The sunglasses are back on; she’s backing away from me. They all are. The entire Euro mom pack is backing away from me, looking for a sippy cup to wash off, a diaper bag to rearrange, anything but the graphic details of Mango Monday. I’ll save my story about Leo watching ants crawl up a fence post for tomorrow.
Strippery Slope
I’m waiting in line for a coffee in Portland. It’s my first trip to the city and I’m here doing my show Bust at Portland Center Stage. I’m trying to butter up my barista so David will be impressed by how quickly I’ve gotten to know the neighborhood when I get treated like a regular when we come in together tomorrow.
“My husband and I are trying to figure out a date night, which must sound so middle-aged to you.” At the word “husband,” my sullen, shark-eyed barista looks up from steaming milk, as if he’s trying to imagine who would have ended up with me.
“Sorry, I think I gave you the wrong impression, but I have horrible news: I’m taken,” I say. He turns around and walks into the back room. He does that a lot when I come in. “I better not hear a gunshot!” I yell after him. He comes right back out. “That’s not at all funny,” he says. I forgot I was in Portland, where it rains constantly, so suicide jokes don’t go over as big as they do in Tahiti, where they kill.
Usually, our version of date night is “You go out on Wednesday night and I’ll go out on Thursday. See ya Friday. Everybody wins!”
David’s getting ready to go work in Alaska for the summer, so we need to at least pretend that we want to do something together. I tell the barista, “I want to get out of the Pearl District and do something really Portland.”
“Go to a strip club.”
A strip club. Oh, that’s so Portland barista. I knew he was going to say something like “Make beer out of the yeast in your pubic hair” or “Ride a tricycle down a mountain naked.” I might have been on board with those suggestions, but I can’t do the strip club thing. I can’t have a casual conversation with naked women dancing in front of me while I give little nods of “nice” as I sip my vodka tonic. Yet I’m so flattered that he thought I wasn’t too old and square to handle such a thing, so it sucks that I react by bursting out in nervous laughter. “Oh no, no, no! Oh gosh. Think I’ll skip that one. I’d rather tuck my one-dollar bills in your tip jar!”
The girl behind me in line, a pale young chick with pink hair, nose rings, and black eyeliner so thick it makes her eyes look like little pin holes for the light to spill out of her face, sticks her head in the conversation. “Just so you know, I go to strip clubs all the time. I always really enjoy myself. In fact, the girl I got a lap dance from last night just Facebook friended me.”
My barista and she share a “right on” moment before he turns back to me. “I’m not sure what you’re picturing but it’s different here. Everyone goes.”
“Everyone goes? Oh really? Everyone?! So it’s just the Applebee’s of Portland.”
The pale chick lends her wisdom. “He’s right, everybody does go. Last week there was a blind guy at the strip club I go to. My friends and I figured out that he probably goes for the smells.”
After I’m able to stop yelling “Ew!” I ask her what smells she’s talking about.
“Butthole and vagina?”
“Ew!” she yells back. “No! The smells of baby powder, god.” She turns her back to me.
The barista says his mom’s book club meets in a strip club. “If I were you, I’d take your husband to Mary’s. It’s a good one to start with. It’s right around the corner from here. Mary’s isn’t even a strip club; it’s just a bar that happens to have a stripper.”
Oh ho, ho . . . very clever.
I’m willing to go a lot of places with David. I’ll see London; I’ll see France. But I’m not sure if I’m ready to go with him to see a girl without her underpants. (But with sexy talk like that I don’t see how I’ll be able to avoid it!) He would enjoy it, I’m sure, as most men, I think, would, but I’m old-fashioned and think that strip clubs are private activities to be done in a drunken haze and dripping with shame. I’ve been to a strip club once, and as with most situations that involve fake breasts, it was traumatizing. The only reason I even went was because I had a coupon. (Same reason I tried lotion toilet paper and with the same results: a life lesson about what a person’s crotch area really requires for happiness that I vowed never to repeat.)
The details on my first strip club experience are hazy because it was so long ago and so much alcohol was involved. Like all my racy stories, it was back in my twenties during a trip to Vegas that my boyfriend at the time, Mathew, and I took with another couple, Meagan and Russell. Our first night in Vegas, Meagan stepped out of Circus Circus’s mirrored elevator in her tight black dress, oversize sunglasses, and shiny blue wig, lit a cigarette, and said, “Remember . . . we aren’t here to see the show. We are the show.” Russell, in his vintage suit and fedora, would grab her around her waist and say, “Come on, baby. Let’s make this playground swing!” Her legs were “gams” or “getaway sticks,” and she was always “baby” or “doll.”
Russell and Meagan thrived in Vegas. Mathew was a bartender, so he fit in with all the posing and martini drinking. I, on the other hand, wore overalls for most of our Vegas vacation. Meagan offered me one of her wigs to wear to cheer me up, but they just made me look mentally ill.
The first hour walking around in Vegas left me completely depressed. Dino and Frankie must have hired people to walk ahead of them and throw blankets over the dying senior citizens hooked up to oxygen gambling away their social security. Who could feel sexy or powerful in this sad town of sadness? Russell and Meagan, that’s who. Meagan’s always had a killer body that was known among the restaurant staff as “Meagan’s killer body.” Her cleavage was heaving and her ass went badonkadonk-donk. I’d brought a blue fuzzy dress that I referred to as my “Cookie Monster dress” that I could have worn, but I decided not to because I didn’t want to look like I was trying to be pretty—in case I failed. My outfit wasn’t without its sex appeal. If Mathew stood close enough to me he could look right down into my overalls and see the side of my leg, but only if I’d forgotten to snap all the buttons shut.
An hour later, I needed something to numb out the insecurity of showing up for our sexy couples’ weekend looking like a locomotive engineer and I became a full-blown gambling addict looking to cut a kidney out of a Chinese tourist to sell on the black market to feed the nickel slots. We were in line for dinner, and I lied and said I had to use the restroom so I could play the Wheel of Fortune slot machine. “I’m gonna surprise everyone and come back with a thousand dollars in nickels! Because I’m a winner. A WINNER!”
But instead of coming back from the “bathroom” covered in diamonds and with a Cadillac, I came back with not a cent to my name and the shakes. At the all-you-can-eat buffet, I obsessed about how I could get back to the slots. “Don’t forget to make a trip to the nacho station!” the waitress said to us. Mathew, Russell, and Meagan enjoyed the coincidental train reference. I pretended to laugh with the others while I sat staring at the four-dollar tip that had been left on the table next to ours.
The waitress had my number and quickly snatched up the tip. After dinner, we were going to go see Marty “Hello Dere!” Allen. Marty was an old-school Vegas comedian whom none of us had heard of, but we had a coupon for the show and wanted to hear him say “Hello Dere!” at least once. Meagan sat down at a quarter slot machine to play while the guys went to buy cigarettes. She took a quarter out of her pocket and told me to make a wish and ask my guardian angels to bless it. I’m not as into the angel thing as she is, so I just opted to scream, “Put it in! Put it in!” like a seventeen-year-old virgin boy on prom night. She put it in and hit a five-hundred-dollar jackpot. She immediately insisted we divide it up among the four of us so we all could keep gambling. She was sexy and magnanimous, just like Ms. Indiana State Fair. When the guys return
ed with the cigarettes, jackpot sirens were going off, a crowd had formed, and I was laughing hysterically, jumping up and down and shoveling quarters into plastic buckets. “MEAGAN WON BUT SHE WANTS TO SHARE WITH US! SHE WANTS TO! OH GOD. LOOK AT IT ALL THOSE SHINY COINS! HA-HA-HA! JUST LOOK AT THEM!” Both Mathew and Russell refused to take Meagan’s money. Mathew put his hand on my shoulder and said in a calm, low voice, “Lauren, Meagan won.” I shook him off and kept shoveling. “SHE WANTS TO SHARE! SHE WANTS TO! SHE SAID SO!” When I heard Russell say something about how Meagan should save the money to help her pay rent when she got back and how it was nice she wanted to share but it really wasn’t fair, we didn’t need to gamble to have fun, I stopped shoveling.
The jackpot sirens stopped going off and I could hear the echo of the sound of my pouring my buckets of quarters back into Meagan’s bucket in my shriveling soul.
That was my addiction bottom. It wasn’t as grim as most—I wasn’t blowing guys in the floor-model toolshed at the local Home Depot—but by the end of my first day in Vegas, I was staggering down the streets in my overalls, screaming for Jesus.
We hadn’t even gotten to the strip club yet. That happened on our second night. We drank as many free drinks as we could and went to the strip club. Going with Mathew to a strip club made me jumpy. What if he snapped and an unacknowledged shadowy lust was released and he started having sex with the nearest ATM? Or he developed an immediate and lifelong addiction to strip clubs? As a recent gambling addict, you would have thought my heart went out to a possible fellow addict, but instead the thought depressed the bejeezus out of me. The night held the possibility of being our last one together. No, no. Don’t make it too heavy. Lighten up. This is what you do when you’re in your twenties.
As soon as we walked into the place I remember thinking, “Oh, this is fine. It’s just girls with fake boobs walking around on a bar. That’s all. We’re all in this together!” But you know what they say: It’s all fun and games until someone gets titties in the face.
I didn’t really want titties in my face because I’d seen a few men get the service already and you had to sit there with everyone at the bar watching, your hands down at your sides like a dork while you got slapped by boobs. Meagan had kept her Vegas cool since we arrived and had not once sobbed in a bathroom stall, while I’d done it twice. Once after the embarrassing jackpot thing, and once after I saw a lady who looked just like my grandma Irene throwing up outside of a casino. Meagan was an ex-cheerleader from Orange County who was on acid the night she was voted homecoming queen. She wore blue wigs and made out with girls in hot tubs. She popped pills in her mouth and only after she’d swallowed them would she ask, “What was that?” I was an ex-kleptomaniac from Indiana with short dirty blond hair who was trying not to smoke so much pot since it tended to make me eat bread out of the trash.
When the stripper leaned down and asked if we were here with our boyfriends, Meagan yelled back, “Yes.”
“So do you guys want titties in your face or something?”
I started to yell back “Okay” but only got as far as “O-” before I was getting the shit beat out of me by these huge fake boobs. It hurt. It was like getting punched in the face by somebody who was mad at me. It felt like my jaw was out of whack. I handed her my dollar and thanked her. When I looked over at Meagan, she looked completely shocked.
The stripper asked Meagan if she wanted titties in her face. Meagan politely declined. “No, thank you, but you can have my dollar anyway. And have a really good night. I know it’s gotta be tough sometimes.” The stripper thanked Meagan for being so cool and turned to me to see if there was anything else I wanted done.
Meagan and I joined the guys back in our booth, and nobody would make eye contact with me. Back in our hotel room I asked Mathew if what I’d done was at all sexy. He turned to me with a sad smile. “It was funny. I will say that.” I took off my overalls and went to bed.
It has been almost twenty years since I’ve had titties in my face.
I suggest to David that we go to a strip club and, shockingly, he is open to the idea. The entire walk to Mary’s it’s gushing rain down on us, but we don’t care. We are giddy with pre-stripper anticipation. I tell him the “titties in the face” story and we laugh and laugh. He makes me promise to do it again but this time “punch her back!” Ha! Ha! “Hope they take coupons!” Ha-ha! This is going to be fun because, thank god, I’m married to a feminist man who truly loves women. I’m not worried about him losing his mind over the hot young stripper bodies. His women crushes are Lauren Hutton and Jane Fonda. Not the 1970s versions of these women, but the versions of them in their seventies. Usually a handsome man such as himself would have to meditate naked in the woods for months eating nothing but one grain of rice and one drop of rain in order to obtain the level of enlightenment that would allow him to not only see the beauty of older women but crave that beauty. We are going as a couple to enjoy the beauty and skill of the art of stripping.
There’s Mary’s! With its classic old-timey bar sign. We open the door, take one step inside, and BAM! VAGINA! It’s right there. As soon as you open the door it’s a naked girl right there. I mean right there. I turn around and try to run out like cat in a bath, scrambling to get David to let me pass. “It’s right there . . . It’s too quick! Too quick! I need to ease into it. I need a hallway or some naked pictures.” David pushes me back in. I knew it. He’s already manic with desire. Pushing and shoving to get a glimpse of a naked lady like some pervy dirty monkey. “Lauren, come on, it’s raining. Go in.” Or he’s trying not to get soaked.
It’s early, so except for the two red-faced frustrated men my dad’s age sitting on their hands watching a twenty-two-year-old naked girl dance, the place is empty. I grab David’s hand. “Okay, here we go. This is happening. We’re doing this. One-two-three and go. Walk, walk, walk, just go in, WALK!” I take the very first seat I see, which is in the front row at the same table as my dad.
“Lauren, let’s move back a little,” David suggests.
I scream back, “Why can’t I ever do what I want to do!”
David just leans down and whispers calmly in my ear. “I think you’ll be more comfortable farther back.”
It felt very odd to be coming into a strip club as a female. As the thing that the old guys were paying money to look at. I told David that I had the urge to announce, “Look! More holes coming in! More holes!”
David tells me that I don’t have to worry. Nobody wants my holes. My holes are bossy. Fair enough.
The last thing I’d want him to think about me was that I’m some school mom who doesn’t enjoy a skeevy strip club once in a while. Hopefully he’ll be able to ignore my actions and my words and see me as a woman who is not insecure.
The bartender comes over and asks if we want something to drink. She’s a she. And she’s acting so calm. Like she’s just . . . at her job. I try to give her a secret “Let me know if you are being held here against your will” look and order eight glasses of wine.
Waiting for my first glass of wine, I keep asking David, “Is this fun? How am I supposed to have fun? How do I enjoy this? What am I supposed to do?” David worries that if I don’t calm down soon it’s going to look like he’s dragged me there against my will.
I don’t want to ruin David’s night, so I yell a quick “I’ve not been kidnapped.”
After my ninth glass of wine, I start to calm down and am able to get myself to look at the stripper. She’s nothing like I pictured her. Nothing! Not to sound cruel, but she’s dorky. Very long waisted, with a flat chest. A cowboy hat on her head, her hair in pigtails, she’s not dancing to the heavy metal music that’s playing as much as walking to it. She’s got her hands on her hips and is just walking side to side to the music. There’s a lot of nodding and winking. The sexy moments come when she crouches down, nods with a big smile, winks—“ta-da!”—and pops back up with a big fake laugh. S
he’s like a musical theater stripper. Completely unsexy. I can handle this! It’s hilarious.
David and I are laughing hysterically. “Go get your gun, Annie, go get it!” But then something horrible happens. Her song ends and she leaves. No, come back, Annie, don’t get your gun!
The next stripper comes out, and she’s gorgeous. Muscular, tattooed, short black hair, very confident—and why should she not be? She struts out, picks out her music, jumps up on the pole, and slowly spins down.
David has stopped laughing and has suddenly gotten very serious. He leans in to me. “Now, this is interesting. I mean she’s clearly a dancer. So interesting how each of the girls approaches it. Very different body type. She holds her power in a different blah-blah-blah.” Oh yes, Doctor, what is your scientific analysis? Mmm-hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmm.
This was it. This was why I’d been so nervous about coming to a strip bar with him.
My worst nightmare was that I’d have to sit next to David while he pretended not to be attracted to a twenty-year-old naked girl with a body that I’ve never had and it’s not like I’m going to ever have. “Just wait, I’ll be fifty soon, honey! It’s coming! My saggy-boobed, covered-in-moles body is just around the corner!”
I think I can safely say that for most of our relationship, when it came to sex I’d always been a real “yes man.” Up for anything. Put me in, coach. Glad to be invited to the party. You get the picture. I’d started our relationship with weight issues and the standard “I hate everything about my fat ass, face, and fat-ass body” self-loathing. His full-on love for every part of my body changed how I saw myself. His sexiness made me sexy. He infected me with sexy. My weight fluctuations, which would make me nuts, didn’t bother him at all. I could tell they really didn’t. He wasn’t just saying that to keep the peace. Honestly, I think he enjoyed when I gained weight so he could pretend he was with a different woman.
Miss Fortune Page 17