cut?" I shook my head. "Don't!" she warned. "It will ruin the movie for you. It did for me."

"Really? Ruined it? I have to say that I'm dying of curiosity now. But I want to trust you... complete stranger. And I love this movie. I don't want it ruined for me."

"I'm just saying that I like editors. Editors are a good thing."

The other girl, with some kind of heart-and-rose tattoo peeking out from the top of her white t-shirt, returned to the counter and asked about some band I've never heard of. The sales girl told her that she should look in Hip-Hop... or Electronica... No, definitely Hip-Hop.

The tattooed girl noticed the movie I was buying. "That's an awesome movie."

"I agree completely," I said.

"Have you seen the director's cut?" the sales girl asked the tattooed girl.

"Yeah."

"Did you like it?" the sales girl asked, incredulous.

"Yeah... It was OK."

"Really?"

"Yeah. What parts didn't you like?"

The sales girl looked at me, then back at the tattooed girl. "Well, maybe I'm wrong," she said in a tone of voice that made it seem as if she wasn't admitting she was wrong at all, "maybe it's OK. I'm just saying that I didn't like it."

I felt like she was still protecting me, by specifically not talking about the scenes which were added in, scenes which had the potential to completely ruin this movie for me. "Thank you," I said.

And wandered back out into the rain, with my purchases.

Oh, and later, Sharai invited me to a benefit at a lesbian bar.

Labels: stripclub

• 3:44 AM 2 comments

Five questions and five answers

Saturday night I decided to hit my favorite strip club for some late-night drinkin' and fun. Because I was feeling generous, and because I was feeling experimental, I decided to buy (at least) one private dance from each girl dancing.

Rocket was on stage when I got there. I watched her two-song set, tipping a couple bucks per song, and when she finished I asked, "Can I get a dance?"

"Sure!" She held up a finger. "Give me a minute." She gathered up her money and disappeared backstage, and exactly one song later, she emerged, took me by the hand and led me back to the private dance booth.

Before she began, I noticed that she had the beginning of a new sleeve tattoo. It was outlined but not filled in yet. I asked her about it. "Here, feel," she said, "It's brand-new. It's still raised up." I felt. It was.

"You heal fast," I said.

"I do!" She began dancing as the song started, lifting her arms up in the air and turning slowly around. "I'm an alien from another planet."

"A very sexy planet," I said, in my best Austin Powers voice.

Technically, I didn't ask Stormy for a dance. I spotted Stormy out on the floor, returning from the DJ booth after picking the songs for her next set. I didn't even have to ask; as soon as she saw me she just assumed I wanted one. "Hang on, I've got to give this other guy a dance first, he's been waiting a while, I'm so sorry is that OK?" The words tumbled out of her mouth, and her hand brushed my cheek.

I was amused, and a little irritated at the presumption, and I told her it was OK. Since I planned on getting dances from everyone, I wasn't going to find myself in the "waiting for Stormy" mode I've found myself in on previous nights. Get immediate attention from Rocket, or wait all night for Stormy? Not a tough choice... Stormy can take her time.

Stormy apologized and asked me to wait at least twice more, while I enjoyed the stage show and drank. I flirted with Lux, the model-thin Asian dancer. I watched the crowd, and watched a group of girls in their twenties flirting with each other and the dancers on the stage. Always a co-ed crowd at Devil's Point.

In spite of Stormy's flakiness in the club, she gives the best private dances. Bar none. I ended up buying two private dances from her. 'Nuff said. I staggered out of the booth afterward and bought another drink. She said over her shoulder as she rushed back to the dressing room, "Don't forget to say 'bye' before you leave!"

While waiting for a chance to ask Lux (dancers at Devil's Point don't spend a lot of time out on the floor hustling, surprisingly enough. At least not that I notice), I sat at the stage and watched Stormy. One of the three girls I had noticed before sat down next to me, turned to me and said, "Can I have a dollar?"

"But... you're not naked and on the stage." I said, mock-confused.

She pointed at Stormy. "I'm just going to give it to her. Please?"

Feeling a bit like a sucker, I handed the girl a dollar. She held on to it until Stormy came by, then waved it in the air like a flag, prompting some close, personal attention from Stormy. OK, watching that was worth a dollar. Still felt like a sucker, though. After that set, I wandered back to the bar for another drink and some more ones; I was running out.

When I returned, all the seats at the stage were full, so I took a table with a view of the stage. I'd get up and toss a couple bills per dancer, waiting to catch Lux off-stage. Finally she walked by.

"Hi!" I said. "Are you up next?"

She nodded.

"Can I get a dance after?"

She nodded again. "Sure!" She curtsied.

After her dance, in the booth, she asked me my name. She's asked me before. I reminded her of that, smiling, and told her again. "I'm Brian."

"I'll remember this time!" she said. "It'll be easy. You're like Brian, the dog on 'Family Guy'!"

"Well," I said, "I am incredibly intelligent. But I'm not covered in hair all over my body."

Lux bent down, and carefully lifted the hem of my shirt just an inch or two exposing my stomach. She let it fall, stood back to up face me, smirking. "I don't believe you."

"Fine, dammit. You caught me!" We laughed.

Last girl working that night was Aris. I waited for the end of her stage set and asked her, as she was collecting her money, "Do you do dances?"

She shook her head. "No." I've never seen her dance, though I have heard the DJ implore the crowd to ask her for one. "But the other girls do," she said.

I laughed. "But I've already had dances with the other girls. I wanted one from you."

She gave me a mysterious look and, saying nothing more, went backstage. Had I crossed a boundary by asking everyone? Had I acquired a reputation? If so... what kind? Or was it simply that Aris did not, in fact, give private dances?

I had done what I wanted. And closing time was approaching.

I waited a bit to say goodnight to Stormy, who ignored me the one time I saw her out on the floor again. Then I went home.

Labels: stripclub

• 11:27 AM 1 comments

Rick Emerson, sans mackerel

"What's the most random thing anyone has ever asked you?" I asked Rick Emerson, local disk jockey. We were both standing on the sidewalk in front of the Mt. Tabor Legacy Theater in southeast Portland, late on Sunday night. From inside the theater, past the burly bouncers, an invitation-only party was raging, the theater filled with a rock & roll crowd: lots of black - black leather, black jeans, dyed black hair; lots of tattoos and piercings; hair of all lengths, from bald to past their ass (men AND women).

"Tonight? Or ever?" Emerson shot back at me.

I stepped closer, smiling. I should have known he'd be quick on his feet. "Uh... ever."

He considered a moment, then said, "Well, there was this one time a guy asked me if I had a mackerel."

"That's pretty random," I agreed. I had expected him to say that my question was the most random thing. But this reply was better.

"Not really," he said, "because if you think about it, if I had had a mackerel, it would have been pretty obvious."

"Sure," I said, "the smell alone..."

We were both here, attending the 2007 Barfly Awards Gala; Emerson as a nominee for "Person most likely to be famous", and myself as a fan of Stormy. Stormy had asked me to be here to help her in her quest to become Portland's Sexiest Stripper. She was stacking the ballot.

"Right. And so he was pretty safe in asking me that question." He looked at the door, where a skinny kid with long black hair barely contained by a stocking cap and carrying a skateboard was toe-to-toe with the bouncer, in spite of the bouncer having a full head of height and at least another 100 lb. of advantage over him. "I think we're about to see a beat-down" Rick said.

The night before I had been at Devil's Point, making the most of the extra hour provided by the end of Daylight Savings Time. Because the Oregon Liquor Control Commission forbids the selling of alcohol between 2:30 AM and 7:00 AM, the end of DST means that bars - and drinkers - get another hour to drink. For someone like myself, it's almost like Christmas.

Stormy had been putting myself and others off for a private dance, though, and when she had offered me the chance to go to this event as a consolation, I had accepted.

"But if you'd had a mackerel, that would have been random" I said to the disk jockey, pursuing my original line of thought.

"Sure, OK," Emerson said. Still watching the bouncer argue with the skateboard kid, Emerson started chanting "Tas-er, tas-er, tas-er..." softly but increasing in volume.

A pretty brunette approached Rick, and started chanting along with him. I'd seen her with him inside and assumed she was Mrs. Emerson. The combined effort of the bouncer's intimidation and the chanting crowd finally penetrated the skateboard kid's booze or drug fogged mind and he left, literally shaking his fist at the bouncer.

I had showed up tonight with the hope that I could hang out with Stormy, even for a bit. Maybe sit with her entourage, meet some of her friends. But when I had seen her earlier, she had hugged me, thanked me for showing up, then walked off through the crowd with her trademark click-click-click walk, dragging a tiny little emo boy behind her.

After the disappointment of Stormy's brush-off had worn off, minutes later, I had realized that the party was fun for multiple reasons. Like exchanging jokes with Rick Emerson. Like seeing the petite Bud Light girls in their next-to-nothing short-shorts and halter tops, and turning them down for the free beers because I was already drinking vodka-crans.

Oh, and did I mention that the booze was free? Nothing soothes a broken heart like an open bar. I only drank three of them. If I hadn't been driving, I would have tried to make sure that they lost money on me. That's how my I roll.

Emerson shouted at the bouncer, "I would totally have backed you up, man. I would have said that he'd pulled a knife on you."

The bouncer replied, almost bored, "Dude. I don't even carry a taser."

"He didn't know that!" Emerson bounced back.

I realized that my question about random questions made a pretty good conversational opener. Maybe I'll go back inside and try it out on people who aren't famous and used to being asked random questions...

Emerson and the brunette walked off. As she dragged him away, he turned back to me, and pointed. "I did not have a mackerel!" He emphasized every word.

I laughed, and shouted back, "Thanks! That's my new slogan for the night!" I went back inside, squeezing past the people trying to get in, flashing my wrist band at the bouncer.

Postscript: I did not actually use my new opener on anyone else. I did not stay long enough to see the awards given out. And I did not see Stormy again for the rest of the night. Emerson and the lady accompanying him did return, however.

And did I mention the open bar?

Update: Fixed the link to Stormy's MySpace page. - 3:56 PM 6 November 2007

Labels: stripclub

• 11:10 AM 0 comments

Feels like the first time

My first time almost going to a club was around 1985 or 1986, I think. I had tossed my bicycle in the back of my truck and rode out to Clackamas Town Center, where there was a bike trail that ran along I-205. I had just parked the truck when I saw a cute brunette girl in a red t-shirt walking towards me from the direction of the freeway off ramp. She asked me to help her; she was on her way to work and had a flat tire. Being the chivalrous type, of course I helped her! Unfortunately she had no tools to remove the spare tire from underneath her car, so I offered to give her a ride to work; she was already getting upset because she was late. She agreed.

When we got in my truck, I asked her where she was going and she told me that she worked at the Acropolis. "Do you know where that is?"

Duh. The Acropolis is one of the more famous Portland landmarks, a strip club with four stages, impeccable hiring practices, and the best steaks in town - the owner has a ranch and grows his own beef. I'd seen that blue-and-white striped building for as long as I had grown up in Milwaukie (a suburb of Portland).

I answered her in the affirmative, but when she'd asked if I've ever been in there, I had to say no. On the drive there, I asked her if she was a waitress, or... and let that question hang. She said she was a waitress.

I let her out in the parking lot, and she told me that if I came back the next night, she'd be able to pay me for my gas.

"No problem!" I said (stupidly), "consider it a favor!"

She went inside, and I drove off. I don't remember her name. I wouldn't actually go inside that building for another year or so. Details are fuzzy after all this time. Bear with me.

Now, two decades later, I live a half-mile from the Acropolis, and I'm known there by face, name and hat. And I've been to a lot, but not all, of the clubs in the Portland area. My current favorite club is Devil's Point, but I still hang out at the Acrop just because I don't have to drive home.

I've got a lot of strip club stories to tell... And I very much respect the entertainers and staff that make it all happen. If I won the lottery, I'd open a strip club of my own, and make it a progressive place to work...

But that's a story for another time.

Labels: stripclub

• 3:04 PM 0 comments

Falling in

I go most places alone. It's not that I don't have friends, many friends, good and dear friends with whom I've shared good and bad times, people I respect and care about, and who seem to feel the same way about me.

My friends, though, have responsibilities, houses and children, others who depend on them, jobs that require their full attention, savings plans that are a life raft against future tsunamis. Adult stuff. Insurance. Taxes. Paperwork. Caring for the future.

Me, on the other hand? Not so much.

If I spend a night out drinking, the only one who pays is myself, and time (or more drinking) erases the immediate cost. I don't own a car so I won't drink and drive. And if I blow my savings on strippers and pizza... if I run off to Vegas on a whim... If I jump out of a perfectly good airplane... there are no children's tummies which will want for nutrition, no widow left behind to mourn my passing and curse my foolhardiness, no estate that will go unclaimed amongst my heirs, no work left unfinished.

As long as I pay my bills and my rent, I feel free to do whatever I want with whatever is left over.

So last week, on a Monday night, I walked into the Devil's Point in dirty southeast, a fat roll of cash in my pocket.

I flirted with the bartender, who appears to be a former (or current) exotic dancer herself, though clad in t-shirt and jeans, and got the Drink of My People (Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic, twist of lime). I small talked with the folk at the bar, and looked around the place.

Being alone a lot in venues like these, I've been de-sensitized to how I must appear to others. But lately I've realized that people can, and do, notice. What's the best way to counter the "lonely guy" look? Strike up a conversation with others, join their group, and show that I am, in fact, just as much a social creature as any other hairless ape. Or, better yet, talk to many groups. Be the life of the party, the host with the most, the guy with a gift for gab.

Those of you who know me can stop smirking now.

Drink in hand, I walked, shoulders back and relaxed, smiling, moving slowly but with determination amongst the tables full of hipsters and goths, to the stage. A dancer I did not recognize was finishing up, and there were two groups of people seated at the rack, on opposite sides of the stage. By pure chance I chose the group closest to me. Two guys and a girl. The guys wore button shirts and slacks, dress shoes, one with tie, the other in a sweater vest. The girl had on dress pants and a white blouse, blonde short hair, glasses.

I sit down. I engage them in conversation. We banter back and forth. They ask me if I have a light for their cigarettes, and I decline, and tell them two out of three vices are enough for me (drinking and lap dances). The blonde guy makes a joke about being French and I make a comment about him knowing his vices, but he takes it as a comment about surrendering and the French, which gets a little personal (I meant no insult, but I can't tell if he took it that way or was just playing along with what he thought I'd said) so I drop that thread and mention to the whole group that I think Monday nights is "Fire Dancing" night at the Devil's Point, which causes them to grill me on what, exactly, that means and am I sure?

I'm not sure, but I like the idea of being the guy who knows, so I play it off. Depends on who's dancing tonight, I tell them. It's a good show, I understand. One of the dancers is especially known for her fire dancing; if she shows up, wow, watch out.

Several songs of banter go by, but no dancers take the stage. I came in right at shift change. Old shift leaving, new shift getting ready. I notice Stormy, and Rocket, and Selena, all coming and going from the dressing room, talking to the bartender, talking to the DJ.

Finally the dancers come out, one at a time, two or three songs each, slowly getting naked as the songs progress. This is the show. This is the entertainment. The punk rock, the Goth-y dancers, the buzz of alcohol, the sting of smoke. This is why I'm here.

I toss a dollar on stage for each song. If I like the song, sometimes I'll toss more than one. It's strip club etiquette.

The guys I'm with are throwing fives, tens and twenties on the stage. Each. Per song.

Who are these guys? That's my first thought.

I hope I don't look cheap next to these guys. That's my second thought.

I picked exactly the right group to talk to. That... man, I wish I could say that was my third thought, but that did not occur to me until much later.

The dancers give the big spenders attention, but they give me attention, too, just as they give attention to the group at the other end of the stage. In fact, the group at the other end of the stage get a little more, because they seem to be regulars and well-known by several of the dancers, Selena in particular. I don't particularly care, but the party I'm with... they notice. And they start throwing more money on stage.

They run out of bills, so the guy in the tie gives some money to the girl, who goes back to the bar to change it. She comes back with a huge stack, maybe singles, maybe more, I can't tell. I make note of that transaction - tieguy, to girl, to bar, back to tieguy.

Tieguy makes some joke about how there's not enough girls in the club for him to... do... something. The punch-line is lost in the noise. I laugh anyway, and nod, and turn back to watch Stormy take the stage. Sweet, hot, Stormy.

And tieguy catches my eye. Pulls a twenty dollar bill off his roll. And tosses it at me, across the corner of the stage.

I remembered him giving a twenty to the girl to get change. Is that what he's doing with me? I suddenly felt a power struggle. Was I the knowing insider, helping these newbies have a good time on my home turf? Or was I the help, the service staff, here to help them and make them comfortable?

We had what an improviser would call an imminent status game. Was I high status to them, or low status?

I smiled, oddly, crookedly. I slowly reached out, poked the bill, picked it up, held it in the air, looked at tieguy...

...and I tossed it back at him.

His eyes got big. His companions grew quiet. I did nothing more.

"Seriously?!" tieguy said. It was loud, but I could hear him. I heard incredulity in his question.

The girl looked at tieguy, then leaned over and whispered at sweatervestguy. Sweatervestguy leans over to me.

"Dude... he just gave you twenty dollars."

"I know," I said. Did I misinterpret something?

"And you just threw it back."

"Right." I nodded at the money. "Did he want me to get him change? A drink?"

He looks at his friends, back at me. "No. For you to spend."

He scooped the bill off the stage. "Don't worry. I'll handle this. I'll go get some ones, and when I come back I'll split them with you." He leaned back to his friends, they whispered amongst themselves. I turned back to the stage, tossed a dollar up for Stormy, finishing her set. Did she see this interaction?

Tieguy got up from his chair and came over. His initial whatthefuck look had been replaced with flummoxed. "Dude? What just happened?"

"I meant no insult. I just wasn't sure what your intentions were." I sounded calmer than I felt. Drug dealers? Organized crime? Was I going to get whacked when I left here tonight? Did the blonde dude go to call in reinforcements? Did I watch too many Mafia movies? Let the defendant state for the record, your honor, that to the best of my recollection, none of them appeared to be packin' heat. "You have to understand - stuff like that doesn't normally happen to me." I hoped that didn't sound as lame to him as it sounded to me.

"Right, right... true. I was just being... It's just..." he shook his head, looked back at the girl, glanced to see where sweatervestguy was in the bar, "that guy? He's my boss." This last seemed dragged out of him. He appeared loathe to say it.

The dymanic changed again, with just a few words spoken. Boss? Tieguy is subordinate? He seemed the more powerful one, when he was handing money to the girl and tossing large bills on stage, and joking about not having enough women. Now he appeared small, diminished, trying to puff himself up in front of his supervisor, his foreman, his manager. His boss. Boss? Really?

I nodded as if I had any clue what he was talking about, and fell back into the role of knowing advisor. "Well, you know, these things happen." I waved at the stage, where Rocket was taking over from Stormy. "Why be angry or upset when there's beautiful naked women?"

He laughed, and clapped me on the back, and stood up, and pulled out more money. "You're all right!" he yelled out, and he rained down singles in front of me, and shouted for Rocket to "take care of this guy!" When Rocket came by, he tucked a one hundred dollar bill into her belt, for which she kissed him on the cheek and called him "sweetie".

For the next half-hour or so, I couldn't spend my own money even if I wanted to. They still wanted to show off, still wanted to be the big spenders, but realized I was too proud to accept it directly. They brought me drinks, and spread waves of singles and fives in front of me on the rail. And when I stopped Stormy to ask her for a private dance... they paid for it.

Remember that status battle, though? They had tried to buy my attention. If I had accepted, I would have confirmed my lower status to them. By refusing... I had retained higher status. And now, even though they were still trying to buy what I'd refused to sell them, they had accepted lower status to me. The harder they tried, the more it lowered their social value.

They grew bored with me, and wandered away from the stage for a while. I lost track of them. Finally, sweatervestguy came over, tossed more money down in front of me, thanked me for a great time, and made his goodbye.

They were gone. I don't know if I'll see them again. I still don't know why they had so much money and were so willing to spend it. Expense account? Money laundering? Blackwater or just normal Republican corruption?

I'll never know. But I will keep on talking to strangers.

Though I doubt it will often be as lucrative as that night.

Labels: stripclub

• 9:45 PM 1 comments

Snarky Stormy

Sitting at the rack at Devil's Point, watching cute, petite, energetic, tattooed Stormy rocket around the stage in a fishnet body stocking underneath a bikini emblazoned with skulls, I half-listened to the music. Nodding my head in time to the electronic beat and the goofy lyrics, I had that flash of recognition. I knew this song!

When Stormy came over to dance for me, I said, "This song is from Velvet Goldmine, isn't it?"

"It's Brian Eno. I think Brian Eno was around before Velvet Goldmine!" She laughed and her tone was playful, but a bit condescending.

I laughed, but I thought to myself, Was Brian Eno involved in that movie? I didn't think so, but...

By the way, the song was "Baby's On Fire" (iTunes link to song preview) - Performed by Jonathan_Rhys-Meyers and the Venus In Furs... and written by Brian Eno. We were both right...

Labels: stripclub

• 10:02 AM 0 comments

Small update

I knew I shouldn't have stayed out late last night drinking doubles at Devil's Point. But Winter, Aris, Selena... all very persuasive women. And I ran into Sam the DJ from the Acropolis there. He's a fun guy, too.

But then I had to be at work today at 5:00 AM, and the earthquake hit Portland, just as the Emergency Management folk planned, and I had computers to set up for the (simulated) disaster recovery. Luckily, plugging in computers isn't a very taxing activity. Turns out I can even do it hung-over and tired. And even enjoyed myself a little.

To top it all off, waking up from my nap this evening post-work and finding MaryAnne (as S called her) had commented on my post, all the way from Toronto, put a smile on my face. I guess I owe someone a dollar; they really do have internets in Canada. Go figure!

Labels: stripclub

• 10:18 PM 0 comments

Blocking the offers

Three hat stories from Saturday night...

Hood

I stepped out of the Limelight into the muggy cool Portland night, walked past the blonde boys sitting smoking on the benches, adjusted my fedora, and walked across SE Milwaukie to where I'd parked the car.

On the far side, I was walking past another bar and onto a side street. A tall guy in a straw cowboy hat, unshaven, wobbly-drunk, was crossing my path. He saw me, did a sloppy double-take.

"You a hood?" he asked me, somehow turning to face me even as he slowly continued into the bar.

"Pardon?" I asked.

"You a hood? Hoods wear those." He pointed at his head, which was wearing a cowboy hat, but I knew he meant my head, not his. How'd my brain know that? It was the context.

I laughed and said, "I'm not a hood!" And you're drunk, I thought.

No trading

The stage at Devil's Point hangs from chains and is secured in the back but is otherwise hanging free. On that stage, on Saturday night, paraded a variety of strippers, most of them dark-haired, tall and thin, and covered in tattoos.

I'd come in out of curiosity and a desire to see some strange cooter.

I sipped my Bombay Sapphire and tonic, felt the gin work its way into my system, and kept wiping my snarky grin off my face as Rocket danced above and in front of me. The crowd was loud and drunk, and included a short, dark-haired woman with librarian glasses in a green t-shirt and jeans that looked to be either an off-duty dancer, a regular, or just really friendly with everyone. At one point she jumped over the back of a chair, sat next to me, and announced that she was "waiting for the hot dancers." Which seemed crazy to me, since Rocket was on the stage, but to each their own. Not finding Rocket "hot" didn't prevent the glasses girl from shouting, miming a rope to pull Rocket closer, or pretending to kiss and lick Rocket whenever a body part presented itself. Yeah, definitely crazy.

After Rocket finished her three-song set, the next girl up was a tall thin Asian girl. Normally not my type, but... wow. I'm not sure if it was the crowd, the strongly mixed drink, or the newness of these women, but I was having a great time. Sharai? Sharai who? Heh.

When System of a Down's "Toxicity" came up, I remembered the dark noisy bar off of Bourbon Street where I'd first heard it, and sang along, loudly. I wasn't alone.

A group of early-twenty-somethings sat at the far corner of the bar, and I noticed that the boy, a tall, thin, dark-haired emo boy, appeared to be talking to me over the music. He pulled his yellow-and-white mesh-back trucker cap off and held it towards me, mouthed something, pointed at his now-exposed head.

I leaned over a bit to better hear him.

"Hey, man," he said, "we should trade hats!"

I gave him a blank look. "What?"

"Hats!" He was smiling. He pointed at my fedora. "We should trade them! For one song!"

Take off my hat? For a guy? And put on his trucker cap?

Smiling indulgently, just as Superman would smile at a six-year-old who wanted to fight crime at his side, I simply said, "No."

The kid looked a bit shocked and hurt. He pouted. His friends laughed. "Well, fuck you and your super-cool hat, then!" But he was smiling and laughing. He replaced his cap on his head and extended his hand in friendship. "My name's Sam!"

"Hi, Sam, I'm Brian," I said, talking loud just as the song ended and the volumed melted away. Awesome. Now everyone knew my name! It'll be like Cheers!

Sam smiled and shook his head. "It's a really cool hat, man."

"Yeah. Everybody loves the hat!"

Interrupted thought

I stood in the middle section of Devil's Point, the part that wasn't the bar and wasn't the stage. I guess it's the "lounge" - filled with tall tables and overstuffed vinyl booths. Not that Devil's Point is very large to begin with. The majority of the dancers that night were tall and thin, with short dark hair, and covered in tattoos. They all seemed to dress in bikini tops, lacy boyshorts, and platform boots that went all the way up to their knees.

In other words, totally my type.

I'd run out of singles and was debating getting more from the bar, or heading back to my neighborhood and the Acropolis. If i was going to be doing more drinking I didn't want to have to drive very far. I watched the girl on the stage and debated internally. I wondered where they did private dances. I saw a curtained alcove, dark and triangular, not much bigger than three square feet. There?

Rocket strutted out of the dressing room and walked right up to me. She smiled and leaned close. "Hi, I wanted to tell you..."

She was interrupted by a burst of noise as a loud song started up and the crowd cheered. We both flinched.

"Rowdy crowd!" I said over the din.

She nodded. The DJ announced that the girls not on the stage were available for private dances. I looked at Rocket and raised my eyebrows.

Her eyes twinkled. "Would you like a private dance?" she asked.

"Mainly, I'm wondering where? Where does that happen?"

She turned and pointed to the alcove I'd spotted. "In there."

"Seems dark. And small."

"Would you like to see?" She took my hand and led me over. "C'mon! I'll give you a tour!" She pulled back the curtain.

Sure enough, it was triangular and painted so dark that light seemed to fall into it. I could see the glints of light off the glossy leather (or vinyl) bench in the back, and silver handles set into the wall on either side, presumably hand-holds. Other than that I couldn't see much. Rocket was standing right next to me, warm and smelling of cherries. In fact, she smelled... delicious. She smelled like chocolate and cherries and vanilla. I kept thinking of Dr. Pepper. I wondered if I would be overwhelmed in that space.

"It looks... great!" I said.

"Cool! I'll be right back, OK?"

I turned around and watched the stage while she did some business at the bar. She returned just as the song was ending. I sat down. She stood in front of me and writhed in close, in time to the music.

"Oh, wait!" I raised my hands and she leaned away, not very far because of the tight space. I pulled my hat off. If she was standing over me I wouldn't have been able to see because of the brim, and she wouldn't have been able to get very close, either. Plus my head was warm. "My hat..." I started to put it under the bench; she took it from me and put it on a shelf just inside the curtain. I had not noticed that shelf before, but then there was a hot Goth-y chick about to get naked for me. I was distracted.

As she started dancing, I grinned, snarky. "Should I sit on my hands?" My hands were placed in plain view on my thighs.

"Why?" She asked. "Are you going to be a naughty boy?"

I just laughed. Probably not, I thought, I don't think I want to be kicked out of here yet.

She danced for me, leaning in close, presenting all of the most fascinating body parts in extreme close up. She did something that the dancers at the Acropolis never do, also: she would kiss and nibble my neck, and get very close to actually kissing me on the lips. I was smiling but I tried to keep very still and move slowly and deliberately. No sudden movements. And the Dr. Pepper smell just reminded me of how hungry I was. No dinner. No wonder the one drink was affecting me - empty stomach.

Or maybe it was Rocket.

Just as the song was ending, Rocket had taken off her belt and appeared to be about to strangle me with it. But not in a dangerous way; in a sexy way. Some people like that, I understand... It was probably a ploy, though, because she stopped when the song did. "That song ended just in time for you!" she laughed. It sounded like a joke she'd made many times before, and it was the only off note she made all evening. We can tell when something's rehearsed, or when it's natural, or we believe we can. Because she'd been so playful and friendly, I shrugged it off.

I dug out my wallet, and she turned and picked up my hat. She admired it before setting it back on my head. "Oh, I almost forgot! The whole reason I walked up to you was I wanted to tell you: I really like your hat!"

I laughed, softly, and nodded. "Yes. Everybody loves the hat."

Labels: stripclub

• 5:24 PM 0 comments

Naked Bike Ride: Prologue

Friday night. I'm at the Acropolis, as usual. I had to come in to see if Sharai (oops, I used her stage name) was dancing. I wanted to tell her about the midnight naked bike ride.

She was.

I did. Right after watching her on the stage for a full set, and two private dances.

As the song ended, she was sitting in the chair opposite me. I leaned forward. "I'm doing something crazy tomorrow night," I said.

Her eyes lit up and she leaned forward, too. "What?"

"I'm going on a naked bike ride."

"What? Naked?" She thought a moment. "I think I've heard about that!" She stood up and gathered up her bra, panties and skirt.

"Yeah. It's awesome. I've never been naked in public before. You've inspired me with all your talk about being naked."

She looked down at me and her face grew serious for a moment. "Thank you! That's... I appreciate that." She struck a pose, arms wide. "The world needs more naked people!"

I laughed. "I agree completely!"

She sat down in the chair next to me and put on her thong, carefully stepping into them with her 9-inch platform shoes. "Have you ever seen a naked war?" She arched her back to raise her ass so she could pull the panties up.

"No! Well... sometimes the losers are naked." I pulled out my wallet, fished out the money.

She continued, on a funny rant. I don't think she'd heard me. "How about a naked fight?" she challenged me, "Knife fight? Mugging? Nobody fights when they're naked! Naked people are not angry people!"

"That's very true. They're too busy giggling."

She laughed.

I pulled at my shirt, stopped. "I'd be so naked right now if I could."

She nodded, hiding a grin. "I bet you would. I just bet you would." She shrugged into her bra, stood, reached around and did the clasp.

I shook my head. "Curse these rules that keep me clothed!" I shook my fist in the air. I started to hand the money to her. She lifted one leg, balancing on one foot, and offered her stocking-clad thigh for me.

I tucked the money into the stocking. The brief warm contact of my fingers on her leg buzzed far more than it should have. I looked up and our eyes locked while she lowered her leg. I thought that was a neat trick of balance.

"My friend, Tracy? You've met her, remember?" Sharai nodded, I continued. "She doesn't think I can do this. She wants me to... just doesn't think I'll go through with it."

Our gaze was still locked and we stood very close together. In her shoes she was over 6 foot. I was looking up at her smiling eyes.

"What, like she think you're gonna pussy out of it?"

I nodded, smirking. "But talking like that just makes me want to do it more!"

"Oh, no," she said, enthusiastically. "You're going to do it. You have that sparkle in your eyes."

Labels: stripclub

• 7:17 PM 0 comments

Blasting through the walls of repression

So, it's a running joke between Tracy and I that I'm repressed, at least where it comes to sex and sexual expression.

Oh, sure, I hang out in strip clubs and flirt with the dancers, but when I'm outside the club, in the real world, I fail to act on what should be normal, human, desires. And when I am dating a woman... It's not all whipped cream and sweaty skin, if you know what I mean.

Slowly, over time, this idea, that I'm repressed, has filtered into my conscious mind. And I know that it's a problem. And, being who I am, I want to fix the problem. Only... how?

If I visualize the repression as a wall of stone, thick and cold, gray, covered in oily black-green vines... then the way to fight it is to either climb over it, dig under it... or blast through it.

My favorite dancer, "S", loves being naked. She really and truly finds joy in being naked. She hangs out at "clothing optional" beaches. She wanders around her house naked. And even in the club, she seems more alive and happy when she's got no clothing on.

...and I'm really comfortable around her. A large part of that, I believe, is the connection that comes from her being comfortable in her own skin.

Then, today, I read about Pedalpalooza, a celebration of bikes and bicycling. More importantly, I read about the World Naked Bike Ride.

I'd read about it last year. There was a nighttime ride and a daytime ride. I'm a voyeur - I looked at the pictures, watched the videos (warning: NSFW). I had forgotten that it was an annual event until I saw it on some blog again today.

Talking to Tracy, I complained. I said, if only I had a bike, that sounds like fun.

Tracy called bullshit on me. She's my best friend. She knows that I would never actually be naked in public.

Tracy was mostly right. Mostly, like 99.999997% right. I knew it. I didn't argue with her. Much. The repressed parts of my brain (I'm sure there's more than one because it seems like they gang up on me) were screaming and wailing at the very thought of being naked in a crowd of strangers while sitting on a bike in the Eastside Industrial District. I'm a 42-year old man, a man who is still overweight, a man whose ancestors were hairy people. I'm one of those guys that people joke about wearing a sweater when I take off my shirt. At a party in Mexico, slender hairless muscular Mexican men were calling me "Danny De Vito". I don't have great self-esteem when it comes to being naked.

But... I kinda wanted to try it. More accurately, I wanted to be the kind of guy who would try it. I wanted to be able to tell S., the next time I saw her, that I had, in fact, been naked in public. I wanted to be able to blog about it.

I've raced cars, both in formal settings and late night, on the streets. I've jumped from airplanes. I've walked around dangerous parts of New York City by myself. I have moshed. I've had an affair with a married womon and then become friends with the husband.

I can be brave. No, scratch that - I am brave.

So I made a deal with Tracy. First, I needed a bike.

My first thought was asking to borrow a bike. Ken is about my size and has a bike. I'd ask him if I could borrow... No. Tracy and I both cracked ourselves up. Ken is many things, but he's got, shall we say, cleanliness issues. There is no way he would let me ride his bike while I was naked.

So the deal is this: if I can find a bike that fits my budget before Saturday night, I will ride in the Naked Nighttime Bike Ride, along with all the others. I run, I'm fit. A bike would complement my running nicely.

I allowed Tracy to come up with the consequence if I don't do this. Her first thought shows that, one, she knows me very well, and, two, she has a subtle and devious mind.

I can't run for a week.

Running is my therapy and my passion. Not running for a week would be pure psychological torture. It may sound odd to folks who don't run, but, believe me... I would go crazy. Um... crazier.

And now, I'm blogging about it. I'm putting my reputation on the line. I will do this.

I will blast through the walls of my repression.

Plus I'll have an awesome story to tell.

OK, time to read up on the tips for first-time naked cyclists... And if you're wondering, no, riding naked is not illegal.

Labels: stripclub

• 8:42 PM 7 comments

Big Dork

At the Acropolis, as per usual. S. is dancing a private dance for me. She's amazingly beautiful, long brunette hair, lean body but not hard and muscular. The word "lithe" was invented for women like her. If dark eyes can flash, then that's what her eyes do.

And then she gives me a silly-sexy look, and I mug back at her, giving her an Austin-Powers-esque double-take, and she laughs and out comes a snort and it only makes her laugh more, and me, too.

"I can't hide it," she admits to me. "I'm just a big dork."

"I think that's why we get along so well," I say, hoping it's true.

"We laugh a lot," she says. "I dig that."

Me, too. It's why I like spending time with her.

After the private dance, she asks me if I'm going to stick around. I say yes, of course, and she tells me that she's got some funny pictures to show me. When she sees me again she brings up a pile of 5 by 7s. I look through them. They're of several Hispanic men in flannel shirts and slacks and wearing bandanas. They're stone-faced. One, in close-up, sneers and has a teardrop tattooed coming from one eye.

Oh shit. "Is this... you?" I ask.

She nods and giggles. "Yes!" She explains she went to a club in town that had Drag Night. "We went as Mexican gangsters! It was so funny!" She says she even came to the Acrop still dressed up, sat at the rack and wasn't recognized until she gave herself away.

Later, out in the club, I look at the other dancers and wonder if they, too, are big dorks. A., probably, but with her body-builder physique and ink-covered skin and dozens of piercings most might not see it. T., definitely; she plays the airhead role well enough but she also has a fun energy. Most of the other dancers tonight are hard-body types - bolt-on boobies, hours spent in the gym and the tanning booth, they've built their looks up to the point of being plastic.

And then there's L. Hollywood looks and a petite, soft but slender body. Perfect nose. Brilliant blue eyes. And although I'll likely never know for sure, I get the sense that the whole package is natural. No scalpel has marred her skin.

The last conversation I had with her I was babbling about being in New York last Christmas and not taking the chance to go to Harlem to see James Brown's body at the Apollo. I remember ending that conversation and leaving her with the impression of me being morbidly obsessed with death. The details are foggy. But since then she's seen me at the club, having fun, and seeing the other girls treat me like a mascot, and maybe that previous impression has worn off, or never sunk in in the first place.

I sat at her stage for a set, and tip, and smile, and mugged a little to see if I can get her to smile. It's stifling hot in the bar, has been all night, and after her second or third song, while she's going around scooping up the money from the rail and from the floor, she looks at me, and scrunches up her face. "Ugh" she says. "It's hot in here."

I take my fedora off and fan her with it. She laughs.

Then it was S.'s turn again.

The next time L. was up was on the main stage. It was getting later, and the club, once filled with party people, was starting to empty out. I could actually sit at the main rack and have almost an entire section to myself. I sat there and watched L. dance and spin on the pole. I watch the other customers' reactions to her, and they all look like they're thinking the same thing I do: wow, she is seriously beautiful. Ethereal. Somehow above this dive-y bar with its smoke and its beer and whiskey and the sticky floors and dirty everything - she's somehow untouched by it all. "You're so beautiful," they say to her: the tough bald biker guys, the smartass frat boys, the geeky emo boys. Even the girl patrons admire her in a way that's very different from the more carnal appreciation the other dancers get.

Second or third song, again, and she laid on the bar in front of me, tits up. She smiles her angelic smile at me from her cloud of platinum-blonde hair (OK, so not everything is natural) and arches her back.

I lean in, close enough to be heard over the thumping music but not close enough to alarm. Thinking of my earlier conversation with S., I say, "I'll bet, secretly, deep down... you're a big dork."

Her smile freezes, just for a second. She slides off the bar, completing the motion she began before I spoke up, turns to face me and leans over.

"What?" she asks.

I know that if I want this to come out correctly, I need to suppress any hint of apology. I'm just speaking of what I see, even if I'm wrong. "I'll bet that most of the time, you're a dork. Silly."

She leans back, her smile gone as she processes what I'm saying. "I don't know how to take that," she admits, slowly. Her song is ending and she's starting to move back towards the bar in the middle of the stage. She turns back to me, her smile returning. "But you're right."

I laugh. "I knew it! I like being right." She laughs with me, but it's an uneasy one, as if she's afraid of being exposed and not just naked.

Another song, and she dances. I smile when she dances for me, and I thank her when she thanks me for the tip. Another song, and the same, except I turn when S. walks past me to get a hot cocoa from the bar (she doesn't drink anymore) and chat with her.

After L. has collected all her money from the floor and the bar, and has put her panties and bra back on, and is in that in-between mode, waiting for the next girl to take over, she walks over to me where I'm still sitting at the bar.

"Why did you say that about me?"

I didn't know what to say. Honestly, I said it because I wanted it to be true. I said it because, out of all the girls here tonight, L. was the one who seemed least likely to be... human. Except for S., of course. But most of the dancers had an edge to them, or showed their insecurities in little ways, or would vent and get angry. But L. seemed perfect, and therefore not quite Earthly. So I thought it would be great if she had a goofy side. I thought that somewhere, there's someone who makes her laugh so hard she farts.

"I don't... I just thought... I could see... It's just second nature..." I stammer out, still smiling and trying to summon the confidence I had had just two songs ago. "I just think you've got a funny side you don't show very often."

"Well... thanks. You're right." And she turned her perfect naked ass and walked up the stairs.

Damn. Did I really pick up on something she thinks about? Or did I just demonstrate the Forer Effect by stating a complimentary generality that anyone would find flattering and therefore hard to deny?

Whatever I did, I rather like the effect.

New rule: Inside many beautiful women is a big dork waiting to be noticed.

Labels: stripclub

• 1:01 AM 1 comments

Everybody Loves It

I was sitting at the main stage at the Acropolis. Again. I was wearing my new hat, a short-brimmed, tall crowned fedora, in a snappy gray glen plaid. It made me feel hip, not unlike drinking vodka drinks in a dive bar. Everybody loves my headwear.

It was Friday night at shift change.

A cute Hispanic girl, short-haired and compact, was packing up her music at the back of the stage, while the night shift dancers clumped down the stairs in their 9-inch heels and made their way, each of them, to their stage.

S., my all-time favorite, wearing what looked like a black one-piece bathing suit, walked past me towards the back of the bar. I waved my fingers at her; she almost didn't notice (she had her game face on and wasn't making eye contact with anyone, just scanning the tops of their heads and smiling) but I waved harder and she turned back and smiled.

"Hey! Yay!" she said. "Nice hat."

"Thanks!" I raised it, half to show my now-bald head, half as a gesture of courtesy. "It keeps my head warm."

She laughed, then smirked. "But now I can't rub your head!"

I mock-glared. "It just means you have to ASK first."

She laughed and clomped away on top of her stripper stilts - I mean, shoes.

Later, in the private area, I sat in the chair and looked up at her. Her face was barely visible below the line of the brim of my hat. She reached for it, stopped, asked "May I?"

I nodded. She lifted it off my head and plunked it down over her long straight reddish-brown hair. She posed and pouted into the mirror behind me. It looked surprisingly good on her - gave her a 1930s-esque noir-ish look. Of course, wearing the hat, her stripper shoes, and nothing else, while standing in the open V of my legs helped, too.

She started to put it back, and the music for this song started at the same moment. In mid-motion she changed her mind and set it on the table next to me. "You can not wear it when I'm dancing for you," she declared, and then bent from the waist, and dragged her long hair over the top of my head. I'd been cold all night, and her hair was warm and soft, and I shivered from the feeling as my private dance began.

I must have missed my opportunity, if any, to hang out with S. outside the club. I didn't get the impression that she was interested any longer - though to be honest, my instincts when it comes to reading other people's body language are poor even on a good day. With someone whose job is to send confusing signals, I should probably abandon all hope. S. isn't a bimbo, isn't covered in tats or piercings, has small, natural breasts and a Roman nose.

I've noticed, though, that people like her, customers and dancers and bar staff alike. Other dancers will joke and flirt with her. The rail is nearly always full when she's dancing. She may or may not be a good person (whatever that means) but she gives the best show of friendliness and... connection that I've ever seen.

Fuck. This girl gives me a case of the "if-onlies" of epic proportions.

I felt the maudlin-y feeling welling up in me when I watched her on stage, later, after I was done with private dances for a bit. Figured it was time to leave before I did or said something dumb. What would Humphrey Bogart do? How would Han Solo have handled this? Fly away, don't come back, raise some hell.

When S. came over near me again, I leaned over. "I'm outta here, toots, and I'm taking the hat with me."

"OK," she smiled. She squatted down and collected the money in two fistfuls.

I stood up. "I wish we'd met somewhere else." Just like that, something dumb snuck out of my mouth.

Her smile turned a bit sad. Her dark eyes grew a little darker. She reached across the rail and laid her hand, palm up, on the bar. When I didn't move at first, she tapped it against the wood.

I put my hand in hers and she squeezed it. "I'm glad you came in tonight. I'm glad I got to see you" she said.

"Me, too," I said and walked out and home.

Surprisingly it wasn't raining. Still fuckin' cold though.

Labels: stripclub

• 5:20 PM 0 comments

Happy Music

Sitting at the very back stage at the world-famous Acropolis, Tracy and I watched the slender, clever S. dance to some very heavy metal music. On a rockin' Saturday night, the music all four dancers shake their moneymakers is chosen by the dancer on the very front stage, and apparently the girl on the main stage liked the dark stuff.

Tracy turned to me, leaned close and spoke directly into my ear. "I hate this music. How do they" she nodded towards S., writhing on the rail in front of a mixed-gender bunch of trucker-cap wearing young hipsters "dance to this shit?"

I just shrugged.

S. danced her way over to us. She smiled when she recognized my face. I introduced her to Tracy and they said hi to each other.

"Hey, lady, want to boink?" I said.

S. looked puzzled, which went well with her half-nakedness. "Boink? You mean hump?"

We'd had a discussion a couple of weeks ago about hump being the funniest word for sex. In the time since then, I'd been reminded of the word boink, which, by one of the rules of comedy ("words with a hard C or G sound in them are funnier than words without") is funnier than hump.

"Boink is funnier than hump," I said.

S. laid on her back, along the rail, leaning on her arm. Her right breast was level with Tracy's eyes; only about 5 or 6 inches separated them. "No," S. said, with finality. "Hump is funnier." She looked at Tracy. "Right?"

Tracy nodded. "I agree."

I was outnumbered.

S. pouted. "I hate this music."

Tracy laughed. "Me, too! What kind of music do you like?"

"I like happy music," S. stated, as if that were the only possible answer.

Labels: stripclub

• 8:26 PM 1 comments

The Past Twenty-Five Minutes

Twenty-five minutes ago I sat at the lower, fourth stage at the Acropolis, laughing and watching S. get dressed again (tiny little white sweater that barely covered anything, tiny white elastic thong under a tiny micro-mini-mini-micro skirt, tiny 8" platform shoes) as she wadded all the dollars she'd collected over four songs into a big ball the size of my ambitions.

I set aside my drink, which I'd been nursing since Tonic had used the ice from it to both cool herself off and tease me during a private dance, after which I'd realized that I didn't really know where her fingers had been, but I'd shrugged it off by thinking, "Oh, well, that's what an immune system is for."

I stood up and said to S., sadly, "I've gotta go."

"You're going?" she pouted. She pointed back towards the private dance area. "Go?" She pouted some more.

I turned to walk away and turned back. She mocked drying her eyes with her as-yet unworn skirt.

"OK, what the hell, one more for the road." She hugged me and I followed her ass through the crowd to the private area.

Five minutes later, I tucked my next-to-last twenty into her stocking, both of us smiling. She leaned in close, eyes narrowing. "You smoke weed, right?" My face tightened into what I hoped wasn't a patronizing smile and I shook my head. I tried to convey the idea that I was totally OK with other people's habits but that I didn't indulge. I probably came across in the same way that asshole Republicans talk about all their "black friends", though.

She shook her head. "You don't?" She looked down and continued getting dressed. A small smile came back to her face. "I think you'd be funny to get stoned with."

Dammit, I'm funny all the time. I don't need pot to be funny! One tiny lizard part of my brain was waking up and thinking that maybe that she was making an offer and I'd just blown it. I do that; it's what I do.

I hugged her again, and shuffled out into the night for the 10-block walk home. It was just midnight, and it was a bit chilly but not bone-chilling cold. The stars were up there shining like they do sometimes. I shivered a bit and shuffled in the vague direction of Foster's Market. I wasn't sure how late they stayed open, since I'm hardly ever up this late, but if they were open, I thought I'd buy some munchies. I don't even need pot to have the munchies, apparently.

From two blocks away I saw a woman who looked a little worse for wear hanging on the pay phone, and a muscular dude walk up, test the door, and walk inside. Dave was in there working. He was always in there. By the time I'd travelled the two blocks, Dave was chatting with the guy who was now on his way out with a forty of malt liquor in a paper bag.

"You're open?" I asked. Dave nodded and then continued joking with the departing customer without missing a beat.

I bought a small bag of dark chocolate M&Ms and a bear claw. Standing in line behind another dude on a beer run, impulsively asking about a lottery ticket after seeing that the jackpot was up to $182 million. Dave shook his head. "Sorry, I just closed that machine out."

"Oh, well, there's always tomorrow," the dude said, hopefully.

"Right," I said, "it's tomorrow. Happy Saint Patrick's Day."

Dude laughed and left the store. The woman using the pay phone stuck her head in the door and thanked Dave, left again. My total came to a buck forty-nine. I peeled off two dollars from the wad of left-overs.

Dave said, "of course, lots of days when I should be wearing green, I don't. My ancestors were the sworn enemies of the Irish."

"Oh? Isn't that when you're supposed to wear orange, instead?"

"Oh, no, the orange and the green represent the Protestants and the Catholics. I'm talking about countries, not religions. My ancestors swore allegiance to QE2." I pocketed my change, picked up my bag and started shuffling towards the door. I stopped. For some reason, tonight, I wanted to keep talking to Dave. I wanted to validate his often-random ramblings. He was an older guy, a guy who had seen a lot of wear and tear, gray in places, bright ruddy red in others, his eyes swimming behind the strongest prescription glasses I'd ever seen, lenses almost thicker than they were wide.

But tonight, Dave had run out of things to say. His voice trailed off, saying, mumbling, "...but that won't buy a cup of hot coffee in the States." A long pause, and I smiled and chuckled, and then walked out the door, thinking he was done.

As I was one step out the door, I could hear Dave starting up again. "She bought about a ba-jillion quarters from me for the pay phone." I was already beyond the door and it cut him off as it closed.

Back into the night. Two more blocks to home.

I passed the Thai place, closed up. There was a light on at the coffee shop, even though the door was locked up and the sidewalk sign had been put away. I saw J. bustling around behind the counter in the back of the shop, counting out the money. I liked her for her quirky cuteness; shorter than me, black pageboy-cut hair, a bit of a wandering left eye and a lisp, but funny, and honest, and open. I paused and watched her work for a moment. I tore open my bag of M&Ms and dumped some into my mouth. I considered tapping on the glass.

She still hadn't looked up. Sometimes if you stare at someone long enough, they will look up, as if responding to the pressure of your stare. J. hadn't responded yet. I thought of offering to share my bear claw and candy with her. I envisioned her letting me come in while she counted out the day's take, and I had a brief fantasy of kissing her, once.

I turned and walked the block and a half to home.

Walked past the new strip-mall storefronts right next to my apartment building, still empty, almost finished and ready for occupancy. I crunched through the gravel where the new sidewalk was going to go, where I wasn't supposed to be walking. Since I was done with the candy I tossed the bag in the direction of my buildings' garbage can.

I thought of my neighborhood. I thought of the lady and Old Barfy next door, telling me how much they liked my cat, Smacky. I thought of my secret thoughts of J., and of the random loneliness of Dave, and of S. being embarrassed by wanting to get high with me.

I see myself as a loner, a grump, a drunk. A secretive geek with a cranky cat, with a few close friends but mostly spending my time alone. And yet, I had all these connections to people in my neighborhood, people who, apparently, seemed to like me. At that moment, as I took the last few steps up to my front door, the rest of the building lights out...

...what do they see in me? Are we all alone, and all just reaching out for whatever human contact we can get, thankful for anyone who will stop and listen?

Shit... what if everyone else feels the exact same way I do?

How scary is that?

And then I came inside, nibbled on my bear claw, and wrote this post. Hello, out there.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day.

Labels: stripclub

• 12:17 AM 1 comments

Tales from the underworld

Months ago, when I was in denial about how much money I was throwing away on whiskey and women at the Acropolis, three of my favorite dancers all quit drinking. A, a goth-y girl with amazing black tribal tats, and some special white-ink ones that glowed angry red under black lights, might have never drank. I never saw her drinking booze at work. So I'm not sure if I should say she "quit"... but I made note of it.

Then one night I went in on a Friday night for a drink or several, and Tonic, a tiny girl who could easily drink twice her weight in booze, was dancing. At the end of her set I offered to buy her a shot of something, and she thanked me but said she'd quit. "I remember one night, you said to me that you'd never seen me not be hung-over or drunk, even at the beginning of my shift. Do you remember that?" she asked me?

Duh. Yeah, I remembered. Apparently she'd decided, shortly after that night, that she should maybe not do that so much. Or at all. I smiled, and wished her good luck, and felt vaguely proud, but also felt a bit... guilty? Not sure... but I stopped after only three drinks and went home, hours later, mostly sober and feeling let down, somehow.

Then another weekend night, and I saw S, still hands down my favorite. Funny, sexy, and she could drink me under the table. Only this night she looked different. My first thought was that she was pregnant, but I'm smart enough that I don't ever bring that up with a woman unless I see the baby's head crowning. I just told her she looked amazing... almost glowing.

"Thanks, baby," she said. "I've given up drinking!"

"Wow! What's the lucky dude's name?" I asked. She laughed and shook her head, and before she could correct me, I broke in with "...or HER name, and I'm totally OK with that. As long as I get to watch."

She laughed harder, but insisted that she wasn't seeing anyone. "I just was always feeling run-down, and I realized how often I was drinking, and smoking, and spending time around other drinkers and smokers, and decided to try to eat healthier and take care of myself." Of course, she said this standing in one of the dive-iest dives in Portland, a building soaked in booze, smoke, sweat and other substances. But, hey, more power to her. She was still sexy and funny, even if she wasn't drunk.

But, again, I felt a subtle form of peer pressure to not drink so much around these girls. When I found out another dancer didn't drink on the job, I wondered if there was a worker's protest going on against the owner. Or maybe they'd peer-pressured each other into it. Who knows?

Another couple of cold winter months, and I stopped going in so often. And one night I did, and I saw Tonic, and she was, once again, sloppy, falling-over, drunk. Ah, back to normal. When she saw me, she smiled, but it was a tight smile, an embarassed smile, and then she avoided me for the rest of the night. I wasn't going to judge; I come from a long line of drunks, a member of which tribe I proudly belong - but she didn't know that. Or maybe she did and she didn't want to associate.

I'd still drop by every couple of weeks, but I lost the knack of knowing when my favorites were dancing, and I didn't connect with any new favorites, and then I started saving my money again. A couple of weeks ago, though, I stopped by, as the early shift was finishing up. I stayed for an hour, just to see who was dancing the late shift, and A, the original non-drinker, walked in. And this time, I could tell. She had a little pooch to her belly, down low, and she looked a little... puffier. My first thought was that she was pregnant. But I still didn't say anything.

I stood at the rack where she was dancing and finishing up her first shift, and I dropped four dollars down. "Sorry I'm late, I just saw ya" I said. "How are you?"

She smiled. "I'm great. How are you?"

"Doin' good. I'm just on my way out, actually, but I wanted to say hi." She hugged me across the bar, pouted that I was leaving, and didn't mention her personal life. Her prerogative. Less than a week later, on her MySpace page, she announced that she was taking break for a few months, but that she'd be back. A friend dared me to say something, and finally I posted:

"We'll miss you! And... congratulations?"

When that post didn't show up right away I figured she'd deleted or hidden it. But a few days later it came through. I couldn't tell, still, from other folks comments if anyone else was publicly acknowledging her bein' in a family way. Maybe when she returns I can help contribute to her kids' college education, one dollar at a time... Whoever said that we are the box of broken toys has it right. We're all trying, and failing, to quit something. I went back tonight, and, sure enough, Tonic was there, and so was S, and they both were drinking, and so was I. I laughed, and drank, and enjoyed myself, and hopefully so did they.

...winners never quit.

Labels: stripclub

• 7:06 AM 0 comments

Sounds tempting, but...

Friday night, 11:30 PM. Another wonderful day (yes, that's sarcasm). I'm pretty much done for the day. Planned to get up early on Saturday, before the heat kicked in, and go for a nice long run, at least 8 miles' worth. Plus, work had taken its toll and I didn't see much percentage in staying up any longer, so I'm climbing into bed.

Phone rings. It's my friend, KC. He's married, with two kids, one fairly new (less than a year old) the other just into the Terrible Twos. I can't imagine why he's calling me on a Friday night. He lives at least 20 miles away in the rapidly-expanding suburbs of Vancouver, Washington.

I pick up. "Hey." The background sounds I'm hearing... that couldn't be music and bar noise? Could it?

"Hey," KC says. He's talking very loudly. "I'm gonna ask you a question, and I hope it's not gonna sound weird."

"O...K," I said and waited.

"BESIDES the Acropolis, what's the best strip club in Portland?"

"..." I start to answer, stop myself, listening to the music and the sounds of a crowd having fun, and try to put this together with my knowledge of my friend. Yes, before the kids were born, we'd had some good times hanging out in smoky bars. Hell, his wife had come along sometimes. But not in the last couple of years... "Where ARE you?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm out with some guys on a bachellor party! We're... um... we're somewhere in Old Town."

"Oh." My mind races. "Magic Garden?"

"Yeah, it's pretty magical, all right! Let me tell you, there's a serious hottie up right now... Oh, man." He pauses, the phone sounds like he's shifting to his other ear, then he's back. "They've got a limo and everything!" His voice dropped an octave. "I've had a couple of beers."

"No kidding. Um... BESIDES the Acropolis? I don't know... I haven't really hung out in any others recently. Not sure what to tell you. The Acrop is kinda like home now for me." I guess now I'm the official information line for strip clubs in Portland.

"I'm trying to get them to -- WHOA! -- I'm trying to talk them into going to the Acrop. Want me to call you when -- IF -- we get there?"

I think about it. If they're already at a place downtown, they won't be getting to my end of town any time soon, probably. But KC's pretty persuasive. And the Acrop is legendary. Plus... it's Friday night. Sharai and Aine are probably both dancing tonight and it's been a while since I've seen them. And I might gain some social proof if I showed up with friends, instead of the loner I usually am. "Sure, give me a call."

"OK, man, catch ya later!" He hangs up.

I spend maybe two and a half minutes wondering if I should get up, put my contacts back in, get dressed, and surf and wait. I finally decide against it, figuring that the Acrop is close enough that I could still get dressed quickly enough and get down there shortly after their call.

Damn. I'd need some cash, though. The fucking ATM fees at the club are usurious. Oh, well. The price we pay for entertainment...

I fall back into bed. I fall asleep. I wake up approximately six and a half hours later.

I check my phone. SEVEN missed calls from KC's cell. Phone was on silent. I also have four voice mails.

First VM was left at 12:47 AM - "Dude, we are goin' to the Acrop! Meet us there! WHOOO!"

Second VM, at 12:58 AM - "We! Are! Here! I hope you're here somewhere... Oh, man!"

Third VM, at 1:12 AM - "Dude, get off yer azz and get zome clothz onnnnn... and get down here. You. Are. Seriously. Missing. Out."

Fourth VM, 1:21 AM - "Duuuuuuuuuude... duuuuuuuuude... Soooooo... hot... Dayam!" It continued on in that vein for at least another couple of minutes before finally cutting off.

I'm laughing my ass off. I remember now that I HATE bachellor parties, and the goofy antics of drunk guys who don't go out very often. Still... KC's pretty amusing when he's drunk. I'm half thankful I wasn't there, and half regretful that I wasn't there. Oh, well, next time...

POSTSCRIPT:

When I came back from my run, I had another VM from my friend. Sounding a bit embarassed, he said, "Hey. It's KC. Um, I hope your phone was off last night or something. Sorry I called so many times. Hope I didn't wake you up, or interrupt anything, or... Yeah. I had a few beers. But, um, damn, the Acropolis is... is a very friendly place, if you catch my meaning. Unfortunately, we didn't get to stay too long. But, um, I'll catch you later or update you on Monday. Have a good weekend!"

Labels: stripclub

• 8:29 PM 2 comments

Baby talk

I sat at the bar, nursing my drink. Wait - is it "nursing" when I've been here for an hour and I'm on my third one? No? Damn.

Sharai was shorter than me, but not when wearing 8" platform shoes. Slender, long brown-red hair, callipygian in her red shorts and matching halter, she flirted her way up and down the bar, stopping and chatting with customers. She spent a lot of time with the two dressed-to-the-nines Asian guys. I overheard her tell one in her throaty contralto voice, "Oh, you look sexy, baby, you really do." They ate it up and converted it into a large tip for her.

She and I had done some drinking before when she wasn't on shift. In fact, the last time, I'd been cut off by the other bartender on duty, Suzy, when I'd tried to order a pair of Lemon Drops for Sharai and I. It would have been my 8th or 9th drink for the evening, sure, but it would also have been my last, and I had had dreams of it being a social lubricant as well: my apartment was nearby and actually clean for a change. Alas, not getting the drink had drained all the party out of the conversation and I had gone home alone.

Tonight I wanted to see if I could get the party going again. When she walked by my seat, I just looked at her, half-smiling with my eyes but otherwise silent and expressionless. She stopped and looked at me, taking a brief break from the bustle of serving. She leaned against the bar, she and I sharing a moment frozen admidst the chaos of a busy Friday night just getting started. The bar was a dive but a popular one; the early, just after work crowd was blue-collar, mostly men over 30, trucker hats and t-shirts worn without irony, but the evening crowd just trickling in was mixed male and female, younger, and dressed in their night-time costumes, some goth-y or punk, some GQ and Cosmo. And in the middle of all that, Sharai and I shared a look and a feeling, charged up by my smirk and her naughty flirting eyebrows.

She was waiting for me to say something, but I wasn't on her schedule. No one tells me what to do! And I found the pause delicious. Unlike 95% of the women in Portland, she had no ink and only one piercing, in her navel, a simple pearl accenting her flawless belly. How did I know she had no ink at all? Some secrets are worth keeping.

I allowed the moment to stretch as long as I could, until I sensed that she was going to un-lean and go back to work, and just as it reached its breaking point I lifted my chin, inviting her even closer, intimately closer. Well, and also I'm soft-spoken and I didn't want to have to repeat myself. She leaned in so her ear was close to my lips.

"If you were a president..." I began.

She pulled back and our eyes connected, mine still smiling in what I hoped was a mysterious way, hers questioning but ready to laugh.

"...you'd be Babe-raham Lincoln," I finished deadpan, enunciating.

Her head rocked back, her mouth wide open, tossing off a genuine full-throated laugh. "Oh, that's rich, baby! That's a good one!"

I took a sip of my drink for a dramatic pause. "If you were a beer," I started again. She cocked her eye at me. "...you'd be Babe-wiser."

Again, the laugh. The Asian guys to my right looked over, perhaps comparing my softly-spoken humor to their expensive haberdashery and feeling momentarily bested. Sharai wiggled her fingers at me and went to take care of some other customers.

The rules of humor say that things come in threes; set-up the pattern, extend the pattern, then break the pattern or give the punchline. I sat there, still stoic and sipping my drink, but my mind was racing, trying to come up with another one. I'd stolen the first one, of course, from "Wayne's World". The second one had come to me in a flash of neon - the sign behind her. While she filled drinks and took money, I thought.

When she returned, I was again silent. She knew it was coming and I was only too happy to oblige. "If you were a Bible story, you'd be the Tower of Babel", carefully speaking the words as if they were profound wisdom. She rewarded me with another laugh that shook enticing parts of her body and sent rumbles through parts of mine. She leaned in again, kissing me on the cheek, and whispered in my ear, "I just want to be silly and drink and have a good time. I want to be naughty." The last word was dropped at least an octave lower than the preceding sentence, and yet, she sounded wistful, rueful actually.

In thinking about it, I've lost that sense of fun, or I had until just recently. Joking with Sharai was fun because it was purely of the moment, no expectations or baggage or sadness or anger, just finding an improvised playmate for each other's inner child.

It feels good to be getting my mojo back... baby.

Labels: stripclub

• 6:03 PM 1 comments