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Stripping for women

Emily Brown

(Dan Chudzinski)

Feminism is my gig. I get pissed when a man interrupts me, outraged when rapists are acquitted, and seize all over when I listen to Rush Limbaugh. So when my boyfriend Stanton and his rowdy crew of single males decided a strip club was the place to celebrate 22-year-old Nathan's birthday, I was adamant I would not be joining the party.

"Come on baby, you won't be the only one there," Stanton cooed 12 hours before the expedition, speaking of our three female friends who had volunteered.

I was hell-bent I would stay strong on this point: "No f-ing way."

I had no intention of willingly subjecting myself to an evening of debauchery where I would not only feel uncomfortable watching the dancers, but would also vicariously experience what each woman felt as some low-life tipped her a buck to shake his head in her bosom. And Stanton wouldn't be missing out on too much of the action, I was sure.

Ten hours later and an afternoon sailing with a box of wine, I was in no position to keep up my staunch refusals and found myself tromping into the liquor store with platform red heels, rhinestone studded hot pants and a hoop earrings down to my waist ready to get down on some booze to numb my soul. We were headed to Diamonds, supposedly the classiest of strip joints. Diamonds, being the refined establishment it is, with full nudity and an 18 and up policy, allows customers to carry in their own beverages. For my friends, that meant keeping the cheap beers flowing. We stocked up for the night, dragged our cases down the 15-minute wait line, and endured stares from fellow patrons who thought the ladies of our group had the "night off."

Once the $10 cover charge was paid, my gal friends and I hovered in the back, cracked open a six-pack and wondered why the guys were taking so long at the desk and why we didn't let them go ahead of us. I felt strangely overdressed as I averted my eyes from the full stomach of the woman dancing almost directly over me.

Just as I was getting warmed through, Stanton caught up with us. "We gotta go. Now." Now? Jesus, I just got here.

"No, we're getting kicked out. Remember that time last December when I came without you?" Those words did not just come out of his mouth, I thought, setting down my beer with finality. What did he do this time? Sleep with another dancer?

But no, it was our friend who had been ejected a few months earlier and could only enter for an extraordinary fee. Perfect, considering us femme fatales had already dug into a six-pack and couldn't leave with it unfinished. Instead of risking open container, we made some patrons happier men with our gift of two Coronas.

With the designated drivers at hand, we skipped over to a neighboring watering hole, Pazazz, for some old-fashioned stripping. The place was vacant compared to the teeming floor at Diamonds, which meant we had front row seats - literally. Poised on a purple felt chair, I was not at a table nor at the bar, but at the stage.

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The first dancer up, Layah, proved we had chosen dangerous seats as she catapulted around the pole, dagger heels elevated, blond hair whipping inches from my face. I'd have to watch my drink - and my eyeballs.

As Layah preformed her routine, she leaned down in my direction, shimmied a bit, and asked if I wanted a dance. "I love to dance for women," she breathed, but I had to refuse and awkwardly stuffed a dollar into her garter instead.

I figured while I was in a strip club, I may as well respect the women working. With a huge pile of bills, I tipped without discretion. The women would lean over to my gal friends and me, whisper their real names - Leah, Gloria, Jessica - shake our hands and give and receive compliments easily.

I was surprised and not just a little scared when Jessica pulled me from my seat and led me into the back. It wasn't until 10 minutes later when I stumbled back to my seat, her smell lingering, that Stanton confessed he had bought me a lap dance.

The hair, the gymnastics and the perfume were too much for me. My brain was working overtime to assess the situation. Were these women being used? Was I being used? What about the men here, weren't they getting played and willingly? Who's the culprit in this joint, or is there one? Is dancing a service to be rendered and to be accepted or is it a heinous aspect of a male-dominated, misogynistic society?

These women were our age, I realized. They could be sitting with my friends and I could be dancing for them if it had not been for one circumstance or another that led us each our own way.

As we left the club, it was determined that the females had netted the most action of the evening with two lap dances and breasts in the face for each. The males, save for birthday boy Nathan, had most of their dollars intact, although Stanton was eager to hear more. "So how was it?" he ventured. "You know, the lap dance."