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| - Yes, I've been to a Vegas strip club. But I promise I'm not the D-Bag you may take me for. Read on and I'll try and make my case (if my GF reads this, I'm a dead man).
You see, it's not my fault; I was actually dragged here by a friend a while back. She and her fiancee were engaged that night and wanted to hit a strip club to celebrate (yeah, makes absolutely no sense to me either but hey, that's how she rolls). So we left the safety and comfort of the Bellagio and asked a cabby to "take us to the hottest strip club in Vegas" (based on the look on his face, I don't think we were the first to make that request).
Full disclosure: I was a strip club virgin, having made it to my 40s without so much as a lap dance. I had never paid for female attention nor the simulation of it, but as I was recently single I was open minded. And here I was in Vegas with some friends who wanted to take a walk on the wild side. To steal a quote from Risky Business: "What the f--k".
As we walked into Cheetah's, I realized immediately we weren't in Kansas anymore. The place was dark and smoky (what a surprise), and there were two gigantic black bouncers at the door and they weren't smiling (those guys had to be over 6'5" and were built like two industrial refrigerators). As we quietly tip-toed past them my friend recounted a story of another club where the bouncers grabbed a dude, slammed his head through the rear exit door, and tossed him into a dumpster. Apparently he had the bad taste to actually touch one of the girls. Needless to say, this made more than a minor impression on me.
The girls strutting around were all surprisingly modelesque (I had expected tattooed meth addicts). And quite friendly, too; Not more than a millisecond after my ass hit the faux leather chair this gorgeous Russian blonde walks up and offers me a lap dance in a sultry accent ("Vould jou like a dahnce?"). I swallowed hard, but couldn't manage a reply so I just nodded quickly, like a jack rabbit on a date.
While the Bond girl did her bumps and grinds I tried to keep an image in my head of how the inside of a dumpster might actually smell. This kept my hands from wandering and after a few minutes the trial by fire was over. I handed her some money (I wasn't in any shape to count it) and she smiled, kissed me on the cheek and slowly sauntered off. The room seemed to have gotten a lot warmer; I grabbed my watered down martini but couldn't decide whether to sip it or just dump it over my head.
My plan was to just have one dance so I could check it off my bucket list and bolt for the exit, but just when I thought I was out of the woods my friend asks me "So which of the girls do you think is the hottest?". I scanned the room and there was this smokin' brunette in her early 20s dancing on one of the poles. I had noticed her when we first arrived; I'm more of a Penelope Cruz than a Sharon Stone guy so this girl was definitely my type and über-hot (think Jane Margolis on Breaking Bad). I nodded at her, "She's hot". Before I finished my sentence, my friend calls her over. "Do you mind giving this guy a dance?". I shot my friend a "Thanks for that" glance and then immediately started to turn to jelly as Jane walked over to me, her gaze locked on mine the entire journey.
The rest is pretty much a blur; Jane did her thing while I meditated on the dumpster again. I noticed that her dance seemed to be taking longer than the Russian's, but hey, maybe she was just into me (*sarcasm*). When she finally finished, she informed me that I owed her three bills as she nonchalantly pulled out an overflowing bank bag (in case I needed change, I guess). I was fine with the price, but asked her how she came by it. Apparently she had given me not one but SIX dances. Hmm. I was going to ask her how one could tell when a dance started or ended, but I noticed Mr. T and his boyfriend looking over at us and decided I'd just settle up. She took my money and walked off with a strut that had a distinct "Suckerrrr" vibe to it. Gosh, and I thought she really LIKED me (*rolls eyes*).
Right after Jane strolled off (back to Mordor, no doubt), Pussy Galore reacquired her target. "Michael, vould jou like another dahnce?". I smiled, but waived her off; I was ready to leave. You see, the whole stripper thing has never made much sense to me. Its like sliding a decadent chocolate cake in front of a diabetic (and you're the diabetic). I don't know about you, but I want to taste the cake, not just stare at the damn thing.
In short, I found the whole scene pretty surreal and not quite as stimulating as I had expected. Sure, if I were a college bro and still had that 200lb testosterone gorilla on my back, it probably would have been more titillating. But my general takeaway was "meh". The cost/benefit ratio just wasn't there. Seriously, who the hell wants to be teased for $600/hour?
YMMV, of course.
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