Gypsy Maria

I like strip clubs. I also like townie bars and downtrodden chili restaurants. I scour the dangerous corners of the south side looking for the Chicago's best ribs. I like meeting and talking to people who have a different perspective than I do -whether they be old timers sitting at a bar with a Pabst in their hand, an old black man in a soot and grease covered apron, or a stripper who will only talk to me as long as her 10 dollar glass of champagne lasts.

There are two types of strip clubs. When I was in Business School I got introduced to the first type, the gentleman's club. These are nice clubs with very attractive girls who for 25 dollars will spend (no exaggeration) 2 minutes with you. For obvious reasons, I was really opposed to this at first. I had liberal guilt for being there, it seemed like a rip off, and a gentleman's club may be the only bar in the city where no matter how good you are, you aren't taking anybody home. Still, my classmates persisted. They are big, good-looking, state-school and WestPoint guys and they taught me that it's not about the girls but about hanging out with your friends in a very male place. It can be fun - albeit expensive. Sure it's exploitive, but it's the guys who are getting exploited, not the women. The women have all the power (and they are generally backed up by big mean bouncers who have even more power). Once you accept that structure it all makes sense. You can pay these women to tease and then be mean to your friends while you watch. Of course it's all pretend.

The other side of that coin is the strip club. These are out of date places in small towns or off interstates. There you will find real-breasted women, past their prime who will tell you a story for a drink and the cost of a pack of cigarettes.

I was in New Orleans a few years ago with some friends and we found such a place. It was off Bourbon Street and looked seedy from the outside. The sign said "unisex" which we took to mean they would have both male and female strippers (and presumably male and female patrons). As we entered, one by one, a woman paired herself with each of us. It was a bit of a lottery. My friend Todd's girl was OK looking. The fat guy in front of me got paired with a really fat black girl. Mine looked old even in the dim light and spoke with a strange accent. All of them wore cheap negligee and led us to small round tables near the stage. We all sat, had beers and talked. Soon our fat friend Jack, was mashing with his rotund find. We all laughed. My girl was "named" Gypsy. As the night progressed she told me her story. She claimed to be 40 and maybe she was but it would have been a hard ridden 40. I would have guessed she was just south of menopause.

My first thought was how this older woman could be in business when the competition was so much younger. We talked for a while and she naturally led me to her answer. "I let the men touch me in places the law does not allow - would you like to try?" I declined. When her drink was finished she went away to service another patron and I watched it in action. "No no no," she said to him scoldingly. "You can touch but no fingers put in."

Later she returned to me for another drink. I was clearly not interested in paying her to take her clothes off, but I would let her sit and keep her in liquor. She drank double long island iced teas and would tell the waiter "not so weak this time." She told me that she had been raised traveling around Europe in a trailer, hence the name. Her real name was Maria and she had come to the United States when she was 18 to escape some nameless horror.

Occasionally she would leave me for someone else or to dance on stage. I noticed that she would pull down her top, or take off her panties, but never expose her midriff. Maybe it was the scars of childbirth that she was concealing, but the other girls didn't seem to mind so much. She would return and we would talk some more. She told me that she had been a waitress, and married long ago, but when her husband and daughter left her she fell into depression and drugs and started dancing like this. She hadn't done drugs in years now, but this had become the only life she knew.

As the evening continued, my affection for her became genuine and her trust in me grew. I asked her about her childhood and why she had come to America and she agreed to tell me. She took me by the hand and led me to the staged area where the lap dances or the "VIP treatment" happened. We found a dark corner where she knew we would be hidden. She sat me down, faced me with her back to the room, and slipped the straps of her body suit off her shoulders. She shimmied the stretchy material down passed her breasts. As she exposed her torso, a gouging scar appeared from her left breast nearly down to her pelvis. It was there that her father had stabbed her after she had reported him for raping her, and it was that scar that she didn't want the world to see.

It was the end of the night and time to get back to my hotel. I asked her if she wanted to ride in my cab. She told me she lived in the country but was currently staying with some friends not so far away so she obliged. When I told the cabbie her destination, he looked at me sharply, "do you really want me to take you there?"

"Yes sir, I replied, but if you are uncomfortable I'll find another cab."

"Nope, just lock the doors," and he conceded.

The areas in which we were driving no longer had working street lamps and the bright stars painted clear silhouettes of the old buildings and the iron balconies so central to our notion of New Orleans. The streets didn't seem unsafe in that light, but charming, straight out of a Tennessee Williams play. The ride was fairly long, and Maria fell asleep with her head against the window. When we reached her destination she awoke naturally. She thanked me graciously and exited. Once out, she turned to me and asked me to go. "Please do not to wait for me to get in."

As we drove away, I asked the driver to stop in the shadow of an old tree, out of view. I watched as she rang the doorbell and pounded on the door to no response. Then she went to the street and found pebbles which she started throwing at the second floor window. As her actions went unanswered, she threw harder and harder until the sound of shattering glass woke the night. "Jesus Christ! That bitch!" screamed a woman from within the room. As the lights in the house went on, its true state of its disrepair was revealed. Moments later the front door opened and a scruffy man in a robe stepped out. He seemed angry, and Maria cried apologetically. Still he let her in and we drove away.