Strippers Galore

So this past Saturday night I ventured to a strip club with my friend and his wife. Strip clubs always evoke a weird sort of childhood nostalgia. Growing up, there used to be this ridiculously tacky and large strip club that I passed twice a day on Admiral Wilson Boulevard in Camden. The name of the place was Showgirl Palace. The Palace had color photos of scantily clad ladies with mall hair and lingere that looked like it would be really hard to figure out how to put on. And the best part was that the photos were literally 20 feet tall. For a while, I figured the place only employed giant strippers. I always imagined it the kind of club where every lap dance could be your last. Dozens of unwitting fools crushed beneath the weight of silicone and hair extensions. So my childhood (read: 20 year-old) imagination was delt a devastating blow when the Republican National Convention came to town. Essentially, people decided that the GOP delegates would be offended with all the lady bits on display and razed pretty much all of the Boulevard including the Palace. 'Twas a sad end to a fine establishment.

Anyway, driving past a strip club on almost a daily basis, if anything, dulled the natural curiousity about such establishments. I didn't go to my first strip club until after I had moved to Florida. It was called the "Booby Trap." And I almost got kicked out because I threw a beer at some guy wearing a Varsity Mickey Mouse jacket. I don't know why I was so offended that he would where Disney gear in the strip club, but I distinctly remember screaming about him not "lettering" and not deserving his "supple leather sleeves."

So Saturday night I met my friends at a strip club in Center City. Now, I expect most strippers to be unattractive. I did not quite prepare myself for the series of total train wrecks that were undulating around the pole upon my entrance. I don't do well in strip clubs for a variety of reasons. First, I don't go places that charge covers. Second, I don't go places where a beer costs more than four dollars. Third, I don't go places where people talk to me and I have to pay them a dollar to go away. Essentially, that's what my entire night can be summed up as. Plus, I don't like when people touch me. I've got personal space issues. Unless I'm comfortable around you, attracted to you or some combination of the two, I don't want to touch or be touched by you. Shaking hands, fine. Pat on the back. Great. Other than that, hands to yourself, lady.

The first uncomfortable touching of the night was when one of the strippers ran her fingers through my hair. Word to the wise: by 8 pm, my long hair is essentially a rat's nest. You're lucky you didn't lose a finger in there. The second uncomfortable touching of the night was when the busted stripper gave me a kiss on the cheek. I almost threw up a little bit. I could feel the kiss burning into my skin and had to use all my will-power not to lose my shit right then and there. Lady, I don't even let my family members kiss me. Especially not during flu season. My grandmother, with whom I have one of the closest relationships, is not allowed to lips-to-cheek kiss me. She's lucky if she gets a cheek-on-cheek peck. And that's my grandmother. Not a 26-year-old with four kids who was bragging about the huge porn contract she just scored. Mwwwwaaahh. That's the sound of me saying hi to the $7 jack and coke I just downed.