In a remarkable bit of serendipity I found myself propping up the bar in a strip club this weekend, only days after posting a piece about how useless I would be in the company of such ladies.
My reason for being there was a stag do, I’m not quite sure what the Asian tourist couple were doing there but it was the oddest sight of all night; him with his back pack on looking very excited and animated, she not so but yet, there she was, still there supporting her man and his Caucasian girl fantasy. And who says Asian bride subservience is a bad thing aye?
A strip club is a lot like a casino in that it presents a fascinating microcosm of life at its simplest. It doesn’t get much simpler or primal then men gathering around to watch ladies take their clothes off and say what you will about the art of it, that’s what they’re there for; no one is critiquing the pole routine or wardrobe selections.
If you’re like me and I am quite magnificent, so you’re probably not, then it’s a bit of an emotional experience. Being there with a group of men this time (as opposed to lesbians my last visit) I found myself at times reverting to type and freely offered my opinion on the performers main points.
Sometimes, usually following such a moralistic discussion, I felt like a seedy old man, standing at the back and casting aspirations on the promiscuity of someone who spends most of their working hours wearing nothing.
And yet most of the time I wondered about the stuff I usually wonder about in situations like that – not that I get myself into many situations of its kind, unfortunately – like what motivates them to do it, how do they feel about being leered over and manhandled by the punters, is it easy money…that kind of thing.
Unfortunately it’s not the kind of discussion one can easily have when tucking some house money into the thin g-string worn by the young lady giving you a bit of frottage, or as she motor boats you with her exposed nungas, so naturally I held my tongue. And my cash as it happened because I didn’t feel the urge to tuck it anywhere but my back pocket.
I did give it all to Magenta as I left but only because I admired her tattoos and that seemed a good enough reason for a stranger to give her money I figured. She was quite lovely to talk to too but I don’t think Magenta is her real name…
Life at it's simplest; the strip club.
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