Category: stripclub

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!”

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.

Sitting at lunch this week with an old friend that I hadn’t seen in a long time, I finally got a word in edgewise while she caught me up on all she’s been up to. She’d been rattling on about how much she remembered about me (more than I remembered about her, I’m afraid), paused to take a breath…

…and I leaned over and tapped the large gold band encrusted with diamonds on her left hand ring finger. “Is this for real,” I asked with a smirk, “or is it just to scare guys off?”

She looked down at it, laughed, embarrassed, started turning it around on her finger. “Yeah, it’s just to scare guys off” she admitted. “Well, plus, I’ve been filing. I normally wear it on this hand,” and she pulled it off, transferred it over to the ring finger on her other hand, “but it gets in the way.”

I leaned back and smiled knowingly. “Some guys” I sighed and shook my head in disbelief. “From what I remembered of you, you didn’t seem like the marrying kind.”

Score one for a direct question. I do learn, eventually.

Elevators have taken on a whole new meaning for me lately.

Lots of people insist that there’s a pattern to life, that, over time, you can see how events that seemed final and long ago can take on new meaning, or even recur, just twisted a bit. Or people that you only associated with a time that has passed will show up again, in almost exactly the same way that the ocean tosses up an old shipwreck. And, yes, that metaphor is perfect… trust me.

Damn, a while ago I made a brief post about having arguments in my head with people long gone. And then, this week, someone shows up, a person who defines the phrase “person long gone” in a very personal way. A face and a voice that I haven’t seen in a span recorded in decades, traveling in a body that does not show much wear and tear for all the miles between then and now.

And what’s more important, she remembers all the same stories I do. And in her laugh I see that she remembers them fondly. It’s almost too much to ask for.

But all the best stories share a setting: lounging in a darkened bar, after hours, with all the other customers sent home, while the barmistress counted out the till and the rest of us drank the boss’s beer for free (at least until the boss called to say he was coming in).

I spent money like water. I spent money that wasn’t mine, actually. I broke some hearts but mostly ended up mending mine. I made friends, and lost them.

Or so I thought. Apparently friends don’t just vanish in the night. They show up when least expected.

I’m not sure if that’s good…

I’m the wrong person to judge if I’m different now. I can string a story from that point to this point, and it all seems to make sense, each event leading into the next one into the next one all the way to where I type this out. I know, however, that I have learned a lot, and lived a bit, just a bit, since then, and my reactions now to those events would be different. Far different, I hope. But it doesn’t make a lot of difference, now, does it? I chose poorly then. I choose poorly now, too, it’s just that it’s a different kind of poorly.

To be sure, I choose wisely now a little bit more than I did back then. But, being human, I think I dwell more on the poor choices than the wise ones. You gain something with a poor choice. But what you gain from the poor choices makes the good choices possible.

All I’m saying is that it’ll be interesting to see how time has changed an old friend. It’ll be difficult, though, for me to see her as she is now. That’s the challenge; the person I remember is somewhat stuck in my mind in a specific context. I’ll need to be alert to seeing the woman she is now.

Is the pattern there? Is there some other consciousness (I mean, other than mine and hers) layering the pattern on top of the events in my life? I’m inclined to disbelieve that. More likely my own brain, struggling to make sense of random events, is the one supplying the pattern.

Even so, it makes for interesting stories.

Two interesting theme-related events in the past couple of days.

Purely in the interest of gathering information and practicing (why are you looking at me like that? It’s true) I stopped by a strip club this weekend on a slow Sunday afternoon. I wanted to find out more about this whole “eye contact” thing that sort of took me by complete surprise last week.

I figured that if I could maintain steady eye contact with naked women, I’d be really ahead of the game. Either that, or the dancers would think I was gay. At any rate, I would find out something and have some fun doing it.

And the results were pretty much spectacular. Dancers (and quite possibly women in general) understand eye contact; it’s partly a dominance thing, partly a way of communicating a comfort level that most men don’t carry with them normally (let alone around the aforementioned naked women). I even got called over to help this one girl get dressed, tying up her halter-top-type dress. I let her know that this was a first for me and that she should probably be tipping me.

I did find that it’s fun to vary my expression. I don’t have to keep a straight face. I had fun winking, smirking, popping my eyes out of my head. There was definite tension build up…

There was one girl with whom I found it difficult to maintain eye contact. Even so, she seemed to recognize my attempt and went from being distant and expressionless to warming up, laughing and joking with me, tossing her hair around and playing peek-a-boo. She turned out to be very funny and smart.

And I only spent an hour there…

Then, this afternoon, while at work, I was getting in the elevator going up to my office and I heard a voice cry out “Hold that elevator!” I did, and this blonde woman bolted in. She must have been running to catch it; she was out of breath and leaned against the opposite wall (side note: have you ever noticed that people tend to distribute themselves proportionately in an elevator? At least when they’re strangers. People who know each other will clump together but make space for strangers. Watch for it sometime. Or, if you’re feeling devilish, purposely don’t and see how people react. It’s fun) and when I looked at her, I blurted out, “I know you!”

She was a stripper that I knew from a long, long time ago, ten years or more. Um, awkward moment. I don’t know what the etiquette is for acknowledging “exotic entertainers” when they’re not in the club and not on the stage. I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t call her by her stage name if other folks are around… It’s a situation that calls for caution.

She looked at me, and smiled a bit, nodded her head… “Yeah, you look familiar to me, too.”

I was going to look for a wedding ring, but got distracted by her bus pass, hanging from her backpack about mid-chest level. It was marked with an “H” — which in Portland means it’s an “Honored Citizen” pass for the elderly or disabled. I was confuzzled.

She had hit a floor between the ground floor and mine. I looked at her again and said, “You work in the building?”

“Yes!” she said brightly.

“Me, too!” I said. “For the county?”

“Yes!” she said again.

“Me, too!” I said. And by that time the elevator had reached her floor and she scampered off.

Now I’m torn. I was a regular customer of hers, but not, in any sense of the word, intimate with her. I did know her real name, which I only vaguely recall now, but wasn’t ever what I would consider a “friend” beyond being an ATM that dispensed cash whenever she took off her clothes. And, if she does in fact work for the county she might not want her past career widely known. All reasons for me to just let it go and not try to look her up.

Still, it would be interesting to meet her for lunch and find out what happened in the intervening years. Also, what the hell is up with that “H” bus pass?