Writer's note: This is the first of a several-part series. Expect Pt. 2 soon enough.
*
Stephanie had always been curious about strip clubs. She knew what happened inside such establishments from second-hand sources and movies but wanted to see the action herself.
She also wondered about something else: What was it about throwing dollar bills at ladies that ranked as so stimulating for men? If it aroused them so much, would the sight of half-naked women do the same for her?
She worked by day at a publisher's office and, at night, enjoyed the bar scene and evenings with friends. Born in Sao Paolo, Brazil, Stephanie was a knockout, even by lofty South American standards. She was well sculpted: smooth and lengthy legs and slender arms to match her stomach. Her long, dark brown hair accented her blue eyes and curved lips. A hint of lipstick made their odd but sexy shape standout like a neon sign. Her breasts were just above what she deemed the average size, between a C and a D. Her booty, though, had more trunk space than an SUV. Men gawked anytime she wore jeans or a short skirt. They could not begin to imagine how massive it was.
She loved jewelry and often chose outfits that would look good with her favorite pearl necklace. As 20-something Brazilians went, she was the embodiment of perfection, or the next closest thing.
So, one November night, she decided to undertake her first nude joint exploration. She listed the help of a male friend in the know about the area's best clubs.
Stephanie settled on an upscale one called "The Palace." It resided just west of downtown and promised, given the admission price, spectacular entertainment.
She debated for 30 minutes what she should wear. She decided on a pink-beige, cotton, spaghetti strap top that allowed her to flash some intoxicating cleavage, a low-cut, cotton pink skirt and black high-heels with straps. Her pink silk panties felt soft against her vagina and the tightness of her matching bra accentuated the aforementioned cleavage.
Stephanie did not consider that she had dressed as a stripper might. Whatever. She was not going to stay long. She sure as hell planned to ignore the expected advances from the cash-flaunting men.
The other dilemma was more difficult to resolve. Should she venture to the club solo, in a group, or with a trusted male friend? Going with a close acquaintance would ease the awkwardness of her first time and provide a comfort zone in case nerves became a factor. After an hour of deliberation and several calls to friends, she opted to ditch the idea of a comfort zone. She would go alone and deal with whatever happened as an adult.
Stephanie pulled up to "The Palace." It was as easy to find as the directions suggested. To ensure optimal safety, she forked up the tip money required for valet parking.
She then reached into her wallet and pulled out her ID and the entrance fee, $20. That's expensive, she thought. Whatever.
She was not even sure women went to these places alone. The 40-something lady at the front desk snatched the $20 and directed Stephanie to a door down the hall.
"Enter that way," the woman said. Stephanie thought the delivery bordered on cold and rude.
She stood there for a moment, not sure if she wanted to take the plunge. She contemplated asking for her $20 back and speeding home.
"Is there something wrong?" the woman asked, in a manner that suggested she was more interested in processing the small line that had formed than this nervous customer's well being.
Stephanie stammered, "Uh, do woman ever come here by themselves?"
"Not much," the woman responded, "but it does happen. You are not the first." That last line soothed her. At least she was not the first young female to enter a strip joint. The first Brazilian woman? Maybe. That question did not matter.
Stephanie gathered a burst of courage and walked toward the fancy door. She could hear a popular rap song blaring through it and shaking the walls. "I can make your bedrock," the lyrics said. Typical. And, she thought, I like this typical club music.
She grabbed the brass handle and flung open the door. The scene inside did not shock her. The movies she had watched were not inaccurate in their depiction of these places. The granite countertops at the main bar, though, were a nice touch that confirmed an upscale image. The main room featured three stages, and a gyrating, topless pole dancer occupied each of them. The joint was booming and bustling. She scanned the patron area for an empty table and happened to spot one adjacent to the main stage.
Perfect, she thought. She would view strippers up close and snag a front-row seat to the mad, male money toss. This, she was certain, would tell her what all the strip club fuss was about.
She plopped herself down in the cozy red leather chair and set her designer purse on the circular glass table. The next event was not foreign to her. Bars and nightclubs do expect customers to spend some money. A skinny waitress wearing a tight ensemble with a mid drift and plenty of cleavage and leg accentuation barked in her direction, "you want something to drink?" The employee's tone made it obvious that was not a request. The woman could have just said, "Buy something or leave."
That would have been more proper and palatable. She expected a fleecing, which made the $7, watered-down club soda and cranberry vodka easier to stomach. Each sip confirmed to her lips and mind that frugality was not a virtue here. Forget economy, she thought.
Just then the obnoxious emcee of sorts announced the next dancer. "Lola," he said, with the kind of smarmy, sordid tonal quality that suggested a deadbeat dad with a backlog of missed child support payments. Were all creatures at strip clubs so pitiable?
She peered beyond the loudspeaker covering part of his face and noticed his disastrous Hawaiian shirt that looked like it had not been washed in weeks. It was more unfortunate than flamboyant. The man's ill-advised beard made him a candidate for a Geico commercial.
She guessed he was 40-something after noticing a few wrinkles near his jaw and chin. Yeah, she told herself, total deadbeat dad.
The young, black dancer elicited similar cynicism and judgments from Stephanie's mind, which was now operating at warp speed. Who comes up with these stage names, she wondered? Why?
She almost wanted to stand up, yell and bet every man in the place—and there were many—this poor girl's name was not Lola. Yet, a group of eager dudes oozing testosterone overloads bought the scam of a package—hook, line and sinker—nonetheless.
Lola was slender, too slender. Her black, curly hair almost covered her beaten, defeated eyes. Her misshapen legs somehow did not detract from her performance, which seemed textbook to a curious woman with only the Hollywood, adult film industry idea of what that meant. Lola spent most of a four-minute Kanye West joint teasing the crowd with booty shakes and pole gymnastics. It came across as well acted but seemed so soulless.
